Stone took the phone from his hand. “Sheriff, this is Stone Barrington speaking. My wife has been murdered in her home.” He gave the man the address. “We need a crime-scene unit here at once. One of your men has already picked up a shotgun lying on the floor, so he’ll have to be fingerprinted. You’d better come, too.”
“Is there a suspect?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes, a man named Tim Rutledge.”
“The Dr. Rutledge who’s a professor at UVA?”
“The same. You should question him at the earliest opportunity. Oh, and find out if he drives a station wagon.” He handed the phone back to the deputy.
“Yes, sir, that’s pretty much the situation. No, I’m just going to look at the body now.” He listened for a moment. “Yes, sir.” He hung up the phone. “Milt, the sheriff says to stay away from the body and don’t contaminate the crime scene.”
Milt, who had already pulled back the tablecloth, put it back and walked back to the front door. “Okay,” he said. “What happened here?”
Stone sat down in a hall chair. “Let’s wait for the sheriff,” he said. “I don’t want to have to go through this twice.”
Dino appeared on the upstairs landing, still buttoning his shirt. “What’s happened?” he called to Stone. Mike Freeman and the Eggerses were right behind him, in various stages of dress.
“Dino, you come down here,” he said. “Will the rest of you please wait upstairs until somebody comes to get you? Thanks.”
Dino walked down the stairs, looking at the covered body, and came over to Stone. “Who is it?”
“Arrington. Shotgun.” He nodded toward the weapon, then shook his head.
Dino put a hand on his shoulder. “Who?”
“Had to be Rutledge, the architect.”
“Who are you?” the deputy Milt asked.
“This is Detective Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti of the New York City police department,” Stone said. “Dino, deputies Milt and Jake.”
Dino shook hands with the two young men, then pulled up a chair and sat next to Stone. “I’m so sorry, pal,” he said. “I wish I could tell you how sorry.”
Stone nodded, then took some deep breaths.
Kelli reached the front steps, then ran up them and peered through a window next to the door. She could see a shotgun on the floor, and she thought she knew what that meant, and she could see, farther down the hall, a pair of feet protruding from under a white cloth. The toenails had been painted.
She dug into her bag and found her New York City press pass and hung the cord around her neck, then she got out her iPhone and took a photograph of the corpse’s feet through the window, using the zoom to its fullest.
The sheriff’s car pulled up, and he got out and ca
me up the steps. A young woman with a plastic card dangling from her neck ran over to him.
“Sheriff, I’m a reporter,” she said, holding up the card, which had her photograph on it. “May I come inside? I’ll stay out of your way.”
The front door opened, and Stone Barrington came out and introduced himself to the sheriff. She snapped a shot of them shaking hands.
“Mr. Barrington, this young lady says she’s a reporter and wants to come inside. Do you want her inside?”
Stone looked at the young woman and recognized her from the party. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m Kelli Keane from the Post. We’ve talked on the phone.”
“No,” Stone said to the sheriff, “I don’t want her inside.” He opened the door for the sheriff, then closed it behind them, leaving Kelli on the porch.
Kelli went back to the window by the door, switched off the phone’s flash, and took as many shots as she could. Then she moved to the next window and saw the two young people sitting on a sofa together and took some shots of them.
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