by Stuart Woods
“Have you forgotten that we were married last Saturday, in Venice, by the mayor of the city?”
“You know as well as I do, that ceremony is not valid without a religious ceremony to follow.”
“We took vows.”
“I said ‘sì’ when prompted; I have no idea what the mayor said to me.”
Dolce recited something in Italian. “ ’Til death us do part,” she translated.
“Well, that’s what happened with your previous husband, isn’t it?” he shot back, then immediately regretted having said it.
“And it could happen again!” Dolce spat.
“Is that what we’ve come to? You’re threatening me?”
Dolce stood up and came toward him. “Stone, let’s not do this to each other; come to bed.”
Stone stood up and backed away from her. The robe had come undone, and he fought the urge to touch her. “No, no. I have to leave, Dolce, and you should leave, too, and go back to New York or Sicily or wherever.”
“Papa is going to be very disappointed,” she said in a low voice.
That really did sound like a threat, Stone thought. “I’ll call him tomorrow and explain things.”
“Explain what? That you’re abandoning me? Leaving me at the altar? He’ll just love hearing that. You don’t know Papa as well as you think you do. He has a terrible temper, especially when someone he loves has been wronged.”
Stone was backing toward the door. “I haven’t wronged you, Dolce; I’ve just explained how I feel. I’m doing you a favor by withdrawing from this situation now, instead of later, when it would hurt us both a lot more.” He was reaching for the doorknob behind him.
“You’re my husband, Stone,” Dolce was saying, “and you always will be, for as long as you live,” she added threateningly.
“Good-bye, Dolce,” Stone said. He got the door open and hurried out, closing it carefully behind him.
He had gone only a few steps when he heard a large object crash against the door and shatter. On the way through the lobby, he stopped at the front desk. “I’m Stone Barrington,” he said to the young woman.
“Yes, Mr. Barrington,” she said. “Are you checking in again?”
“No, and please be advised that the woman in suite 336 is Miss Dolce Bianchi, not Mrs. Stone Barrington. Will you let the telephone operator know that, please?”
“Of course,” the young woman said, looking nonplussed. “Whatever you say, Mr. Barrington.”
Stone got the station wagon from the attendant and headed back toward Malibu. Before he had even reached Sunset, the car phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Stone,” Arrington said, “I’m on my way back to Bel-Air.”
“Why and how?” Stone asked.
“I caught sight of a photographer on the beach with a great big lens, and I guess it just creeped me out. Manolo came and got me; he had to smuggle me past the gate in the trunk.”
“All right, I’ll meet you at the house. Tell Manolo to use the utility entrance.” He said good-bye and hung up. How long, he wondered, had that photographer been on the beach?
Twenty
STONE GOT TO THE HOUSE FIRST. HE PARKED THE CAR, went into the house and out to the guesthouse, where he started packing his clothes. He had his bags in Vance’s Mercedes by the time Arrington arrived.
She came in through the front door, took a few steps, and froze, staring down the central hallway. “That’s where he was, isn’t it?” she asked Stone, nodding toward the spot.
“You remember?” Stone asked.
She nodded again.
He turned to the butler. “Manolo, will you fix us some dinner, please? Anything will do.”
“Of course, Mr. Barrington,” the butler said, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Stone took Arrington’s hand and walked her to the bedroom. He sat her on the bed and sat down beside her. “What else do you remember?” he asked. “This is important.”
Arrington wrinkled her brow. “Just Vance lying there, bleeding.”
“Do you remember anything immediately before that?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you remember hearing the shot?”
She shook her head. “No. Just Vance lying there.”
“Do you remember the police and the paramedics arriving?”
“No. Nothing until I woke up in the clinic.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “When is this going to be over, Stone?”
“Not for a while,” Stone replied. “We’ve still got the funeral on Friday, and on Saturday, we have to take you to the district attorney’s office.”
“Will they put me in jail?”
“I hope not; Marc Blumberg’s working on that.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. She put her hand on his cheek and drew him closer, kissing him.
Stone pulled back. “Listen to me carefully,” he said. “You and I cannot be seen by anybody being . . . affectionate with each other.”
“Only Manolo and Maria are here.”
“And they’d both be shocked, if they walked in here and found us kissing. If they were called to testify in court, they’d have to tell the truth. Your husband has been dead for less than a week; you have to be seen to be the grieving widow for some time to come; I cannot tell you how important that is to your future.”
She nodded. “I understand.” She took his hand. “But it’s important for you to know that I still love you. I never stopped.”
Stone squeezed her hand but could not bring himself to respond. “Go freshen up for dinner,” he said.
They dined in the smaller of the two dining rooms, on pasta and a bottle of California Chardonnay. They chatted about old times in New York, but as dinner wore on, Arrington seemed increasingly tired.
“I think you’re going to have to put me to bed,” she said finally.
Stone rang for Manolo. “We’ll get Isabel; she’ll put you to bed.”
Arrington nodded sleepily. “I wish you were coming to bed with me.”
“Shhh,” Stone said. He turned her over to Isabel, got the keys and the alarm code for the Colony house from Manolo, then drove back to Malibu. He chose the guest room nearest the kitchen, unpacked, soaked in a tub for a while, and fell asleep.
He was awakened by the telephone. Nine-thirty, he saw by the bedside clock. He had slept like a stone.
“Hello?”
“Stone?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Marc Blumberg.”
“Good morning, Marc.”
“No, it’s not.”
“What’s the problem?”
“The problem is, there is a very nice color photograph of you and Arrington in each other’s arms, on the cover of the National Inquisitor. She’s wearing a very tiny bikini.”
“Oh, God,” Stone groaned.
“Did the two of you spend the night together?”
“No, we didn’t. I had to go into L.A., and while I was gone, Arrington spotted the photographer on the beach. Her butler came and drove her to the Bel-Air house. I met them there, we had dinner, then I moved out of the guesthouse and out here.”
“Did the media outside the gates figure out that Arrington left?”
“No, I don’t think so; she left in the trunk of the car.”
“Did any media see you return to the house last night?”
“There was a TV truck there, but they paid little attention to me.”
“So they think she’s still there, and that you spent the night together.”
“I suppose they could draw that conclusion.”
“All right, I’m going to have to hold a press conference and try to contain this.”
“I suppose that’s the right thing to do.”
“The upside is, you were fully clothed and were seen to leave after kissing her, while she remained on the deck. The photograph is a little ambiguous, too; I can claim that you were simply consoling her. The Inquisitor hasn’t figured out who you are, ye
t; I’ll describe you as a family friend who drove her home from the clinic.”
“All right.”
“They’re going to put all this together sooner or later, probably sooner, so be prepared for some attention. Tell me, does Vance’s bungalow at Centurion have a bedroom?”
“Yes, it does.”
“I want you to move out of the Malibu house and into the bungalow this morning.”
“All right. I’m very sorry about this, Marc. It was all very innocent.”
“Don’t worry about it; damage control is part of what I do. I’d just like there to be as little damage as possible to have to control.”
“I understand.”
“Now, listen: I don’t want you to leave by the Colony gate.”
“I’m afraid that’s the only way out, Marc.”
“Here’s what you do. Pack your bags into the car and leave it in front of the house, with the key in the ignition. Then walk south along the beach about a mile, and you’ll come to a restaurant. Walk through the building and be in the parking lot at, say, eleven o’clock. One of my people will pick up the car at the house and drive it to the restaurant.”
“All right.”
“Now, for God’s sake, don’t wear a business suit for your walk down the beach. Blend in.”
“Will do.”
“What kind of car is it?”
“A black Mercedes SL600 convertible.”
“Be there at eleven. I’ll call you around noon at the studio.” Blumberg hung up.
Stone made himself some breakfast, then packed his bags, put them into the car, then showered and dressed in a guest bathing suit. He grabbed a towel and left the house by the front door. He walked down a couple of houses and cut through a yard and onto the beach.
It was a beautiful California morning, and Stone enjoyed the walk. He was passed by other people in bathing suits, joggers, and people walking their dogs. He got to the restaurant a little early, had a cup of coffee, then walked out into the parking lot. An attractive young woman was standing beside the Mercedes, waiting.
“Good morning, I’m Stone Barrington,” he said, offering his hand.
“Hi, I’m Liz Raymond, one of Marc’s associates,” she replied.
“Can I drop you anywhere?”
“I’ll be picked up here,” the woman said. “Nice swimsuit.”
“Thanks, it’s borrowed.”
“See you later,” she said, as a car pulled up. She got into it and was driven away.
Stone drove to Centurion, gave the guard at the gate a wave, and drove to the bungalow. He walked inside with his bags to be greeted by an astonished Betty Southard.
“Well, now,” she said, “you’ve just topped Vance. He never walked in here in a bathing suit.”
“It’s a long story,” Stone said.
“I’ll bet, and I’ve got all day,” she replied.
Twenty-one
STONE EXPLAINED HIS APPEARANCE. THEN HE POINTED at three large canvas bags on the floor near Betty’s office door. “What are those?” he asked.
“Arrington’s mail,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“After Vance’s death, his fans kept writing. I’ve got two girls in the back room sorting it now. Those are the bags we haven’t gotten to yet.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Well, believe this: Right now, opinion is running about sixty-forty in favor of Arrington being a murderess.”
“ ‘Murderess.’ That has a quaint Victorian ring to it.”
“I guess I’m just a quaint, Victorian girl,” she replied.
Stone picked up his bags. “Where’s the bedroom?” he asked. “Marc Blumberg wants me to move in here.”
“Somewhere the Inquisitor can’t find you?”
“I was just hugging her,” he lied.
“Come on, I’ll show you.” She led the way down a hall and into a comfortably furnished bedroom with an adjacent bath and dressing room. “Want me to unpack for you?” she asked.
“Thanks, I can manage,” he replied, laughing. “Go back to your mail; I want to get dressed.” Betty left the room, and Stone got out of the swimsuit and into some clothes.
Betty appeared in the doorway. “Marc Blumberg’s holding a press conference on TV.” She switched on a set at the foot of the bed, and the two of them sat down to watch it as, on television, a secretary opened a set of double doors and the press poured into Blumberg’s office, where he awaited them, seated behind an impressive desk.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Blumberg said, remaining seated. “I have a brief statement for you regarding the investigation into the death of Vance Calder. Can we hold the flash cameras until I’ve finished, please?”
When everything had quieted down, Blumberg began. “I have been retained by Vance Calder’s widow, Arrington, to represent her during the investigation of her husband’s death, not because she has anything to fear from the investigation, but because she wants to be sure that the Los Angeles Police Department is leaving no stone unturned in the pursuit of her husband’s murderer.”
“What about the photograph in today’s Inquisitor?” somebody asked.
“I’ll get to that in a minute,” Blumberg replied. “Now, if I may continue?” He stared the room into silence. “Good. This is what we know so far: Last Saturday night, Mr. and Mrs. Calder were getting ready to go to a dinner party at the home of Lou Regenstein, chairman of Centurion Studios. Mr. Calder was dressing, and Mrs. Calder was in the bathtub. A servant heard a loud noise, and when he investigated, found Mr. Calder lying in the central hallway of the house, near death, having received a gunshot wound to the head. The servant summoned the police and an ambulance, then sent a maid to let Mrs. Calder know what had happened.
“When Mrs. Calder saw her husband, she collapsed and had to be treated for shock by the paramedics when they arrived. Her personal physician was summoned; he sedated her and arranged for her to be moved immediately to a private clinic, where she remained until yesterday. She asked for a family friend, a New York attorney, Mr. Stone Barrington, to come to Los Angeles to handle her affairs, and Mr. Barrington was summoned from Italy, where he was on vacation.
“When Mr. Barrington arrived, he spoke with Mrs. Calder’s physician about her condition and learned that she was unable to remember anything that had happened between midafternoon last Friday and the time when she awoke in the clinic on Sunday morning. The moment Mrs. Calder was up to it, Mr. Barrington invited the police to interview her at the clinic, and yesterday, he picked her up there and took her to her Malibu home, where he hoped she might have some privacy to continue her recovery.
“Sadly, a tabloid photographer violated her privacy and photographed her with Mr. Barrington as she took the sun on a rear deck of the house. Mr. Barrington then left the house, giving her a hug before leaving, and that, ladies and gentlemen, was the photograph that was so outrageously misrepresented in the tabloid’s pages.
“I am sorry to tell you that, as of this moment, the LAPD is treating Mrs. Calder as a suspect, and that later in the week, she will be interviewed by the district attorney’s office. In anticipation of that meeting I arranged yesterday for her to receive a thorough polygraph examination from Mr. Harold Beame, formerly with the FBI, who is a renowned examiner. I am pleased to tell you that Mr. Beame has reported that, in his expert opinion, Mrs. Calder answered truthfully every question put to her. I can tell you that they were very tough questions; I know, because I wrote them myself.”
This got a laugh from the group.
“However, when we meet with the district attorney, I intend to volunteer Mrs. Calder for another polygraph, administered by a qualified examiner of his choosing. Further, at that meeting, Mrs. Calder will answer every question put to her by members of the district attorney’s office.
“Finally, Mrs. Calder has authorized me to offer a reward of $100,000 for any information leading to the arrest and conviction of her husband�
�s killer.” He held up a placard with a telephone number on it. “We ask that anyone with such information call both the police and this number. We wouldn’t want anything to get lost in the shuffle at the LAPD.”
Another laugh.
“That’s all I have to tell you, at the moment, and I won’t be answering any questions today. However, you may rest assured that I will be in contact with the media when there is anything of significance to report.”
With that, Blumberg got up and marched out of his office, ignoring the questions shouted by the crowd.
Betty switched off the set. “Well, I guess that puts the ball in the D.A.’s court, doesn’t it?”
“I believe it does,” Stone agreed. “That was a very impressive performance.”
“Did you approve the reward?”
“No, but I would have, if asked. I think it’s a good idea. It might turn up something and, at the very least, it will keep the police busy with leads from people who want the money.”
A phone on the bedside table rang, and Betty answered it. “It’s Marc Blumberg,” she said, handing Stone the phone.
“Hi, Marc; I saw your press conference. Very good, and you have my approval on the reward money.”
“I thought I would have,” Blumberg answered. “I want to meet with Arrington this afternoon; where shall we do it?”
“How about three o’clock at her house? You know where it is?”
“Yes, and that’s fine.”
“There’s a utility entrance at the rear of the property. . . .”
“No,” Blumberg interrupted, “I’ll go in the front way; let the press see me.”
“Whatever you think best.”
“Just keep that phrase in mind, and we’ll get along great, Stone. See you at three.” He hung up.
The phone rang again immediately, and Betty answered it. “It’s Arrington,” she said, handing Stone the phone again.
“Hi.”
“I just saw Marc Blumberg on TV; was that your idea?”
“No, it was his, but I wholeheartedly approve.”
“I haven’t seen this rag, but I take it the photographer I saw was responsible.”