by Stuart Woods
"No answer?"
"What can I say?"
"Say good night," she said, then hung up.
"Well," Stone said aloud, "that was very peculiar." He turned his attention back to the desk and began opening drawers. The contents were pretty much the same as in his own desk, but they were much more neatly arranged. He had never seen anything quite like it, in fact; it was as if a servant had come in and arranged the contents of the desk every day. He looked around for filing cabinets, but there were none. Apparently, all business was done from Vance's studio office.
Stone opened the center drawer, and, to his surprise, it pulled right out of the desk, into his lap. The drawer was lacking at least eight inches in what he had expected to be its depth. But why? He examined the bottom and sides of the drawer, which seemed perfectly normal, then he looked at the back. At the bottom of the rear of the drawer were two small brass hooks. Then he noticed that the drawer was slightly shallower than it might have been expected to be. He set the drawer on the desktop and looked at it for a minute. There was no apparent reason for the drawer to have hooks at its back. Unless… He took hold of the two drawer pulls and twisted, first to the left, then to the right. They moved clockwise for, perhaps, thirty degrees. He looked at the hooks on the back of the drawer; instead of lying flat, they were now positioned vertically.
He turned the knobs counterclockwise, and the hooks returned to their horizontal position. He reinserted the drawer all the way into the desk, turned the drawer pulls clockwise again, then opened the drawer all the way. The hooks had engaged another, smaller drawer that accounted for the missing depth, and in that drawer were some sealed envelopes, which he began opening.
The envelopes contained a copy of Vance's will, a note to Arring-ton, with instructions in the event of his death, and two insurance policies, with a value of five million dollars each, payable to Vance's estate.
He placed the will on the desk and read it. There was a long list of bequests, most of them for a hundred thousand dollars or more. Two, to universities, were for a million dollars, for the establishment of chairs in the theatrical arts, and one was personal, in the same amount, to his secretary, Betty Southard. Arrington and Lou Regenstein had been appointed executors. The will was dated less than a month before. If everything else in Vance's estate was as well organized as his will, Stone reflected, then his affairs were as neatly arranged as his desk drawers. Stone made a note of the law firm that had drawn the will, then he replaced the documents in the secret compartment, closed the drawer, turned the pulls counterclockwise, and opened it again, just to check. Everything was as before.
Stone then went to the bedroom and searched it thoroughly; he assumed that the police had done the same thing and that the maid had tidied the place after them. Maybe that was why Vance's desk drawers were so neat. He found nothing but the ordinary detritus of wealthy married couples' lives-keys, address books, family photographs, bedside books, remote controls. Stone realized that the room did not appear to have a television set. He pressed the power button, and the lid of an old trunk at the foot of the bed opened, and a very large TV set rose from its depths and switched on.
The local news was on, and it was about Vance. A handsome young woman gazed into the teleprompter and read: "Vance Calder's widow has still not been questioned by the police. Greg Harrow has this report."
The scene shifted to the Calders' front gate, where a young man in an Italian suit spoke gravely. "Amanda, police department sources tell us that, as yet, there are no suspects in the murder of Vance Calder, and that his widow is still hospitalized, with no sign of emerging to speak. The investigating detectives want very much to talk to her, but her doctor refuses to allow her to be interviewed. Some of my colleagues in the media have been to every private hospital in the L.A./Beverly Hills area, without finding out where she is a patient. It had been suggested that she may have been taken to the Calder Palm Springs home, or to their Malibu Beach house, but both those residences are dark, and during the past twenty-four hours, only one vehicle, a taxicab, has arrived here at the Calder Bel-Air home, and the driver refused to talk to the media. There was one man in the taxi, and he, apparendy, remained at the house. Centurion Studios has issued a press release expressing the sorrow of everyone there at the news of Calder's death and asking that the media leave Arrington Calder alone and allow her to rebuild her shattered life. The Calders' only child, Peter, may still be at the Bel-Air house, cared for by the servants, but he has not been spotted here. All we have seen here is security, and plenty of it. A private service has the house and grounds completely sealed off, and no one, except the taxi, has arrived or departed today. We'll keep you posted as details come in."
Stone switched off the TV set, pleased with the news. He could hardly have written it better, himself, but he knew the lid could not be kept on for much longer. He picked up the phone and called Rick Grant's home number.
"Hi, Stone, how's it going?"
"As well as can be expected," Stone said. "Let me give you a number where you, and only you, can reach me." He dictated the number. "You can also reach me at Vance Calder's offices at Centurion, as of tomorrow. I'm going to work out of there."
"Anything new?"
"Not much. Arrington is still under a doctor's care."
"How much longer?"
"You can tell your people that I'll make her available at the earliest possible moment."
"Tell them yourself," he said. "That would be better. The lead detectives on the investigation are Sam Durkee and Ted Bryant, out of Brentwood." He gave Stone the number.
"I'll call them tomorrow morning."
"These are decent guys, Stone, and Durkee, in particular, is a very good detective, but unless they start getting cooperation from Arrington, they're going to begin leaking stuff to the media, and that would not be good for her."
"We're not hiding anything; Arrington really hasn't been up to questioning, but she's getting better."
"I'm glad to hear it. Anything else I can do for you?"
"Not a thing, Rick; I'll call Durkee tomorrow."
"Good night, then; Barbara sends her best."
"My best to her, too." Stone hung up and felt a hunger pang. He walked back out to the guest house, where he found Manolo setting a small table and the maid hanging his clothes in the closet, having pressed them.
He sat down to his steak and half a bottle of good Cabernet and tried to forget both Arrington and Dolce as he watched a movie on television. He was unable to forget either of them.
Chapter 12
It was a perfect southern California morning, cool and sunny. Stone swam a few laps in the pool, then put on a guest's terry robe and breakfasted by the pool, looking over the Los Angeles Times and The New York Times, which had arrived with his breakfast. The Vance Calder story had been relegated to the inside pages of the New York newspaper, and was struggling to cling to the front page of the LA journal, but it wasn't going to go away, he knew. The moment a fragment of new information surfaced, there would be headlines again.
He showered, shaved, and dressed and walked into the house, carrying his briefcase. He retrieved the documents from the secret compartment of Vance's desk and put them into his briefcase, then he rang for Manolo. "I'd like to use one of the Calders' cars," he told the butler.
"Of course, Mr. Barrington, right this way." He led Stone to a door that opened into the garage, which had enough room for six cars, but held only four: a Bentley Arnage; two Mercedes SL600s, one black and one white; and a Mercedes station wagon. "The nanny and I use the station wagon for household errands, unless you'd like it," Manolo said.
The Bentley was too much, Stone thought. "No, I'll take one of the other Mercedes-the black one, I suppose. That was Mr. Calder's wasn't it?"
"Yes, sir. The white one is Mrs. Calder's. You'll find the keys in the car."
Stone had used the black convertible once before, when in L.A., and he recalled that it did not have vanity plates, so it would n
ot be immediately recognized by the media. In fact, he reckoned, a black Mercedes convertible would, in Beverly Hills and Bel-Air, be a practically anonymous car. He backed out of the garage, drove around the house and, using his remote, let himself out of the utility gate and onto the street beyond. He checked to be sure that he was not followed, then drove to Centurion Studios.
The guard was momentarily confused to see Vance Calder's car arrive with a different driver, but when Stone gave his name, he was immediately issued with a studio pass.
"The one on the windshield will get this car in," the guard said. "Use the other pass, if you drive a different car."
"Can you direct me to Mr. Calder's bungalow, please?" The guard gave him directions, and five minutes later, he had parked in Vance's reserved parking spot. The bungalow was just that; it looked like one of the older, smaller Beverly Hills houses below Wilshire. Stone walked through the front door into a living room.
A panel in the wall slid open, and Betty Southard stuck her head through the opening. "I knew you'd turn up," she said. She left her office, walked into the living room and gave him a big hug and a kiss. "I'm glad to see you again," she said.
"I'm glad to see you, too; I'm going to need a lot of your help."
"Lou Regenstein called and said you'd be using Vance's office. She waved him into a panelled study, much the same as the one at the house, but larger, with a conference table at one end. "Make yourself at home," she said. "The phones are straightforward; you can make your own calls, or I'll place them for you, depending on whether you want to impress somebody."
"Thank you, Betty," Stone said, placing his briefcase on the desk. "I have some personal news for you; have you seen Vance's will?"
"Not the new one; he made that recently, and he hadn't brought a copy to the office."
"You're a beneficiary," Stone said. "He left you a million dollars."
Betty's jaw dropped, and a hand went to her mouth. "I think I'd better sit down," she said, and she did, taking a chair by the desk. Stone sat down behind it. "You didn't know?"
"I hadn't a clue," she said. "I mean, I suppose I would have expected something after fifteen years with him-I joined him at twelve, you know," she said archly.
Stone laughed. "Now you're a rich woman; what are you going to do?"
Betty sighed. "I haven't the foggiest idea," she said. "Lou has told me I could have my pick of jobs at the studio, but I don't know, I might just retire. I've saved some money, and I've done well in the bull market, and there's a studio pension, too; Vance got me fully vested in that last year, as a Christmas present."
"Then you can be a woman of leisure."
"A lady who lunches? I'm not sure I could handle that. Certainly, I'll stay on long enough to help you settle Vance's affairs-and Arrington's, too," she said darkly. "I'm sure she'll have a lot to settle."
"And what does that mean?" Stone asked.
"Oh, I don't know. I guess you know that Arrington and I have never gotten along too well-yes, you can call it jealousy, if you like, but there were other reasons."
"Tell me about them."
"Stone, tell me straight: Did Arrington shoot Vance?"
"I haven't the slightest reason to think so," Stone replied. "And I don't know why it even occurred to you to ask the question."
"As I understand it, the police have not cleared her."
"They haven't even talked to her, but I expect them to clear her when they do. She's at the Judson Clinic."
"Is she ill?"
"Not exactly, but she's been better. When she saw Vance on the floor of their home with a bullet in his head she pretty much went to pieces."
"Yes, she would, wouldn't she?" Betty said with a hint of sarcasm.
Stone ignored that. "I hope she can get the police interview out of the way soon, maybe even today. It will depend on what her doctor says."
"Look, I certainly don't have any evidence, but-call it woman's intuition, if you like-I think Arrington is perfectly capable of having killed Vance, then pretending to break down, just to keep from having to talk to the police."
"Tell me why you think that."
"Just for starters, I think Vance was miserable in the marriage. Oh, he never said so, in so many words, but I knew him as well as anybody, and I think that, in spite of his constant good humor, he was unhappy."
"Give me some example of his unhappiness."
"I can't. It was just the odd comment, the raised eyebrow when Arrington was mentioned. He did love Peter, though; I've never seen a man love a child so much."
"Anything more specific?"
"No, certainly nothing I could testify to under oath."
Stone relaxed a little inside; he hadn't realized he had become so tense. "Well, I hope you'll keep your feelings to yourself. If you think of anything specific you can tell me, I want to hear about it, though."
"Of course."
Stone glanced at his watch. "Let's get started. Will you get me Dr. James Judson at the Judson Clinic?"
Betty placed the call from the conference table phone, then left the room and closed the door.
"Good morning, Jim, it's Stone Barrington."
"Good morning, Stone."
"How's your patient this morning?"
"She's very well, I think. I believe she's about ready to go home."
"Not just yet," Stone said. "She's going to have to talk to the police, and I'd like her to do it from a hospital bed."
"I understand. When do you want them to see her?"
"Today, if you think it's all right."
"I think it should be. She's mentioned that she expects them to come, so we may as well get it over with. I'd like to be with her when they question her, though."
"Of course, and I will be, too. How about early afternoon?"
"All right; I'll prepare her."
"I'll do some preparation, too, before they arrive. I'll let you know the exact time, after I've talked to them."
"I'll wait to hear from you, before I tell Arrington."
"I'm working from Mr. Calders office at the studio, should you need to reach me." Stone gave him the number, then hung up. He found the intercom and buzzed Betty.
"Yes, Stone?"
"Now get me Detective Sam Durkee at the Brentwood LAPD station.
After a short wait, Betty buzzed him, and he picked up the phone. "Detective Durkee?"
"That's right."
"My name is Stone Barrington; I'm handling the affairs of Mrs. Vance Calder."
"I know your name from Rick Grant," Durkee said. "Rick says you're an ex-homicide detective."
"That's right; NYPD."
"Then you'll understand what we have to do."
"Of course. I've just spoken to Mrs. Calder's doctor, and he says you can interview her this afternoon. How about two o'clock at the Judson Clinic?"
"That's good for me; I'll bring my partner, Ted Bryant."
"You have to understand her condition," Stone said. "She's been very badly shaken up, and there are some big gaps in her memory."
"Oh? How big?"
"When I spoke with her yesterday, the last thing she could remember was a conversation with her gardener eight days before the homicide. I've confirmed the date with her butler."
"So, basically, when we question her, she's going to say she remembers nothing?"
"Her doctor says she may recover some of her memories, but I can't promise you anything. For a while, she didn't remember being married to Calder, but she's gotten past that, so she may remember even more.
I can tell you that she has no hesitation about talking to you; she wants her husbands murderer caught and prosecuted."
"Well, we'll certainly try to make that wish come true," Durkee said.
"There have to be some ground rules: Both her doctor and I will be present at the interview, and if either of us, for any reason, feels she shouldn't continue, we'll stop it."
"Understood," Durkee said dryly. "See you at two o'clock."
Stone
hung up and began to think about this interview. It was crucial, he knew, for Arrington to convince them she was innocent. If she couldn't do that, her life was going to change even more dramatically than it already had.
Chapter 13
STONE COULD HAVE SPOTTED the two men as detectives in any city in the United States. They were both middle-aged, dressed in middling suits that revealed bulges under the left arm to anyone looking for them. Sam Durkee was at least six-four and beefy in build; Stone made him as an ex-athlete. Ted Bryant was shorter, bald and pudgy. He didn't expect either of them to be stupid, and his plan was to be as cooperative as humanly possible, without handing them his client on a platter.
He shook their hands, then led them upstairs to Arrington's room. She was sitting up in bed wearing cotton pajamas; Dr. Judson was at her bedside. Stone made the introductions, and everybody pulled up a chair.
Durkee took the lead. "Mrs. Calder," he said, "first, I want to offer the department's condolences on your loss."
"Thank you," Arrington said, managing a wan smile.
"I hope you understand that there are questions we must ask, if we're to apprehend your husbands killer; I know this won't be pleasant, but we'll keep it as short as we can, and we'd like the fullest answers you can give us."
"I'll do my best," Arrington replied.
"What do you recall about the evening your husband was shot?"
"Absolutely nothing, I'm afraid. I remember going to the hairdresser's the day before, the Friday, but I don't remember driving home, or anything after that, until I woke up here."
A Friday memory was progress, Stone thought.
"Are you beginning to pick up pieces of your memory?" Bryant asked.
"It seems so," she said. "Every day, I remember a little more."
"Are you aware that your husband owned a gun?"
"He told me so, but I never saw it."
"Was he the sort of man who would have used a gun to defend his home?"
"He certainly was; I'm sure that's why he owned it."
"Do you know where he kept the gun?"