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T he group met at Elaine’s, and Stone’s first thought after they sat down was that both Peter and Hattie were unusually subdued. Normally, they would be talking a mile a minute, and instead, they were staring at their food or just into the middle distance. But, in the circumstances, what did he expect? He was pretty subdued himself.
“Have you kids thought about where you’re going to live at Yale?” he asked, just to get a conversation going.
Peter spoke up. “I thought we might look for a three-bedroom apartment,” he said.
“Hattie,” Stone said, “you’re going to have to speak to your parents about that.”
“I already have,” Hattie replied. “They’re good with it, as long as I have my own room. After all, lots of college dorms are co-ed, so it’s not very different from that.”
“I’ll want to hear that from them,” Stone said.
“Of course,” she replied, then went back to staring at her food.
“I think you should look sooner, rather than later,” Stone said. “I’ve looked at the Yale website, and starting in May, housing begins to disappear fast.”
“We could take the train up there one day and have a look around,” Peter said.
“You forget,” Ben interjected, “I have a driver’s license.”
“All right,” Dino said, “you can take my car. If you were seen on campus in that tank of Stone’s, you’d ruin your reputations. I think you should stay overnight in a hotel, too. Hattie can have her own room and you and Peter can bunk together.”
“Sounds good,” Peter said.
“Yes, fine,” Hattie echoed. Everybody stopped talking again.
“When do you want to go up there?” Stone asked.
“I don’t know,” Peter said, “maybe in two or three weeks?”
More silence. Stone gave up.
Peter took Hattie home in a cab. “Tomorrow, after school,” he said.
“Right,” she replied. “We can play hooky one day for the procedure.”
They kissed, and she went inside.
Stone heard Peter come in, and he went to the boy’s room and sat down. “How are you doing?”
“Okay, I guess,” Peter replied. “How about you?”
“I think we’re both still pretty shaken up,” Stone said.
“I think you’re right,” Peter said. “I never expected anything like this to happen. I thought you and Mom would grow old together.”
“We thought so, too,” Stone said.
“Have they caught the architect guy yet?”
“Not yet,” Stone said. He told Peter about the call from the sheriff. “They’ll get him, don’t worry.”
“Then there’ll be a trial, right?”
“Yes, there will.”
“And you and I and Hattie will have to testify?”
“Maybe not all of us; maybe I can do it alone. That will depend on the district attorney’s case.”
“Nobody actually saw him there, did they?” Peter asked.
“No.”
“And his fingerprints weren’t on the shotgun.”
“No.”
“So what evidence do they have against him?”
“It sounds as though it would be circumstantial.”
“Does that mean there’s less of a chance of conviction?”
“Not necessarily. The man did run, after all, and took all his money with him. That’s damning. If he did it, he won’t have an alibi, unless someone is willing to lie for him.”
“Would someone do that?”
“It sometimes happens,” Stone said.
David Rutledge got home from work and found Kelli sitting at the dining table, tapping away on her laptop. She had been living with him since they got back from Virginia.
“How’s your piece going?” he asked, kissing the top of her head.
“It’s practically writing itself,” she said.
“Drink?”
“Please. Scotch.”
David went to the built-in bar and poured them both one. He brought the drinks back to the table and set them down. “Good news. We had to pull a piece, so we’re running the Virginia spread in the next issue.”
“The one that closed today?”
“Yep.”
“That’s wonderful!”
The phone rang. David walked into the living area and picked up the extension on the coffee table. “Hello?”
“Listen carefully,” a familiar voice said. “Are you alone?”
“No,” David replied.
“I’m around the corner from your apartment in a bar. You know the place?”
David identified the voice now. “Yeah, I guess I’ll have to come in. Be there in ten.” He hung up.
“Be where?” Kelli asked.
“At the office. I forgot to check some pages before I left, and we have to go to press tonight. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“You want me to cook dinner?” she asked.
“Can you actually do that?” he asked back. She never had before.
“I can make very respectable spaghetti Bolognese,” she said.
“Okay, I’m game,” he said, putting his coat on. “I’ll pick up some Alka-Seltzer on the way home.”
She threw a pencil at him.
“You need anything else?”
“You can pick up a head of romaine lettuce and some bread,” she said.
“Okay.” He closed the door behind him and got on the big freight elevator.
David walked into the bar and spotted the back of his cousin’s head immediately, in a booth at the rear. He shucked off his coat, hung it on a hook, and sat down. “Hello, Tim,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doing here?”
A waitress came, and David ordered a scotch. “You’re running, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t do it,” Tim said.
David said nothing.
“They’re trying to hang it on me, though.”
“Who’s trying?”
“The sheriff, the university-everybody.”
“If you didn’t do it, why did you run?”
“I didn’t have a chance. I got a call from somebody who told me she was dead. It was the first I knew of it.”
“Who called you?”
