by Stuart Woods
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. Calder’s 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 husband’s 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.
Thirteen
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 shorte
r, 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 husband’s 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, 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?”
“No.”
Stone spoke up. “The butler told me that Mr. Calder kept a nine-millimeter pistol in the same safe where he kept his jewelry.”
“Thank you,” Durkee replied. “Mrs. Calder, how would you characterize your marriage?”
“As a very happy one,” Arrington replied.
“Did you and your husband ever quarrel?”
“Of course.” She smiled a little. “But our quarrels were almost always good-humored. You might call them mock quarrels. We argued about lots of things, but always with respect and affection.”
“You say your quarrels were ‘almost’ always good-humored. Did they ever become violent?”
“You mean, did Vance ever hit me? Certainly not.”
“Did you ever hit him?”
She looked down. “I can remember slapping him, once and only once. He’d said something that offended me.”
“What did he do when you slapped him?”
“He apologized, and it never happened again. My husband was a gentleman in every possible sense of the word.”
“When you argued, what did you argue about?”
“He would give me a hard time, sometimes, about how much shopping I did. Vance had a tailor, a shirt-maker, and a bootmaker; he ordered his clothes from swatches, so shopping was very simple for him. I think it both amused and horrified him to learn how women shop. He could never understand why I would buy things, then take them back the next day.”
“Any other subjects you argued about?”
“Sometimes we’d disagree on child rearing. Vance believed strongly in corporal punishment, and I didn’t. He’d been brought up that way by his parents, and in English schools, and he thought if it was good enough for him, it was good enough for his son.”
“Did he use corporal punishment often with your child?”
“Rarely, and then only a palm applied to the bottom.”
“And you disagreed with that?”
“Yes. I was never struck as a child, and I didn’t want Peter to be.”
“What else did you disagree about?”
She shrugged. “I can’t think of anything else specifically.”
“What about women?”
“There were one or two of my friends he didn’t like much, but he tolerated them for my sake.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Durkee said. “Are you aware that your husband had a reputation for sleeping with his leading ladies?”
Arrington smiled. “That was before we were married. My husband walked the straight and narrow.”
“And if you had learned that he didn’t, might that have provoked a quarrel?”
“It might have provoked a divorce,” Arrington replied. “When we married, I let him know in no uncertain terms what I expected of him in that regard.”
“And what did you expect?”
“Fidelity.”
“Were you always faithful to him?”
“Always,” she replied.
“Was there any man in your past for whom you still felt . . . affection?”
Stone was a little uncomfortable with this, but he kept a straight face and waited for her answer.
“I feel affection for a number of friends,” Arrington replied, “but I was as faithful to my husband as he was to me.”
Stone didn’t like this answer, and he saw the two detectives exchange a glance.
Arrington saw it, too. “What I mean is, I was faithful to him, and he was faithful to me.”
“Mrs. Calder, are you acquainted with a woman named Charlene Joiner?”
“Of course; she costarred with my husband in a film.”
“Were you and Ms. Joiner friends?”
“No; we met a few times, and our relationship was cordial, but I wouldn’t call us friends. The last time I saw her was when she and Vance cohosted a political fund-raiser at our house.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that your husband, while he was filming with Ms. Joiner, was spending considerable periods of time in her trailer?”
“No; I suppose they had lines to read together.”
Bryant spoke up. “Mrs. Calder, when did you become aware that your husband was having sex with Ms. Joiner?”
“I was not and am not aware of that,” she replied icily.
“Come on, Mrs. Calder,” Bryant said impatiently. “While they were filming together, your husband stopped having sex with you, didn’t he?”
They were good cop/bad copping her, and Stone hoped Arrington had the sense to realize it. He made no move to stop them.
“My husband and I had a very satisfactory sex life, and I can’t remember any period of our marriage when that wasn’t the case,” Arrington replied firmly.
“Do you not recall ever telling another woman that your husband had stopped making love to you?”
Arrington frowned. “Ah,” she said, “I think I know what you’re getting at. A friend of mine once complained to me that her husband had stopped sleeping with her, and I believe I tried to commiserate by telling her that all couples went through periods like that. I think you must have spoken with Beverly Walters.”
“Do you deny telling Mrs. Walters that your husband had stopped fucking you?” Bryant demanded.
Stone began to speak, but Arrington held up a hand and stopped him. “I think Mrs. Walters may have inferred a bit more than I meant to imply,” she said, and her color was rising.
“Mrs. Calder,” Durkee said, breaking in, “if you had learned that your husband was having sex once, sometimes twice a day with Ms. Joiner in her trailer, would that have made you angry?”
“Hypothetically? Yes, I suppose it would have hurt me badly.”
“When you are hurt by a man, do you respond angrily?”
“I have a temper, Detective Durkee, but on the occasions when it comes out, I have never harmed another human being.”
“When was the last time you fired a handgun?” Bryant asked suddenly.
“I have never fired a pistol,” she replied.
“But you know how, don’t you?”
“I have never, to the best of my recollection, even held a handgun.”
“Mrs. Calder,” Durkee asked, “where is your husband’s jewelry box?”
“I’d like very much to know, Detective; I had hoped that, by now, you might be able to tell me.”
“Where
did you hide the jewelry box and the pistol?”
“I didn’t hide either of them anywhere,” she replied.
“But you say you don’t remember anything about the shooting. How could you remember not hiding them?”
“To the very best of my recollection, I have not handled either my husband’s jewelry box or his gun.”
“Mrs. Calder, do you recall hearing or reading somewhere that perfume applied to the hands and arms removes any trace of having fired a weapon?”
“No, I don’t.”
“What kind of perfume do you use?”
“I use several, but my favorite is Chanel No. 5.”
“Did you use that the night your husband was shot?”
“I don’t remember the night my husband was shot.”
“Would you use perfume before taking a bath?”
Arrington looked at him as if he were mad. “No.”
“Then why would you reek of perfume on getting out of a bath?”
“I use bath oil, Detective, of the same scent as my perfume, but generally speaking, I never reek.”
Stone supressed a smile. He sensed that the two detectives were running out of questions, but he didn’t rush them.
“Mrs. Calder,” Durkee said, “I have to tell you that, after investigating your husband’s murder very thoroughly, we have concluded that the two of you were alone in the house when he was shot.”
“That hardly seems possible,” Arrington replied. “Otherwise, where are the jewelry box and the gun?”
“We believe you hid them after shooting your husband.”
“Where? Have you searched our house?”
“We haven’t found them—yet,” Bryant said.
“Let me know when you do,” Arrington said. “Otherwise, I’ll have to file an insurance claim.”
Durkee stood up. “I believe that’s all for now,” he said, turning to Stone. “I want to be notified when she leaves the hospital, and I want to know where she goes.”
“I’ll give you a call,” Stone said, walking both men toward the door.
When they were outside, Bryant turned to Stone. “She killed him,” he said.