The coroner rapped sharply on his table. "A verdict of death by misadventure having been found, these proceedings are closed."

Stone made his way forward and introduced himself to the coroner.

"Oh, yes, Mr.Barrington, I remember you from an earlier inquest."

"That's right. A law firm representing the next of kin of Mrs.Elizabeth Manning has asked me to act for them in St.Marks. They have requested a copy of the death certificate, so that Mrs. Manning's estate may be probated."

"Of course," the coroner said. "I'll give you an original." He sat down, took a pad of blank certificates from his briefcase, wrote one out, signed it, and handed it to Stone. "There you are," he said. "Nice that this inquest is so much simpler than the last, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

He smiled a little. "Not as interesting, though."

Stone smiled with him. "No, I guess it isn't." He shook the man's hand and left the hall. To his relief, the two journalists had disappeared.

Back at the Shipwright's Arms, a fax was waiting for him.

Dear Stone,

Just a quick note to let you know I'm not dead. My research is going well. I've been spending all my time with

Vance, who has been a dear. I've been staying at his house, which is very beautiful, and I've met many friends of his. The life out here is really wonderful.

Oh, Chip McGrath at the New York Times Book Review has asked me to review a big new book on the history of

Hollywood and the studios-front page of the review, if you can believe it. It's a nice showcase for me.

I might stay out here for a week or two when I finish the piece. This California living gets under your skin.

Got to run. We're off to dinner.

Love,

Arrington

Stone was hurt. After all he'd said to her in his letter, she hadn't even referred to it. Then it hit him: his letter had gone down with Chester's airplane, in Libby Manning's purse. She had never received it. He swore at himself for not remembering that before now. I'll write her tomorrow, he thought. First thing.

CHAPTER 37

Stone returned to Expansive with some trepidation. He was not looking forward to talking with Allison about this, partly because she did not need additional problems while facing a trial for murder, and partly because he did not relish a scene with her, and he had come to know that she was adept at scenes.

To his surprise, he found her packing.

"Oh, hi," she said, stuffing things into a duffel. There were two others, already full, on the aft cabin bed.

"Going somewhere?" he asked. He really wanted to know.

"Sure," she said, "next week. I didn't have anything to do, so I thought I would get some things together, and then when the trial is over I can get out of here pronto!"

"I don't blame you for wanting to get out of here," he said. "What will you do about the boat?"

"Oh, I don't know; probably take your advice and sell it in Fort Lauderdale. I don't want to think about the boat; I'm sick of it, and once I'm out of here I never to see it again."

He could understand that, too. "We have to talk for minute," he said.

"What about?" She kept packing.

"Could you stop that for a minute? I need your full attention."

She stopped packing and sat down on the bed. "Okay, shoot."

He sat down beside her. "I had a call from a lawyer in Palm Beach who represents Libby's mother."

Her eyes widened. "How the hell did he know to call you?"

"Libby told him where she was going, and why; also, he watches television, I guess,"

"What did he have to say?"

"He was looking for Libby; her mother hadn't heard from her. He didn't know about the crash."

"Did you tell him?"

"Of course. Sir Winston hadn't been able to find a next of kin. It was the proper thing to do."

"What's this about a mother?"

He sighed. "It's bad. She's in her seventies, and she's had multiple sclerosis for years. She lives on Social Security and what little she makes playing the piano in a palm Beach hotel, for tips."

She remained expressionless. "Go on."

"She relies on Libby for support. They share an apartment, and the lawyer thinks the old lady will have to move, and he doesn't know where she'll go." He waited for a response.

There wasn't one. Allison continued to stare at him.

"I told you something like this might come up. Her mother is entitled to her estate."

"She has an estate?"

Oh, God, he thought; this was going to be hard. "The lawyer asked me some questions about any financial arrangements Libby might have with Paul's estate." This was true.

"So you think she might have sent him a copy of the agreement?"

"It's possible." Just. "She could have sent him the original."

"You said she didn't make any phone calls or mail anything."

"I said I didn't know that she did."

"So the lawyer might come after me for the money?"

"That's a possibility; a certainty, if he has the agreement."

"It would cost a lot of money to sue me for it, wouldn't it?"

"Maybe not; you wouldn't have much of a defense; it would be cut and dried." This was not entirely truthful, he thought, but that interpretation might legitimately be placed on the situation.

She put a hand on his knee. "Stone, I know you're worried about this, but I don't want you to be. I'll deal with this after the trial, all right? Don't worry, I'll do the right thing."

"Allison, I'm glad you feel that way, but…"

"But what if the trial goes wrong?"

He nodded.

"Well, then, her lawyer can make a claim on my can't he?"

"Yes, I suppose so. It would just be simpler to…"

"Not now," she said, and she said it emphatically.

Stone nodded. "By the way, do you have a will?"

"Yes, it's with the lawyer in Greenwich."

"Do you want to make any changes to it? I could draft something for you."

She thought for a minute. "No, I don't think so; it still reflects my wishes' I gave it a lot of thought at the time."

"All right." He stood up: "I'd better get up to my room at the Shipwright's Arms; I've got some work to do." There was a folder lying on the dressing table, the folder he had given Allison containing her copy of the agreement with Libby. He took a step toward it.

"Excuse me," she said. She stepped past him, picked up the folder, and stuffed it into a duffel. "See you later."

He left the boat and started up the dock. As he did, a very modern, fast-looking motor yacht entered the harbor and made for the marina. He stood and watched her. She must have been on the order of eighty feet, and she looked as if she'd do a good fifty knots in the open sea. As he watched she moved into a berth a few yards down, and two smartly dressed crewmen hopped onto the pontoon to make her fast. She was flying a yellow customs flag, and the officer on duty stirred himself from his shack and ambled down to the marina.

Stone continued toward the Shipwright's Arms, and when he was nearly there, he stopped and looked back. The skipper of the yacht, which was called Race, was sitting in the cockpit, going over documents with the customs officer. A thought occurred to him; a bad thought. No, he said to himself, Allison wouldn't do that.

He picked up some Federal Express materials at the bar, stuffed the death certificate into the envelope, addressed it, and left it on the bar, then went up to his room and dialed the law offices of Potter & Potter. An elderly sounding secretary put him through.

"This is Harley Potter."

"It's Stone Barrington, Mr.Potter."

"Ah, yes, Mr.Barrington; do you have some news for me?"