“Don't worry,” I say and gesture toward Ceepak. “His pencil has an eraser.”
Ms. Stone stares at me. She doesn't get it. I grab another chunk of raisin roll.
“Why were the timers set for Sunday night?”
“Mr. Hart planned to leave town Sunday morning, after our final breakfast meeting concerning the implosion plan. Mendez, himself, was scheduled to depart Sunday afternoon, after one last check of the wiring.”
“So you'd all be long gone when the deed went down?”
“Yes.” Ms. Stone sounds ashamed. “When Mr. Hart was … murdered … I contacted Mr. Mendez. Offered to sell him the hotel property.”
“Why?”
“Pending probate, I had Mr. Hart's irrevocable power of attorney. I hoped to persuade Mr. Mendez to remove his incendiary devices. Thought if he owned it, he wouldn't be so quick to knock it down. I gave him some brochure mock-ups I had commissioned in a final attempt to convince Mr. Hart to develop the hotel into time-share units, not destroy it. Mendez agreed to meet with me here Sunday morning to discuss my ideas further….”
“Really?” Ceepak finds Ms. Stone's love of the grand old structure a little hard to swallow. Me too. I heard those rats scampering around in the walls. I might have been in the Hart-Mendez camp. Knock the sucker down!
“Why are you so interested in this particular building?” Ceepak asks.
“Stone, McCain and Whitby.”
“Excuse me?”
“My great-grandfather. Josiah Stone. He and his architectural partners designed the original hotel. It was their grandest achievement. When I first went to work for Mr. Hart, I encouraged him to pursue the property. I convinced him that we could restore it to its former glory. Mr. Hart was more impressed by the business possibilities. As you know, the hotel is situated on a prime piece of shoreline real estate. The whole north end of the island is a gold mine, waiting for the right person to come along and rescue it from decades of neglect. But refurbishing the landmarked hotel would prove prohibitively expensive to most….”
“But not Reginald Hart.”
“It would have been stupendous! We were going to put trendy shops in the lobby, gourmet restaurants and wine bars along a restored pier….”
“Mr. Hart became impatient?”
“He wanted a clean slate. An empty patch of ground where he could build something new and flashy. Maybe even a casino. He was confident he could push an ‘urban renewal’ gambling referendum through the local legislature. So he hired Mendez to bring the old building down. But when Mr. Hart died….”
“You went to work on Mendez?”
“Yes. Mendez could pull the plug, stop the demolition.”
“Until we locked him up in jail.”
“Yes. By then, I was afraid to tell you what I knew….”
“Understandable.”
“I wish now I had behaved differently. My silence destroyed my great-grandfather's legacy. I will always regret my inaction….”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Hart alive?” Ceepak asks.
“Saturday morning. I drove him and Ashley into town.”
Ah-hah. So that's how they got all the way from Beach Crest Heights to Sunnyside Playland.
“What time?”
“We left the house before 6:30.”
“Mr. Hart was an early riser?”
“No. He said Ashley ‘dragged him out of bed.’ He was very sleepy when we climbed into the car.”
“Why did you want Mr. Hart to change his will?”
“It made no sense. How is a thirteen-year-old child going to run a multinational corporation? I suggested we set up a trust fund for Ashley but cede corporate control to the board….”
“And?”
“He told me, in no uncertain terms, to ‘mind my own business.’”
“Why?”
“He never said.”
“Any theories?”
“None I wish to discuss. It would only be conjecture on my part, and I refuse to engage in idle speculation.”
Wow. Guess Ms. Stone has a Code, too.
Wonder if she's ever broken it.
“Why didn't Hart just drive himself into town Saturday morning?”
“I'm not sure. I think Ashley had him flustered. He told me to hurry and fetch the car. I felt like a chauffeur. I was up front, driving. They were in the back seat. Giggling. In truth, I was rather embarrassed to see this man I've always admired acting so childishly. I dropped them off and went looking for a cup of coffee.”
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Depends.”
“Your perfume. Do you purchase it at Victoria's Secret?”
“No.”
“It's not a Victoria's Secret fragrance?”
“That wasn't your question.”
Oh, boy. She's being a lawyer. Only answering the exact question asked.
“You asked me if I
“Clever.”
“Didn't work. He still wanted to knock down the hotel.”
“One last thing,” Ceepak says. “How did Mr. Hart and his ex-wife get along?”
“
He smiles. I think he kind of likes her today.
“Number three. Ashley's mother.”
“Well,” she pauses to think how to best phrase what's coming next, “she was the mother of his only child….”
“But?”
“I don't think he trusted her.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He asked me to make inquiries regarding a private investigator.”
“Why?”
“The usual. He suspected she had a new lover. Someone who might prove a bad influence on Ashley. Someone who could cause trouble.”
Ms. Stone pauses again, like she heard what she just said.
“Perhaps,” she says, “Mr. Hart was correct.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Let's take a walk.”
We're on the sandy concrete sidewalk outside Chesterfield's. The sun is already so hot and bright that the pavement sizzles and any gum you step on is going to be gooey and stretchy like pizza cheese.
Ceepak heads toward the end of the street where pressure-treated planks lead up to the boardwalk paralleling the beach.
