Stuart Woods_Stone Barrington 12

horny, huh?”
    â€œOh, shut up.”
    They drove through some woods and stopped at the end of a short, paved driveway. There were other cars parked there.
    The house was a shingled Cape Cod with a porch. The front door was opened by an obviously upset woman wearing an apron. Rawls emerged from another room and waved them in. Harley Davis and Mack Morris were seated in the living room, while Jimmy Hotchkiss talked on the phone. Stone introduced Dino to everybody, then followed Rawls into a bedroom.
    â€œUh-oh,” Dino said.
    Don Brown, the Old Fart who used the electric scooter, was sitting up in bed, a bullet hole in his right temple and a much larger hole in his left. A Colt .45 lay on the bed, and brains and blood were scattered around the bedspread.
    â€œWe’ve got another one,” Rawls said.
    â€œHow long have you been here?” Stone asked.
    â€œLess than half an hour. I’ve mostly been on the phone calling people.”
    â€œHas somebody called the state police?”
    â€œJimmy’s on the phone with them now.”
    â€œLet’s get out of this room,” Stone said. “Have you touched anything?”
    Rawls shook his head. “I know better than that.”
    They went back into the living room and took seats, while the woman served them coffee.
    â€œThis is Hilda,” Rawls said. “She found him when she came to clean the house.”
    â€œWhat time do you normally get here, Hilda?” Stone said.
    â€œUsually, at nine,” the woman replied. “But it was ten, today; I had to do Mr. Brown’s grocery shopping. I always do that for him.” She went back to the kitchen.
    â€œDino,” Stone said, “you ask the questions.”
    Dino nodded. “Gentlemen, did any of you know Mr. Brown to be depressed?”
    â€œThis wasn’t suicide,” Harley Davis replied.
    â€œPlease, just answer the question.”
    â€œDon wasn’t depressed,” Mack Morris said. “He was pissed off.”
    â€œAbout what?” Dino asked.
    â€œAbout being in that fucking wheelchair thing. He didn’t like it at all; he was permanently pissed off about it.”
    â€œDid he ever talk about suicide?”
    All three men shook their heads. “He wasn’t the type,” Rawls said.
    â€œIs the gun his?” Dino asked.
    â€œProbably; he had a .45,” Rawls said. “If the cops don’t find another one, then it’s his.”
    Jimmy hung up the phone. “The state boys will be on the next ferry,” he said, looking at his watch. “They should be here in an hour or so.”
    â€œGentlemen,” Dino said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d all go sit on the porch until the cops get here. Stone and I will take a look around the house.”
    The four men went outside, and Dino went into the kitchen, followed by Stone.
    â€œHilda,” Dino said, “when you got here this morning, did you find anything unusual about the state of the house?”
    â€œWell, Mr. Brown was dead in his bed,” she said.
    Dino nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Anything else?”
    â€œWell, the vacuum cleaner is normally in the broom closet, but it was sitting in the kitchen, by the back door, there.” She pointed. “And there wasn’t no bag inside it.”

25
    S TONE AND DINO WENT and stood in the bedroom doorway, so as not to disturb anything further by entering the room.
    â€œHe’s sitting up in bed,” Stone said, “so whoever shot him woke him up first.”
    â€œUnless he wasn’t asleep when the guy arrived,” Dino said.
    â€œThe TV isn’t on, and there’s no book present, so he wasn’t sitting up in bed reading. Nobody just sits in bed, doing nothin’.”
    â€œMaybe you’re right. But why would the guy wake him up?”
    Stone shrugged. “Maybe he had something to say to him before he shot him.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike, ‘Here’s one from your pal, Joe,’ or whoever ordered the hit.”
    â€œYou should write novels.”
    â€œShort stories, maybe. There’s always a little story that goes with a murder. This wasn’t the burglary story, was it?”
    â€œNothing seems disturbed.”
    â€œLet’s take a look outside,” Stone said.
    They walked through the kitchen, where Hilda was sitting, disconsolately, drinking coffee, and out the back door. The sea was, perhaps,