Stuart Woods: Insatiable Appetites

Stone felt hugely relieved, because it had worried him that Eduardo would have been so solicitous of Anna and Carla for decades, then ignored them at the end. It had been out of character, but now all was put right. Except that, at a moment when the estate had been fully settled, he would have to explain this to Mary Ann. And worse, to Dolce. He did not relish the task.

Back in bed, he finally slept soundly. When he awoke, Carla had gone; she had mentioned an early meeting at the Times .

Late Saturday morning Bruce Willard took a stroll down Pennsylvania Avenue, looking into the shop windows, exchanging an occasional greeting with a competitor. He thought about what Elton had done about the sale of his personal effects and how he would handle it when the time came. He was going to need more storage space than he now had, and it would have to be especially secure as well as temperature and humidity controlled. He could afford to acquire the space now, what with his inheritance from Evan. He was thinking about that when a gray car pulled up to the curb next to him, and a window went down.

“Good morning,” the man said. “I’m Sergeant Avery Morris, DCPD. We met at the Four Seasons the other day.”

“Oh, yes,” Bruce said.

“Will you join me in the car for a moment, please? I have some more questions.”

Bruce took a deep breath as he walked around the car and got in. He was going to have to be calm and helpful while telling the man nothing. He got into the car.

“I asked you the name of the elderly gentleman you were with, and you told me ‘Elton.’ Was that a first or a last name?”

“A first name. I’m sorry, that’s just the way I think of him. His last name is Hills.”

“Who is he?”

“An interesting question: he’s the father of a friend of mine, now deceased. He’s led a very reclusive life for at least thirty years, and I think our dinner was the first meal he’s eaten outside his home for thirty or forty years. Beyond that, I don’t know how to explain who he is. He apparently lives on inherited wealth. I met him because I attended his son’s funeral.”

“How did his son die?”

“In a traffic accident in New York.”

A tiny light went on in Morris’s head. “Hit-and-run?”

“Yes.”

“Was his son a congressman named Hills?”

That was out of the bag, now; time to be forthcoming. “Yes, Evan Hills.”

“What was your relationship with him?”

“We were friends and lovers.”

“Was Elton Hills upset about his son’s death?”

“Yes, of course. Mostly, I think, he regretted not having been in touch with his son for many years.”

“Sounds like you’ve gotten to know him very well,” Morris observed.

“Well, we share a mutual interest in American antiques. I’m a dealer, and I spent several days in his home after the funeral, cataloging his possessions.”

“Were there any guns among his possessions?” Morris asked.

“No, none that I saw. Wait, there were a couple of old muskets and a pair of dueling pistols, all eighteenth-century, nothing modern.”

“Did Mr. Hills somehow connect Creed Harker with his son’s death?”

“I don’t think he knows who Creed Harker is, or was, and I can’t see how he might make such a connection.”

“Did you know Creed Harker?”

“I had seen him around the Four Seasons, where I often dine, but we didn’t know each other.”

“How about the minority leader of the House of Representatives?”

“The one who just died? What about him?”

“Did you or Mr. Hills know him or know of him? Perhaps through his son?”

Bruce shook his head. “I never met the gentleman. Elton wouldn’t have met him, either: he and his son had not spoken for many years, and Mr. Hills doesn’t own a TV or read newspapers.”

“Do you know if Mr. Hills carries a handkerchief?”

“Doesn’t everybody? I have no specific information that he does.”

“Do you carry a handkerchief?”

“Yes.”

“May I see the one you’re carrying now?”

Bruce reached into a hip pocket and handed him the folded handkerchief. It was of white cotton, with blue edging.

Morris inspected it. “Where did you buy this?”

“At Brooks Brothers.”

“Do you wash and iron your own handkerchiefs?”

“No, they go to the laundry, along with my shirts. I must say, Sergeant, that all this is mystifying. What is it you are pursuing?”

“A murderer.”

“Well, Elton Hills is not a murderer, and neither am I.”

Morris handed him back the handkerchief.

“Where does Elton Hills live?”

“In Pennsylvania, near Philadelphia.”

“Do you have his phone number?”

“Yes.” Bruce produced his address book and read it out. “I should tell you that Elton doesn’t answer his phone. You’ll hear a beep, and you can leave a message, but I wouldn’t expect a call back.”

“Do you expect to hear from him soon?”

“I have no reason to.”

“Then why were you and Mr. Hills dining together?”

“He called me and said he wanted to see his son’s house in Georgetown. I showed him the house and took him to dinner.”

“Was he staying at the Four Seasons?”

“No, he stayed at his son’s house and went home the following morning.”

“Do you know when he left town?”

“I had a call from him, thanking me for dinner, at around one PM yesterday. He said he was back at home.”

“How long a drive would that be?”

“Two or three hours, depending on traffic.”

“Does Mr. Hills drive?”

“No, I doubt if he has a current license. He has a servant who drove him to D.C.”

“Well, I’m going to have to speak to Mr. Hills.”

“Good luck with that,” Bruce said. “Are we done, Sergeant?”

“Yes, Mr. Willard. I may call you again.”

“I’m right across the street, about six doors down.” Bruce gave him a card. “Are you interested in antiques?”

“Only in old weapons,” Morris said.

The two men shook hands, Bruce got out, and Morris drove away. Bruce continued down the street, not looking back.

Avery Morris went back to his office and called Elton Hills’s number. When he heard the beep, he said, “Mr. Hills, my name is Avery Morris. I’m a Washington, D.C., police officer. Will you please call me? It concerns the death of your son.” He hung up.

Late in the afternoon, Morris’s phone rang, and he picked it up. “Sergeant Morris.”

“Sergeant, my name is Horace Pettigrew. I’m an attorney in Philadelphia, and I represent Mr. Elton Hills. Mr. Hills doesn’t take phone calls from strangers, and he asked me to speak to you. You called about his son’s death? How can we help you?”

Morris had half expected something like this. “Mr. Pettigrew, is Mr. Hills acquainted with a man named Creed Harker?”

“Sergeant, Mr. Hills isn’t acquainted with anybody. He has been a recluse for close to forty years.”

“How about the minority leader of the House of Representatives?”

“Sergeant, Mr. Hills’s circle of acquaintances is limited to his domestic employees and two or three members of my law firm. Everybody he once knew is now either dead or doddering.”

“He is acquainted with a man named Bruce Willard.”

“Ah, yes, a friend of Mr. Hills’s late son who is a dealer in antiques. He recently cataloged Mr. Hills’s home furnishings for estate purposes. I think it’s safe to say that, outside his household, Mr. Willard is the first person he has met in several decades.”

“Do you know Mr. Willard?”

“I do not. The only reason I know his name is that Mr. Hills has appointed him as the agent for the sale of his belongings after his death. He has no heirs. Is there anything else?”