Dead in the Water

by Stuart Woods

  “No, I removed the belt first.”

  “So, you did roll him overboard!”

  “Yes, I did; some hours after his death.”

  “Did you search his pockets, Mrs. Manning, for money or spare change? Was there anything you wouldn’t take from him?”

  She locked her eyes onto Stone’s, and when she spoke she was begging him to believe her. “Please, I never, ever harmed Paul. He was dead when I buried his body at sea.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Stone went and took her in his arms. “All right,” he said. “That’s my girl; that’s my star witness; that’s my innocent victim of perverted justice.”

  She looked up at him and laughed. “Gotcha, didn’t I?”

  Stone buried his face in his hands.

  Chapter

  46

  Stone strode across the lawn toward the Shipwright’s Arms, thinking hard about Arrington. He thought of writing to her, maybe even calling her; then he remembered that she was at Vance Calder’s Palm Springs house. He didn’t have any of Calder’s addresses or numbers, so there was no way to get in touch with her until she got in touch with him.

  He was almost to the bar when he stopped in his tracks. A man in a seersucker suit was sitting at the bar, drinking something and talking to Thomas. He was big, over six feet, and better than two hundred fifty pounds; that was obvious even when he was seated. Stone had seen only one photograph of Paul Manning, but the man seemed to look very like him, except for the absence of a beard, and he had no idea what Manning would look like without the beard. Stone suddenly had the strange feeling that the whole business was some sort of dreadful error, that Paul Manning had simply fallen overboard near the Canaries and had swum ashore, and now he had shown up in St. Marks to save Allison’s life. He approached the bar with some trepidation and sat down. “Thomas, could I have a beer?”

  Thomas set a Heineken on the bar, and the big man turned and looked at him. “You must be Stone Barrington,” he said.

  “That’s right,” Stone replied.

  The man stuck out a hand. “I’m Frank Stendahl.”

  Stone shook the hand. “How do you do?”

  “Very well, thanks. Been seeing a lot about you on television the past week.”

  “I expect so. Where have you come from, Mr. Stendahl?”

  “I’m a New Englander,” he said. “The Boston area.”

  “And what brings you to St. Marks?”

  “Vacation,” the man said. “I seem to be about the only tourist around here.”

  “Well, first there was the blizzard in the Northeast, then we were pretty choked up with press, and then, I guess, the bad press made St. Marks an unpopular destination.”

  “Funny, the publicity somehow made it more attractive to me. I understand you’ve got a trial starting soon.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I wonder if I could attend? Could you arrange it for me?”

  “I’m afraid not; I’m out of my own bailiwick here, you see.”

  Thomas chimed in. “It’s open to the public,” he said. “I expect if you were there an hour before the trial you’d get a seat.”

  “Thanks, Thomas,” Stendahl said. “Well, Stone—if I may call you that—what’s your trial strategy going to be?”

  “I don’t think I can discuss that,” Stone replied, sipping his beer.

  “Of course not; that was silly of me. The lady seems to be innocent, though; you going to get her off?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Well, how will…”

  Stone cut him off. “I said, I can’t discuss it.”

  Stendahl held his hands up before him. “Hey, my fault; didn’t mean to dig.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Well, now that I’ve cooled off, I think I’ll get up to my room and change into something more tropical,” Stendahl said. The man got down off his stool and lumbered toward the stairs.

  “What’s his story?” Stone asked Thomas.

  Thomas shrugged. “He used a credit card with the right name on it, but…”

  “But what?”

  “There was a moment when I thought he might be a cop,” Thomas said, “but after I talked with him a while, I didn’t think so anymore.”

  “What did he want to talk about?”

  “Allison, the trial, the press, anything he could find out. He was really pumping me.”

  “And you still don’t think he could be a cop.”

  “A cop would have done it differently,” Thomas said. “More subtly. This guy just charged straight ahead.”

  “You think he’s just an interested tourist?”

  “He doesn’t feel like a tourist, either.”

  “What does he feel like?”

  “I think he’s got an agenda, but I’m damned if I know what it is. Besides, what would an American cop be doing down here?”

  “I don’t think I ever saw a cop wear a seersucker suit,” Stone said.

  “Me neither.”

  “What sort of luggage did he have?”

  “Hartmann leather, a suitcase and a briefcase, matching.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a cop, either; too expensive. That’s a businessman’s luggage.”

  “I would have thought so.”

  Stone shrugged. “Well, I guess businessmen take vacations.”

  “Usually with their wives; he’s alone.”

  “Bachelor? Divorced?”

  “I guess he could be.”

  Frank Stendahl reappeared, wearing casual clothes, exposing pasty white arms. “Think I’ll walk down to the marina and have a look at the boats,” he said to no one in particular.

  Stone and Thomas watched him as he strolled across the lawn and came to a stop at the marina gate, confronted by the two police officers on guard there. He chatted with them for a minute or so, then turned and walked back toward the inn. Halfway, he changed his mind and walked back toward the water at an angle chosen to take him to the harbor’s edge beyond the marina. A moment later, he disappeared around a point of land.

  “Where will that walk take him?” Stone asked.

  “To the mouth of the harbor, eventually,” Thomas replied.

  “I’ve got some work to do upstairs,” Stone said. “If he comes back, see what you can find out about him, will you?”

  “Sure, glad to. You think he’s up to no good, Stone?”

  “Right now, all I think is that he’s a tourist, like he says; maybe the sort of guy who turned up at the O. J. Simpson trial. I can’t think of any other reason for him to be here, can you?”

  Thomas shrugged.

  “See you later.” Stone hopped off his barstool and headed upstairs. After what he’d been through with the press, Stendahl didn’t seem to be much of a threat.

  Chapter

  47

  An hour later, Stone came back downstairs. Stendahl was back at the bar, sucking on a piña colada, and across the room, Hilary Kramer of the Times and Jim Forrester of The New Yorker were sharing a table. He walked over to them. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” Hilary replied. “Sit down.”

  “Jim,” Stone said, “did you by any chance get a good look at the man at the bar?”

  Forrester looked that way. “The big guy? Nope.”

  “I wonder if you’d do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Go over there and strike up a conversation with the guy, then come back and tell me what you think. Shouldn’t be too difficult; he seems to be pretty outgoing.”

  Forrester shrugged. “Okay.” He walked over to the bar, ordered a drink, and in a moment was engaged in conversation with Stendahl.

  “What’s that all about?” Kramer asked.

  “I just want to know who the guy is,” Stone replied. “He seems to have come down here just to attend the trial.”

  “A camp follower?”

  “Maybe, but whose camp?”

  “Well, Jim will worm it out of him; h
e’s endlessly curious, a typical reporter—asks hundreds of questions, answers few.”

  “I haven’t found him to be particularly closemouthed,” Stone said. “He doesn’t talk much to you, huh?”

  “Maybe he’s gay,” Kramer said.

  “Doesn’t seem so, but I guess you never know for sure. Have your charms been wasted on him?”

  She smiled. “Let’s just say that I’ve told him a lot more than he’s told me. I envy him one thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s got the best memory of any reporter I’ve ever met. Either that, or he’s just too sloppy to take notes.”

  “Well, he’s a magazine writer, been doing travel stuff,” Stone said. “He’s not the died-in-the-wool Front Page type, like you.”

  “Like me?” she asked, surprised.

  “You’re a regular Hildy Parks,” Stone said.

  She laughed again, then she looked at him sharply. “Stone, while I’m in my Hildy mode, did you really just stumble into the Allison Manning mess, or is there something more to it?”

  Stone raised his right hand. “Stumbled, honest.”

  “You were just down here all on your own?”

  “Wasn’t supposed to be that way.”

  “How was it supposed to be?”

  “Want me to cry in your beer?”

  “All you want; I’m a good listener.”

  “This isn’t for publication, not even for a mention.”

  “It’s nothing to do with the trial, then?”

  “Nothing; purely personal.”

  “Cry away.”

  “My girl was supposed to meet me at the airport; we were coming together. She missed the flight because of a meeting at The New Yorker—she’s a magazine writer, like Jim—and before she could get on the next day’s flight, the blizzard happened.”

  “That was bad luck.”

  “It gets worse. The subject of her piece was Vance Calder. She went to L.A. with him for more interviews.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “You said it.”

  “She’s not your girl anymore?”

  “Worse; she’s now Mrs. Vance Calder. They were married yesterday; I got a fax.”

  “Hoo! Well, at least you lost her to somebody spectacular.”

  Stone shrugged. “I wonder if that’s better than having her run off with a CPA?”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Arrington Carter.”

  “Jesus; I know her.” Kramer shook her head. “Well, a little, not much. She is very beautiful.”

  “Don’t rub it in.”

  She started. “Does anybody know about this?”

  “Just you and me.”

  She looked at her watch. “I wonder if I can still make tomorrow’s paper.”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Stone said.

  Kramer fell back into her chair. “Oh, shit, I promised, didn’t I?”

  “You promised. Anyway, it’s not your kind of story, is it?”

  “No, but it would have been nice for the Chronicle column, which is the nearest thing the Times has to gossip, and nobody would have believed that I could get the beat on the story.”

  “Leave the Calders in peace,” Stone said. “They’re holed up, hoping that somebody like you won’t find them until they’re ready to spring the news themselves.”

  “Well, that’s the last story I expected to get in St. Marks.” She looked up. “Here comes Jim.”

  “Don’t mention Arrington to him.”

  “Okay.”

  Forrester ambled up and sat down, tossing a business card onto the table. “Well, thanks a lot, Stone; you got me into a conversation with a life insurance salesman.”

  Stone looked at the card. “Frank R. Stendahl, Boston Mutual,” he read.

  “I barely got away with my shirt. You owe me a drink.”

  Stone waved at Thomas and pointed at Forrester, then made a drinking motion. “So, Jim, you think he’s for real?”

  “You want his whole story?”

  “You bet.”

  “He’s divorced, with two teenage kids; he lives in Lynn, Massachusetts—that’s near Boston—his wife got the house and nearly everything else, and he makes the million-dollar round-table every year. I believe that, too: I told him I was getting a divorce, hoping that would keep him off the subject of insurance, and he had ten reasons ready why a born-again bachelor would need another million in coverage!”

  “I owe you two drinks,” Stone said.

  “You owe me dinner,” Forrester replied.

  “Okay, okay; probably not tonight, but before we leave.”

  “I want to debrief you after the trial anyway; maybe we can do that over dinner.”

  Kramer spoke up. “Only if I can be there, too.”

  Forrester laughed. “It’s a good thing you and I aren’t direct competitors.”

  “Jim,” Stone said. “Does Stendahl remind you of anybody?”

  Forrester looked toward the bar. “Remind me of anybody?”

  “Maybe of Paul Manning, a little?”

  Forrester looked thoughtful. “Well, they’re about the same size and build, but apart from that they don’t really look alike.”

  “Even taking the absence of a beard into account?”

  Forrester shook his head. “Very different in manner and accent, and not at all the same face, even without the beard. What, did you think he might not be dead after all?”

  “It crossed my mind for a fleeting moment. My life would certainly be a lot simpler if Paul Manning walked in here and sat down at the bar.”

  “Well, put your mind at rest, pal; I mean, maybe Manning’s out there swimming around somewhere, but that ain’t him at the bar.”

  “And you’re the only one here who knew him,” Stone said, sighing.

  “Allison knew him; give her a look at Stendahl and see what she has to say.”

  Stone shook his head. “I wouldn’t put her through that.”

  Forrester looked sympathetic. “That would solve a lot of problems for you, wouldn’t it? I mean, if Stendahl were Manning.”

  “It certainly would,” Stone agreed.

  Kramer spoke up. “It would get Allison off, but Stendahl would sure be in a lot of trouble.”

  “Yes, he would,” Stone said. “Although I’m not sure what they might charge him with in St. Marks.”

  Forrester laughed. “It would be funny, wouldn’t it? Stendahl/Manning stands up in court and says, ‘I am the deceased; let my wife go!’ I can just see Sir Winston’s face.”

  They all had a good laugh.

  Chapter

  48

  It was their last night before the trial. “Want to go to dinner at the inn?” Stone asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to be on display. I would much rather cook dinner for you aboard.”

  “Why don’t I cook dinner for you instead?” he asked.

  “No, that would have too much of the condemned’s last meal about it.”

  “Come on, I don’t want you to worry about the trial.”

  “I am serene,” she said, and she certainly seemed that way. “I’d just rather do something normal, like cooking. In fact, I’ve already thawed a chateaubriand in anticipation.”

  “Sounds wonderful. Can I make a Caesar salad?

  “Oh, all right, but just the salad. There’s some romaine lettuce in the supplies Thomas sent down.”

  “And I need fresh eggs, olive oil, garlic, some Dijon mustard, and a can of anchovies.”

  “All in the galley. I’ll get the meat started and make some béarnaise sauce first. You can make me a martini.”

  “Pffft! You’re a martini!”

  She groaned.

  “One martini, coming up.” Stone mixed the drink, shook it, dropped an olive in, strained the crystal liquid into a large martini glass, and set it on the galley counter.

  She sipped it. “Mmmm. Just right.”

  Stone mixed himself a rum and tonic and watc
hed as she unwrapped the beef, the center of the tenderloin, pounded it to about an inch and a half of thickness with a meat mallet, dusted it liberally with salt and pepper, and laid it on the gas grill. Then she diced some shallots and sautéed them with some tarragon, vinegar, and white wine. While this mixture was reducing she separated half a dozen egg yolks, heated some butter, then put the yolks into the Cuisinart, turned it on, and poured hot butter into the chute. Moments later she had hollandaise, which, when mixed with the reduced shallots and tarragon, became béarnaise. She dipped a finger into the sauce and held it up for Stone to taste.

  “Wow!” Stone said. “You made that look easy.”

  “It is easy,” she replied, turning over the beef. “Now you can make your salad.

  Stone rinsed the romaine leaves and left them to drain. He crushed a couple of garlic cloves and some anchovies into the wooden salad bowl, then separated two egg yolks and dropped them into the bowl as well. Then he whipped the mixture with a whisk while adding olive oil until the consistency was perfect. He added a teaspoon of mustard and a little vinegar, some salt and pepper, and gave her a fingerful to taste.

  “Absolutely perfect,” she crowed, hoisting the meat onto a cutting board and slicing it deftly with a sharp knife.

  Stone put the lettuce into the bowl with the dressing and tossed it until each leaf was thinly coated, then set the bowl on the saloon table alongside the beef.

  Allison dug out a bottle of red wine. “You do the honors,” she said, holding it out with the corkscrew for him.

  “Opus One, ’89,” he said, reading the label. “I’m impressed.”

  “It’s the best bottle on the boat.”

  “And it will need decanting. You have a seat.” He poured the wine gently into a decanter, watching for the sediment to creep up the bottle’s neck, stopping when it did. Then he sat down and poured them both some.

  Allison raised her glass. “To the best last meal a girl ever had,” she said.

  Stone raised his glass. “To the last meal’s arriving about seventy years from now.”

  She laughed. “I’ll drink to that.”

  They ate hungrily, wolfing down the tender beef and taking the marvelous wine in large sips, then served themselves seconds of everything.