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Authors: Stuart Woods
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himself.
12
S TONE WAS STANDING in front of the house with his golf clubs when Ed Rawls pulled into the driveway in a shiny, new Range Rover. Stone put his clubs in the back and got into the passenger seat. “Morning.”
“Good morning,” Rawls said. “Looks like we’ve got a good day for it.”
“Yep.”
“I had a call from Lance Cabot last night. We had a nice chat, and he offered me any support I might need in helping you with the Stone murders.”
“That’s good. Take him up on it.”
“He gave me a name at Langley as a liaison. I talked with her this morning, and she’s running down some things for me.”
“You want to tell me about the things?”
“Nah, it would take too long, and it wouldn’t help you. The information she gets might help, though, and I’ll tell you about that when I get it.”
“Okay.”
They drove through Dark Harbor and out to the golf course, where they unloaded their clubs. There was a wait while a foursome teed off before them.
“Let’s give them a good head start,” Rawls said. He looked down at Stone’s loafers. “What kind of golf shoes are those?”
“Oh, Dick’s were too small, and I didn’t have any of my own. I’ll have to send for some, I guess.”
Stone looked around; there were no carts. “We going to walk?” he asked.
“Oh, sure; it’s how I get my exercise.”
They teed off, and Rawls set a rapid pace down the fairway. Stone followed as best he could, but his loafers were not built for this.
TWO HOURS LATER they sat at a table at the Tarrantine Yacht Club, which was a modest building with a big dock and a lot of moorings, waiting for cheeseburgers. Stone took off his ruined loafers, which were soaking wet after a few tramps through the rough, and rubbed his feet.
“You gotta get some better shoes,” Rawls said, sipping his Coke.
“Tell me about it.” He had to replace the loafers, too. It had been an expensive round of golf.
“What did you shoot, finally?” Rawls asked.
“Don’t ask.”
“How’m I going to play you for money, if you won’t tell me your score?”
“All right, I shot a fifty-two. How about you?”
“Forty, a little off my handicap.”
“Which is…?”
“Six.”
“Jesus, Ed, how the hell are you playing to that kind of handicap at your age?”
“I practice a lot. There’s fuck-all else to do around here, if you don’t sail or play tennis. What’s your handicap?”
“I don’t know, probably around twenty-five.”
“You need to practice more.”
“Well, if I spend enough time up here, I might do that. Golf is tough when you live in the city. I have a place in Connecticut, and I belong to a club there, but I don’t get up there often enough.”
“You going to be spending any time around here?”
“Maybe. Dick left me his house.”
“No kidding? That’s a very tidy inheritance. You know what that place is worth?”
“I get to use it, and so do my heirs, but if it’s sold, the proceeds go to the Samuel Bernard Foundation.”
“You know what that is?”
“Yes. Bernard was a mentor of mine in law school.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t recruit you.”
“He tried to, but I didn’t know it at the time. It was many years later he told me he thought I might not have been suited for the life. Lance signed me as a consultant, though.”
“That speaks well of you; Lance is a good judge of talent.”
Stone shrugged.
“Well, if you’re going to be spending some time here, we’d better get you in the yacht club and the golf club. I’ll work with you, and we’ll bring your handicap down.” Rawls raised a hand and waved over two men who were standing in line for hamburgers. He introduced both men.
“I hear you’re Dick Stone’s cousin,” one of them said.
“That’s right.”
“How does that work? I thought I knew all of Dick’s family.”
“His father and my mother were brother and sister. I grew up in New York.”
“This your first time in Islesboro?” the
12
S TONE WAS STANDING in front of the house with his golf clubs when Ed Rawls pulled into the driveway in a shiny, new Range Rover. Stone put his clubs in the back and got into the passenger seat. “Morning.”
“Good morning,” Rawls said. “Looks like we’ve got a good day for it.”
“Yep.”
“I had a call from Lance Cabot last night. We had a nice chat, and he offered me any support I might need in helping you with the Stone murders.”
“That’s good. Take him up on it.”
“He gave me a name at Langley as a liaison. I talked with her this morning, and she’s running down some things for me.”
“You want to tell me about the things?”
“Nah, it would take too long, and it wouldn’t help you. The information she gets might help, though, and I’ll tell you about that when I get it.”
“Okay.”
They drove through Dark Harbor and out to the golf course, where they unloaded their clubs. There was a wait while a foursome teed off before them.
“Let’s give them a good head start,” Rawls said. He looked down at Stone’s loafers. “What kind of golf shoes are those?”
“Oh, Dick’s were too small, and I didn’t have any of my own. I’ll have to send for some, I guess.”
Stone looked around; there were no carts. “We going to walk?” he asked.
“Oh, sure; it’s how I get my exercise.”
They teed off, and Rawls set a rapid pace down the fairway. Stone followed as best he could, but his loafers were not built for this.
TWO HOURS LATER they sat at a table at the Tarrantine Yacht Club, which was a modest building with a big dock and a lot of moorings, waiting for cheeseburgers. Stone took off his ruined loafers, which were soaking wet after a few tramps through the rough, and rubbed his feet.
“You gotta get some better shoes,” Rawls said, sipping his Coke.
“Tell me about it.” He had to replace the loafers, too. It had been an expensive round of golf.
“What did you shoot, finally?” Rawls asked.
“Don’t ask.”
“How’m I going to play you for money, if you won’t tell me your score?”
“All right, I shot a fifty-two. How about you?”
“Forty, a little off my handicap.”
“Which is…?”
“Six.”
“Jesus, Ed, how the hell are you playing to that kind of handicap at your age?”
“I practice a lot. There’s fuck-all else to do around here, if you don’t sail or play tennis. What’s your handicap?”
“I don’t know, probably around twenty-five.”
“You need to practice more.”
“Well, if I spend enough time up here, I might do that. Golf is tough when you live in the city. I have a place in Connecticut, and I belong to a club there, but I don’t get up there often enough.”
“You going to be spending any time around here?”
“Maybe. Dick left me his house.”
“No kidding? That’s a very tidy inheritance. You know what that place is worth?”
“I get to use it, and so do my heirs, but if it’s sold, the proceeds go to the Samuel Bernard Foundation.”
“You know what that is?”
“Yes. Bernard was a mentor of mine in law school.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t recruit you.”
“He tried to, but I didn’t know it at the time. It was many years later he told me he thought I might not have been suited for the life. Lance signed me as a consultant, though.”
“That speaks well of you; Lance is a good judge of talent.”
Stone shrugged.
“Well, if you’re going to be spending some time here, we’d better get you in the yacht club and the golf club. I’ll work with you, and we’ll bring your handicap down.” Rawls raised a hand and waved over two men who were standing in line for hamburgers. He introduced both men.
“I hear you’re Dick Stone’s cousin,” one of them said.
“That’s right.”
“How does that work? I thought I knew all of Dick’s family.”
“His father and my mother were brother and sister. I grew up in New York.”
“This your first time in Islesboro?” the
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