by Stuart Woods
“I like a lawyer who comes prepared,” Blumberg said. “Now, at this meeting, I don’t want you to say anything at all.”
Stone shrugged. “All right.”
“It may get rough, and you may feel the need to come to Arrington’s rescue, but allow me to make the decision as to when that becomes necessary. If we can get through this questioning without either of us having to speak, then we’ll have won our point.”
“I understand. If they arrest her, though, she’s going to have to spend the weekend in jail. We’re not going to get a judge for a bail hearing on a Saturday.”
“Let me worry about that,” Blumberg said. “And if, for any reason, we can’t get bail, I’ll arrange for her to be segregated at the county jail.”
Arrington walked into the room, wearing a simple black suit and carrying a small suitcase. “Good morning, all,” she said, and held up the bag. “I’ve brought a few things, in case I have to stay.”
Stone was relieved that he had not had to suggest that to her.
“Let’s go, then,” Blumberg said. “I’ve hired a limo to take us all in comfort. We’ll go out the back way, and we’ll enter the courthouse through the basement parking lot.”
The three of them joined Blumberg’s associate, Liz Raymond, in the long black car and departed the property by way of the utility gate, unobserved. The ride to the courthouse was very quiet.
On reaching the courthouse, they drove into the underground garage and stopped at the elevators, where detectives Durkee and Bryant were waiting.
“Hello, Sam, Ted,” Blumberg said, shaking their hands. Stone ignored them.
The group rode upstairs in the elevator, walked down a hallway, and entered a large conference room, where the district attorney and two of his assistants, a man and a woman, awaited, along with a stenographer. Blumberg introduced the D.A., Dan Reeves, and the two A.D.A.s, Bill Marshall, who was black, and Helen Chu, who was Asian. No hands were shaken.
“Please be seated,” Reeves said, and they all sat down around the table.
“As I understand it,” Reeves said, “you are here to surrender Mrs. Calder.”
Blumberg held up a hand. “Before any charge is made, I request that you question my client. It’s my belief that, when you are done, you will see that an arrest is unnecessary.”
“All right; do you have any objection to a steno-graphic record being made?”
“None whatsoever. I’d also like to volunteer my client for a polygraph; you choose the examiner.”
“Yes, I saw your press conference,” Reeves said dryly. “Shall we begin?”
“By all means.”
Reeves dictated the names of those present and started to ask his first question, but Blumberg interrupted.
“I’d like the record to show that my client is here voluntarily and is willing to answer all questions.”
“So noted,” the D.A. said. “Mrs. Calder, you understand you are here because you are a suspect in the murder of your husband, Vance Calder?”
“I understand it, but I don’t understand it,” Arrington replied in a calm voice.
“Beg pardon?”
“I mean, I accept your characterization of my visit here, but I don’t understand why I’m a suspect.”
“That will become apparent as we proceed,” Reeves said. “Mrs. Calder, please recount the events as you recall them on the evening of your husband’s death.”
“I have only one memory of that evening,” Arrington said. “I remember being shown my husband’s body as it lay on the floor of the central hallway of our house. Apart from that single image, I have no recollection of anything between midafternoon the previous day and the following morning, when I woke up at the Judson Clinic.”
Blumberg spoke up. “For the record, Dr. James Judson, an eminent psychiatrist, is available to testify that Mrs. Calder is suffering from a kind of amnesia, brought on by the shock of her husband’s violent death.”
“So you have no recollection of shooting your husband?” Reeves asked.
“I would never have shot my husband,” Arrington replied, “but I have no recollection of the events of that evening.”
“So you don’t know if you shot him?”
“I know that I would never do such a thing.”
“But you don’t know.”
“Asked and answered,” Blumberg said. “Perfectly clear.”
“Mrs. Calder, is it possible that, while delusional, you might have shot your husband?”
“I have never been delusional,” Arrington replied. “My doctor has explained to me that my amnesia has nothing to do with delusion.”
“Have you ever threatened to kill your husband?”
“Certainly not.”
Reeves took a small tape recorder from a credenza behind him and placed it on the table. “This is an excerpt from an interview with a friend of yours, Mrs. Beverly Walters.”
“An acquaintance, not a friend,” Arrington replied.
Reeves pressed a button.
“I told Arrington,” Beverly Walters’s voice said, “that I had it on good authority that Vance, during the filming of his last picture, was sleeping with his costar, Charlene Joiner, on a regular basis. She pooh-poohed this. I asked her if she would divorce Vance, if she found out that it was true. She replied, and these are her exact words, ‘I wouldn’t divorce him. I’d shoot him.’ And this was two days before Vance was killed.”
Reeves stopped the machine. “Do you recall this conversation with Mrs. Walters?”
“Yes, I do,” Arrington replied.
“So you admit having said that you would not divorce your husband on learning of his adultery, but shoot him, instead?”
“I spoke those words in jest, and Mrs. Walters took them as such. We both had a good laugh about it.”
“But you don’t deny having said that you would shoot your husband?”
“Mr. Reeves, how many times have you said, in jest, that you would kill somebody, maybe even your wife? This is common parlance, and we all do it. I had no evidence of adultery on my husband’s part. I regarded him at that time, and still do, as a faithful husband.”
“But Mrs. Walters had just told you that she, quote, had it on good authority, unquote, that your husband was actually committing adultery with his costar, Ms. Joiner.”
“Mr. Reeves, I would never accept Beverly Walters’s word about such a thing. She is an inveterate and vicious gossip, who enjoys stirring up trouble, and that is why she is an acquaintance, and not a friend of mine. If her husband were not an occasional business associate of my husband, I would not see her at all.”
“But she said she had it on good authority.”
“‘Good authority,’ to Beverly Walters, is something she heard at the hairdresser’s or read in a scandal sheet. Did you ask her to substantiate this rumor she was spreading?”
Reeves didn’t reply.
“I assure you that if I were a murderous person, I would have been much more likely to shoot Beverly Walters than my husband.”
Stone had to suppress a smile.
“Mrs. Calder, did you and your husband ever fight?”
“Occasionally—perhaps rarely would be a better choice of words.”
“Physically fight?”
“No, never.”
“I will reserve the right to present evidence to the contrary at a later date,” Reeves said. “That concludes the questioning,” he said to the stenographer. “Thank you; you may leave us now.”
The stenographer took her machine and left the room.
Stone was surprised that Arrington’s questioning had been so brief, and that no further evidence against her had been offered.
“Mrs. Calder,” the district attorney said, “you are under arrest on a charge of second-degree murder. Please stand up.”
Arrington stood, and the two police detectives began to handcuff her.
Twenty-five
ON SUNDAY MORNING, STONE GOT UP AND WENT OUT for the papers. He’d have to arr
ange daily delivery, he thought. The studio, ordinarily a hive of activity, was dead on a Sunday. He drove through the empty streets, inquired of the guard at the gate where to get a paper, and for his trouble was rewarded with a New York Times and a Los Angeles Times.
“We get a few delivered for folks who are working over the weekend,” the guard said.
Stone returned to the bungalow, and as he entered, the phone was ringing. He picked it up.
“Stone Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“This is Charlene Joiner.”
“Good morning.”
“As I mentioned at the funeral, I’d like to get together with you; I have some information you might find interesting.”
“All right,” Stone said.
“Why don’t you come to lunch? There’ll be some other people here, but we can find a moment to talk.”
“Thank you, I will,” Stone replied.
“Do you know the Malibu Colony?”
“Yes, I’ve been to the Calder house there.”
“I’m six doors down,” she said. She gave him the house number. “One o’clock, and California casual.”
“See you then.” He hung up, wondering what information she might have for him and what “California casual” meant.
Betty had left Danish pastries in the fridge for him; he made himself some coffee and spent the morning reading the papers. The L.A. paper had a front-page story about Arrington’s arrest, while the New York paper had a blurb on the front page and an inside story—this seemed to be the standard coverage. Marc Blumberg had issued a press release, detailing Arrington’s willingness to answer all questions. “I don’t expect this to go to trial,” he said, “if the LAPD does its job, but should it do so, Mrs. Calder will testify without fear of any question.”
Stone thought that was immoderate; things might change before the trial, and they might not want her to testify. Still, it sounded good now, and helped create the impression that Arrington had nothing to fear from a trial. He was troubled by the D.A.’s reluctance to disclose the evidence against her. Normally, they would use the press to reinforce the idea that they had a strong case.
He passed through the Malibu Colony gate a little after one, then drove to Charlene Joiner’s house. A uniformed maid opened the door for him and took him out to a rear terrace. Charlene and another woman were sitting beside the pool, talking, both wearing swimsuits. Charlene stood up, wrapped a colorful sarong skirt around her lower body, and came to greet him, hand out.
“Hello, Stone,” she said, taking his hand and leading him toward the other woman. “This is Ilsa Berends,” she said.
Stone recognized the actress from her films. She was in her early forties, he thought, but in wonderful shape. “How do you do, Miss Berends,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed your work in films.” He turned to Charlene. “Yours, too. In fact I saw one on the airplane from Milan.”
“You were in Milan recently?” Berends asked.
“Venice, really; I flew out of Milan.”
“Vacation?” Charlene asked.
“Sort of,” Stone replied. He turned to see another woman arriving, and she was another recognizable actress, though he could not remember her name. Five minutes later, two more arrived.
Charlene introduced everyone. “I’m afraid you’re going to be in the middle of a hen party,” she said. “You’re our only man.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Stone replied. A houseman brought everyone mimosas, and half an hour later, they sat down to lunch.
The conversation was about L.A. matters—films, gossip, and shopping.
“I understand you’re a friend of Arrington Calder,” Ilsa Berends said to Stone.
It was the first question addressed to him by anyone. “That’s right,” Stone said.
“I also hear you used to live together,” the actress said. This got everyone’s attention.
“I think I’ll stand on attorney-client privilege,” Stone replied.
Everyone laughed.
“Were you there when Arrington was arrested?” another woman asked.
“I was at the meeting at the D.A.’s office, where Arrington had voluntarily appeared and answered questions.”
“I think she did it,” the youngest woman, who could only have been in her early twenties, said.
“Certainly not,” Stone replied.
“The loyal attorney,” Berends said.
“So far, the district attorney seems to have no evidence against her.”
“Except Beverly Walters’s statement,” Charlene said.
Stone was astonished. “How did you know about that?” he asked.
Everybody laughed.
“Because Beverly has told everyone she knows about it,” Charlene replied. “She would never be involved in anything like this without telling all of Beverly Hills.”
“Well, I can tell you that her version of the conversation is different from Arrington’s. It was an entirely innocent remark.”
“Innocent, that she said she was going to kill her husband?” Berends asked.
“Haven’t you ever said you were going to kill somebody?”
“No, not seriously.”
“Neither has Arrington—seriously.”
“You’re sweet, standing up for her like that. You really think she’s innocent?”
“I really do,” Stone said. “Or I wouldn’t say so.”
“So, what’s your strategy going to be at trial?” somebody asked.
“That will be for Marc Blumberg to decide; he’s the lead attorney in the case. I’m just helping out when I can and handling Arrington’s personal affairs.”
“Oh, so Arrington had affairs, too?” someone asked.
“Her business affairs,” Stone said, wagging a finger at her. “There’s an estate to settle and a lot of other things to be taken care of.”
“Didn’t Vance have a lawyer?”
“Yes, but Arrington is entitled to her own representation.”
“So, what have you handled for her?”
“Ladies, you’ll have to forgive me; I’ve said about all I can.”
“Oh, shoot,” Berends said. “And there was so much I wanted to know.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Stone said.
The absence of further information seemed to cast a pall over the luncheon, and soon the women began leaving. Finally, Stone was left alone with Charlene Joiner.
“Thank you, Ramon,” she said to the houseman, who was clearing the dishes. “Just put those things in the dishwasher, and you and Reba can go. Thank you for coming in today.” She watched the man go into the kitchen, then turned to Stone. “Alone at last,” she said, standing up and slipping out of the sarong. “I hope you don’t mind if I get some sun.”
“Not at all,” Stone said. To his surprise, she didn’t stop with the sarong; she unhooked her bra, freeing her breasts, and shucked off the bikini bottom. He noted that there were no sun lines on her body.
She stretched like a cat. She was tall and slender, and she obviously took very good care of herself. Her legs were long, her hips were narrow, and her breasts were impressive.
“They’re original equipment,” she said, catching Stone’s glance.
Stone laughed. “I’m glad to hear it. You said you had some information for me.” He tried to keep his tone light and his breathing regular.
She settled on the chaise beside his, turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes. “Yes, I do. It may not be important, but I thought you ought to know about it.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Vance and I use the same gardening service, which takes care of the grounds of both his Malibu and Bel-Air houses. The man, whose name is Felipe, was due here on Monday morning to cut the grass and do some gardening work, and he didn’t show up. I called the service, and they sent somebody else that afternoon.”
Stone waited for this to become relevant. “Go on.”
“The man who came in the afternoon didn�
��t do a very good job, so I called his boss and asked when Felipe would be back. He said he had called Felipe’s house—he apparently lived with a sister—and was told that he had returned to Mexico over the weekend, and he didn’t know when he’d be back.”
“Did Felipe also work at the Calders’ house?”
“Yes; he worked there last Friday and on Saturday, the day Vance was killed.”
“And he suddenly went back to Mexico on the Sunday?”
“On the Saturday night, according to his boss.”
“So he couldn’t have been questioned by the police,” Stone said. “That is interesting.”
“I thought you might think so. The man did good work, but once I caught him in my house. He said he was looking for a drink of water, but he wasn’t in the kitchen; he was in the living room.”
“Did he know where the kitchen was?”
“Yes, he had been in there before. I think he fancied Reba, my maid.”
“You think he might have stolen something?”
“I think he would have, left to his own devices. I told him not to come into the house again. If he wanted water, he was to ask Reba to bring it to him. There’s a staff toilet off the kitchen he could use. His full name is Felipe Cordova; his boss says he’s from Tijuana.”
“Thank you for telling me this,” Stone said. “There’s something I’d like to ask you; it’s a rude question, but I’d appreciate a straight answer.”
“Was I fucking Vance Calder?” she asked.
“That’s the question.”
She laughed. “Sweetie, all of the women here today have fucked Vance, at one time or another.”
“All of them?”
“Every one of them is a member of the I Fucked Vance Calder Club. The club is bigger than that, of course; we’re only the tip of the nipple.”
“Let’s get back to my original question.”
“You bet I was fucking him, and loving it.” She smiled. “So was he.”
“Where did these meetings take place?”
“You mean where did we fuck? I hate euphemisms. In his bungalow at the studio; in his trailer, when we were on location; in his Colony house just down the street; and here. Right up until the day before his death.”
“How often did this happen?”