Son of Stone

50

S tone showered, dressed, and went downstairs to the kitchen, where he sat, alone, at the long table and waited for his breakfast to be cooked. Then Peter and Hattie joined him and placed their orders.

“Beautiful day outside,” Stone said.

“Great day for riding,” Peter replied.

Hattie was quiet.

“Did you sleep well, Hattie?”

“All right, I guess.”

“Ready to greet the new day on horseback?”

“Sure.”

“Did you two have a good time at the party?” Stone asked.

“Oh, yes,” Peter said. “But I knew hardly any of those people.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to spend any time with them. I think your mother had the housewarming just so that they wouldn’t be angling for invitations to see the house.”

“Get it all over at once, huh?” Peter said.

“Right.”

“Hattie, did you meet anyone you liked?”

“Not really,” Hattie replied, “but I met someone I didn’t like.”

“And who might that have been?”

“That architect fellow.”

“Ah, yes. I don’t think you’ll be seeing him again.”

“Why? Did someone shoot him?”

“Not yet,” Stone replied.

Peter laughed. “Mom didn’t seem to be very happy to see him.”

“Had you met him before?” Stone asked.

“Just once. He came over when I was home from school last Easter to talk to Mom about how the house was going. I didn’t like him then, either.”

They finished breakfast and left by the rear door to walk over to the stable. A groom had their horses saddled, and they mounted and walked down the trail through the woods, warming up the horses in the chill air before leaving the woods and cantering across the fields.

Kelli Keane got out of bed and tiptoed, naked, into the bathroom and drew a hot tub for herself. David was out like a light, exhausted from the naughty workout she had given him at bedtime. She put her iPhone on the edge of the tub and eased into the hot water, then she turned on the phone and looked up the photographs she had taken at the party. These were too good for the Post, she thought; they’d never run more than one or two. Maybe she should query Vanity Fair for a piece. It couldn’t run until after the Architectural Digest spread had run, so there wouldn’t be any conflict with what David was doing. She needed something, though-a hook to hang the story on. The house wasn’t enough, “Widow of Vance Calder” wasn’t enough. Pity there hadn’t been a fistfight among the prominent guests, something like that.

The three of them rode for nearly two hours, then pulled up under a tree and got down. Peter opened the picnic basket the kitchen had made for them and they had hot chocolate and cookies.

Stone thought about asking Hattie to come up to Maine for the summer but stopped himself. He should let Peter issue that invitation.

They remounted and started back toward the house, taking their time. From a hilltop they could see the horses from the racing stable being worked on the track. They walked their mounts for the half mile, cooling them before they would be given water, then turned them over to the groom and started for the house. From that direction came a muffled bang.

“What was that?” Peter asked.

“Sounded like one of those heavy mahogany doors being slammed,” Stone replied.

“Somebody must be mad about something,” Peter said. The trash from the party was being removed by the back door, so they walked around the house toward the front door. They heard a car start and drive away, apparently in a hurry, but it was gone by the time they reached the front porch. Stone turned and looked down the drive between the oaks and saw some sort of station wagon turn onto the main road and disappear.

They entered by the front door, and Stone stopped in his tracks. On the floor of the main hall, a dozen feet from the front door, lay a beautifully engraved shotgun, a Purdy, Stone thought. Probably worth a hundred thousand dollars. He turned to his left and looked into the study. The glass front of the gun cabinet had been shattered.

“What’s going on?” Peter asked from the front door.

“Peter, listen to me,” Stone said. “Take Hattie, go into the living room, and wait there.”

“What for?” Peter asked.

“Just do it.” Stone had a terrible feeling, and he didn’t want the couple there. He watched them go into the living room before he continued down the hall.

A huge flower arrangement on a table in the center of the hall blocked the view toward the rear of the house, and when Stone started around the table he saw a white pile of some sort of fabric farther down the hall. It looked like a pile of tablecloths, he thought.

Then, as he continued toward it, the shape became clear: it was a woman in white. Alarmed, he began to walk faster. Then he saw a blob of red on the clothes. Then he saw Arrington’s face, turned toward him.

He ran and knelt beside her. Her eyes were open and he saw her blink, then she seemed to focus on him. She tried to speak but couldn’t.

“Don’t,” he said, his face close to hers. “Just breathe. I’ll get some help.” He felt for his phone on his belt, but realized he hadn’t brought it with him. “I’m going to telephone,” he said, and she managed to nod. Her chest was a mass of blood and tissue.

He ran to the rear of the hall where a phone was on a table and dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one,” an operator said. “What is your emergency?”

“There’s been a shooting,” Stone said. “A woman is critically wounded. I need an ambulance and the police immediately.” He gave her the address. The operator began to ask questions, but he hung up and ran back to Arrington, lifting her head and shoulders, in the hope that it would help her breathe better.

He held her head up. “Just breathe. Help is on the way.” Her mouth formed a word, but no sound came out.

“Peter!” Stone called. “Come here, quickly. Hattie, you stay where you are.”

Peter ran into the hall, saw his mother lying on the floor, and froze.

Stone beckoned for him to approach and kneel beside him.

Peter stared at his mother, speechless.

Arrington’s lips moved again, and it was not difficult to read her lips. “I love you both,” she was saying, then her pupils dilated.

“Mom!” Peter said.

Stone felt at her neck for a pulse but found nothing. He lowered Arrington gently to the floor, then put his arm around his son. “She’s gone,” he said softly.

Peter hugged his father, and they both wept.