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 estate, 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.