“Woodman & Weld. I’m a partner these days.”
“An estimable firm.”
“Thank you.”
“Was your law school friend Bill Eggers?”
“He was and is.”
“I knew him as a Yale undergrad. May I call you next week? I’m not entirely satisfied with my representation.”
“Of course.” Stone handed him a card. “I visit the office from time to time, but I mostly work out of my home. Come and see me there.”
Nicky pocketed the card. “I’ll do that.”
Rupert materialized. “Dinner is served, madam.”
And they went in.
When they came out, Sergeant D’Orio was waiting for Stone. They went out onto the deck and took a seat. It was a balmy night, with a moon rising.
“You’ve been a cop,” D’Orio said, “so you’ll understand the reason for these questions.”
“Of course.”
“When did you arrive out here?”
“About one-thirty this afternoon, in time for a Bloody Mary and lunch. Our meal was interrupted when the wind changed.”
“When were you last in the Hamptons?”
“The summer before last, in June, I believe.”
“Account for your movements for the past three months.”
“I spent about three weeks in Rome in the early spring, then flew to England, where I bought a house and some property. I remained there until last weekend, when I flew back.”
“What airline did you take?”
“I took Alitalia to Rome, then my airplane was ferried over. I flew to England and then to Teterboro, New Jersey, in that aircraft.”
“Who flew with you?”
“I was alone, but the people at the hangar at Jet Aviation belonging to Strategic Services can confirm when I landed. You can also search the aviation databases for my flight plans.”
“Have you ever met Darla Henry?”
“Who’s that?”
“If the tags on the luggage in the room are to be believed, she was the lady on the bed.”
“I’ve never met her and never heard that name. Incidentally, my hostess, who keeps her house open year-round, has not seen James Carlton since he spent the Christmas holiday at his house. I understand he’s in London, making a film.”
“That coincides with what the real estate agency had to say.”
“Have you spoken to Carlton?”
“I’ve left two messages with his production company at Pinewood Studios, in England. I haven’t heard back.”
“What did your ME have to say about the remains?”
“He puts the time of death at ten to twelve weeks, but he doesn’t have a cause of death yet. He said there was no evidence of a gunshot, stabbing, or strangulation. That doesn’t mean that something might not turn up after further analysis.”
“Drugs?”
“We found a bottle containing a sleeping pill, Ambien, on the bedside table, with two remaining tablets. We’ll have to wait for a tox screen to know if she took any, and that will take weeks.”
“What have you learned about Darla Henry?”
“She has a Florida driver’s license with a West Palm Beach address — a rental apartment — and she moved out early in the year and left no forwarding address. A lot of her clothes had Bloomingdale’s labels, with a few from Palm Beach.” He handed Stone the license, showing a pretty blonde of thirty-three.
“I’ve never seen her,” Stone said. “The clothing labels make it sound like she spent some time in New York.”
“Can I speak to your dinner partners?”
Stone shrugged. “Okay with me, but I think the four guests arrived earlier today, and my hostess, I think, would have told me more if she knew anything. I’m also her attorney.”
“A long relationship?”
“She hired me a couple of days ago. I’ll be drawing a will for her tomorrow. She’s recently divorced and needs to make some changes.”
“Sounds like a dry hole for me,” D’Orio said.
“Probably. Did you ask the realtor if anyone has rented the house since Christmas?”
“Yes, and no one has.”
“Perhaps Ms. Henry is a friend of James Carlton.”
“That’s one of the things I’d like to ask him when he returns my calls.” The cop stood up and offered his hand. “Thanks for your cooperation. I’ll be in touch if I have any further questions.”
“You’ve got my number.”
9
The following morning Stone handed Carrie her new will. “Please have a look at that and tell me if there’s anything you’d like changed.”
She put the will in her handbag. “I’ll read it when I get back to the city, I promise.”
“Well, I could have saved a trip to East Hampton, then.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“I’m glad, too. Except for the unpleasantness next door, I’m enjoying myself.”
“At least the odor went away.”
“It left with the remains and the bed.”
“I expect that will make it easier to sell the house.”
“Maybe not. The story will make the local papers, and a lot of people won’t want to buy a house that recently hosted a deteriorating corpse.”
“I suppose not. Bob’s happier, though.”
“Bob would make a good investigator.”
“He’s certainly taken to you. He ignores everyone but Rupert, who feeds him, of course, but even they are not very good friends. Are you particularly good with dogs?”
“I’ve never owned one, but I’ve always gotten along with them.”
“Feel like some tennis?” she asked. “Nicky and Vanessa are very good, and I’m all right.”
“I didn’t bring the gear.”
“I think I can outfit you from the guest bin.”
They played three sets, then showered before lunch.
They had just sat down when a distant phone rang, and Rupert came into the kitchen. “Excuse me, madam, but there’s a Mr. James Carlton on the phone from London.”
“Oh, dear,” Carrie said. “You lot start eating while I speak to the man.” She left the room. Five minutes later she came back. “Stone, Jim wants to speak with you.”
Stone followed Rupert to a phone in the study. “Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington, this is Jim Carlton.”
“How do you do?”
“Not so well, after what Carrie has just told me.”
“Have you spoken to the East Hampton police?”
“Not yet. I wanted to know what was going on before I called them. Carrie said you could bring me up to date.”
Stone gave him an account of events.
“Carrie says you’re an attorney with a good New York firm.”
“That’s correct.”
“I’d like to retain you to handle this for me.”
“My guess is there’s not a lot to handle, unless Ms. Henry was your guest.”
“She was not, and I’ve never heard of her.”
“Then I think you should call Sergeant D’Orio, listen to what he has to say, answer his questions, and if you’re uncomfortable, tell him to speak to me.”
“I’d rather you did that,” Carlton said.
“All right, I’ll represent you. I’ll need some phone numbers.” He noted the numbers. “Now, I have some questions.”
“All right.”
“When were you last at your East Hampton home?”
“At Christmastime. I threw a party on New Year’s Eve and left for London on New Year’s Day, and I can supply a list of guests, if he wants it. I’ve been here ever since.”
“When will your business in London be concluded?”
“As soon as we have a rough cut, then I’ll go back to L.A. and finish up at the studio.”
“Which studio?”
“Centurion.”
“My son is based there — Peter Barrington.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve met him a couple of times, but I don’t know him well. I like his work, though.”
“Have you rented out your house to anyone this year?”
“No, as far as I know it’s been empty since I came to London.”
“Do you think Ms. Henry might be a squatter?”
“Not unless she has a key and the security code.”
“The house was unlocked when I was there, and the security system had apparently not been set.”
“Then I’m baffled.”
“All right, Mr. Carlton—”
“Jim.”
“All right, Jim, I’ll speak to the police and get back to you.”
“I’m at a country inn this weekend. Call me tomorrow at the Pinewood number.”
“Right. Can you e-mail me the party list?” He gave him the address, said goodbye, hung up, then returned to lunch.
“Are you representing Jim?” Carrie asked.
“Yes. I’ve acquired more new business this weekend than I know what to do with.”
“You’re welcome to stay on, if you need time to deal with this.”
“Thank you. I think I’ll need tomorrow, at least.”