Stuart Woods - Dirt

“I’ve got a car; I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to drive you.”

“Then let’s go.” He waved for the check, paid the bill, and they took a cab uptown to Arrington’s garage. Twenty minutes later they were in Arrington’s Jeep Grand Cherokee, on their way.

When they arrived at Amanda’s country house, a state police car was parked out front, and two uniformed troopers were leaving.

Stone got out of the car and handed them his card. “I’m Stone Barrington; I’m Mrs. Dart’s attorney.”

“I’m Captain Quentin,” one of them said. “This is Sergeant Travis.”

Stone shook their hands. “Can you tell me what’s happened?”

“Mrs. Dart said she phoned you.”

“That’s right, but she was pretty shaken up, and I’d like to know what you’ve learned.”

“The two women went for a walk up to Steep Rock, took a picnic lunch. According to Mrs. Dart they had lunch, drank a bottle of wine between the two of them. Miss McMahon got up to stretch her legs, wandered too close to the edge of the bluff, and fell.”

“Is she dead?”

“Yes. Her body finished up a couple of miles downriver, at a weir. It’s being taken to the state morgue in Hartford for an autopsy, but I don’t think there’s much doubt about the cause of death. For now we’re calling it an alcohol-related accident.”

“Is it absolutely necessary to report alcohol-related on this? Mrs. Dart is a very well-known person, and her reputation might suffer. From what you’ve told me she has no culpability; it was an accident, after all.”

“I can leave it out of my initial written report, but the final determination will be made by the medical examiner. It will depend on the blood alcohol level.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” Stone said. He shook the men’s hands. “Is there any reason why Mrs. Dart can’t return to New York when she’s ready?”

“None at all; we have her phone number in the city if we need to get in touch with her.”

“If you need to speak with her, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me,” Stone said.

“Sure. Good afternoon.”

The two men left, and Stone opened the front door. “Amanda?” he called out.

“I’m in the kitchen,” she called back.

They left their coats in a hall closet and went to the kitchen, where Amanda was washing and putting away dishes, apparently from the picnic. She showed only a trace of surprise at seeing Arrington.

“You remember Arrington,” Stone said. “We were having lunch when you called, and she offered to drive me up here.”

Amanda shook her hand. “How very kind of you, Arrington.”

“How are you feeling?” Stone asked.

“Still shocked, and very sad, of course. Would either of you like a drink? I’m having one.”

Everybody took a drink into the living room.

“I talked with the troopers as they were leaving,” Stone said. “It doesn’t sound as though there’s going to be any kind of problem. What might get into the papers is that the accident was alcohol-related. They’ve agreed not to report it that way, but the medical examiner in Hartford will have the final say, and we can’t influence him.”

“I understand,” Amanda said.

“Do you want me to notify Martha’s family?” Stone asked.

“I have already done so. Her parents live in Westchester; they’re arranging for a local funeral director to pick up the body as soon as it’s released. I’m paying the funeral expenses, of course.”

“Have you mentioned that to her parents yet?”

“No. I thought I’d wait until they were over the initial shock.”

“If I may sound like a lawyer for a moment, be sure that when you make the offer you be clear that it’s an act of friendship toward a valued colleague. Don’t say anything that might imply any sense of guilt or liability for what happened. From what you’ve told me and from what the trooper said, you’ve no reason to feel badly about the accident.”

“Thank you, Stone, that’s good advice.”

“Would you like me to drive you back to the city?”

“No, thank you. I’ll stay the night and drive myself back tomorrow. I’d really like to be alone, unless, of course, you and Arrington would like to stay.”

“Thanks, but I think we’ll go back today. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I don’t believe so, Stone; thank you for coming, though, and please drive carefully going back to town.” She saw them to the door.

On the way back, Arrington spoke up. “Do you believe her?”

Stone didn’t want to answer that question directly. “I don’t have any real evidence to make me disbelieve her,” he said.

“I thought it was an act,” Arrington said.

“What?”

“Her grief. Her composure wasn’t an act, though; that lady is in perfect control.”

“Are you saying you think Amanda murdered Martha?”

“Let’s just say that I don’t think she’s terribly upset about it.”

“I can’t disagree with that,” Stone said, then changed the subject. After all, Amanda was still his client.

Amanda picked up the phone and called one of her two assistants. “Helen?”

“Yes, Amanda?”

“I’m afraid I have some very bad news. Martha has been killed in an accidental fall.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Yes, it’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“That’s just awful!”

“Of course it is. We’re going to have to learn very quickly to get along without her help. I’d like you to take Martha’s job; there’ll be a substantial raise, of course.”

“I’ll be happy to, if it will help,” Helen said.

“I’m in the country now. Can you meet me at the office at one o’clock tomorrow? We have to get you started in your new position.”

“Of course.”

“See you then, darling. Oh, and would you call Barry and tell him what’s happened? I’m really too stricken to talk anymore now.”

“I’ll do that. You try and get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”

“Thank you, dear. Good-bye.” Amanda threw another log on the fire and sat, staring into the flames, making mental notes on what had to be done the following day.

Dino and Mary Ann Bacchetti got out of a cab on Sixty-sixth Street. Mary Ann had spent the morning having her hair cut by Frederic Fekkai at Bergdorf’s and having virtually every other part of her body attended to. She was wearing a newly purchased Chanel suit and matching black alligator shoes and handbag from Ferragamo. Dino was wearing a three-piece gray flannel suit from Ralph Lauren, a Turnbull & Asser shirt, and a polka-dot bow tie. A cream-colored silk square peeked from his breast pocket. His shoes were from Ferragamo, too, but they were only black calf. His hair had been cut at Bergdorf’s men’s store by a Fekkai disciple.

“I like the suit,” Mary Ann said to Dino. “You should get some more like it.”

“Stone made me buy it; the other stuff, too. I’m giving it all to him after this meeting. Listen, let me do the talking, will you?”

“What’s the matter, you think I can’t talk?”

“Stone tells me these people like to hear mostly from the men, and he knows about this stuff.”

“Stone can go fuck himself,” Mary Ann said pleasantly.

As they approached the building the doorman placed himself between them and the front door. “May I help you, sir?” he asked Dino, only slightly officiously.

“Thank you, I have an appointment with Mr. Whitfield; my name is Bacchetti.”

The doorman opened the door and allowed them into the lobby, then stepped inside and announced them to a man at a desk. “Mr. Bacchetti for Mr. Whitfield,” he said to the man, then backed out into the street. The man at the desk murmured something into a telephone, then hung up. “Mr. Whitfield is expecting you,” he said. “Charles will take you up in the elevator.” He indicated a uniformed man standing beside the lift. “Mr. Bacchetti for Mr. Whitfield.”