by Stuart Woods
“She didn’t stay for dinner. I remember, they left, because Beverly had a dinner party to go to that night, and she had to get home and change. I don’t know what Vanessa was doing.”
“They left together?”
“Yes, they came and left in Vanessa’s car.”
“That’s promising,” Stone said, half to himself.
“Promising? How do you mean?”
“Sorry. I was thinking aloud.”
Charlene, having eaten a third of her lunch, grabbed her wineglass and half reclined on the sofa, resting her feet in Stone’s lap.
The view was transfixing, Stone thought, trying to concentrate on his lobster instead. “Are you and Beverly close at all?” he asked.
“Not very. Like I said, she’s not my favorite person.”
“I understand that Beverly is . . . talkative.”
“Well, that’s an understatement! We had to listen to every detail of every affair she had.”
“Did she ever sleep with Vance?”
“Sugar, if Vance had ever had a social disease, half of Beverly Hills would have come down with it.”
“I mean, did she ever talk about having an affair with him?”
“She tried, but she was late to the party; the rest of us had already had Vance.”
“Vanessa, too?”
“Sure, and before she was divorced. Vance didn’t discriminate against married women.”
“Who is Beverly married to?”
“A producer on the lot here: Gordon Walters. That’s her entree around town; if she were ever divorced, she’d never get asked to dinner. Gordy’s a sweetheart, but Beverly isn’t all that popular. Everybody knows you can’t tell her anything. It would be like putting it on a loudspeaker at Spago.”
“Charlene, I wonder if you’d do a favor for me.”
“Sugar,” she said, poking him in the crotch with a toe. “I’ve been trying.”
“Another kind of favor.”
“Sure, if I can.”
“Have lunch with Beverly Walters; see if you can find out what happened after she and Vanessa left your house that Saturday.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“You can’t share this with the ladies,” Stone said.
She made a little cross with a long fingernail on her left breast.
“Beverly is a witness against Arrington, in this shooting thing. She’s testified that Arrington told her she wanted to kill Vance. Arrington was joking, of course.”
“Of course,” Charlene said dryly.
“It’s possible that Beverly might have been at Vance’s house that evening, and that she might have seen something. I can’t let Arrington go into court without knowing what Beverly saw. Do you think you could worm that out of her?”
“Shoot, Stone, I could worm Beverly’s genetic code out of her, if she knew it.”
“Vanessa said something about this to me, and I wouldn’t like for Beverly to know that. Vanessa felt she was breaking a confidence, just by mentioning the possibility.”
“That sounds like Vanessa,” Charlene said, looking misty for a moment. “She’d be true blue, even to Beverly.”
“When do you think you could see her?”
“She’ll be over at the house on Saturday, with the others, I’m sure; we’ll have some commiserating to do over Vanessa.”
“I’d appreciate any help you could give me.”
Charlene smiled a small smile. “How much would you appreciate it?”
“A lot,” Stone said.
“I don’t believe you,” Charlene replied. “It’s Arrington, isn’t it? She’s why I can’t get you in the sack.”
“We’re old and good friends,” Stone said.
Charlene laughed. “Well, at least you didn’t say you were just good friends. I don’t blame you, Stone; she’s perfectly gorgeous. I’d hop into bed with her in a minute.”
Stone laughed, put down his fork, and stood up. “I’ll tell her you said so, if the occasion should ever arise. I’ve got to get going. Thanks for the lunch, and, especially, for your help.”
Charlene put down her wineglass, arose, and came toward Stone. She snaked one arm around his neck, hooked one leg around his and kissed him, long and deep.
Stone enjoyed the moment.
“Just you remember,” she said, “you owe me one.”
Stone released himself and made his way out of the RV. On the short drive back to the bungalow, Stone made a concerted effort to forget how Charlene Joiner had looked naked, and failed.
Forty-four
STONE SPENT THE EVENING ALONE IN VANCE’S BUNGALOW, heating a frozen dinner and watching one of Vance’s movies from a selection of videotapes in the study. It turned out to be one in which Charlene Joiner had costarred, and that didn’t help him think pure thoughts. Her ability as an actress actually lived up to her beauty, which surprised him, though it was not the first of her movies he had seen.
He slept fitfully, then devoted the following day to a combination of Calder Estate business and correspondence FedExed by Joan from New York, which kept his mind off naked women, living and dead. The noon news said that Daniel Pike was not a suspect in his ex-wife’s death, but he didn’t believe it. The police had probably leaked that information to make Pike think he was safe. He’d done the same thing, himself, in his time.
Arrington called early in the afternoon. “Dino and Mary Ann are arriving at three,” she said, “and Manolo is meeting them. I can’t wait to see them!”
“Same here,” Stone said, and he meant it. Cut off from Arrington most of the time, he craved affectionate company.
“You be here at seven,” she said.
“Can I bring anything?”
“Yes, but I don’t think you’ll share, in your present mood.”
“When this is over, I’ll share until you cry for mercy.”
“Promises, promises! Bye.” She hung up.
Stone left the studio at six-thirty, which would make him fashionably late to Arrington’s. Then, after no more than a mile, the car’s steering felt funny, and he pulled over. The rear tire was flat. He thought of changing it himself, but there was a gas station a block away, and he didn’t want to get his fresh clothes dirty, so he hiked down there and brought back a mechanic to do the work. As a result, he was half an hour late to dinner.
He entered through the front gate, for a change, and noted that there were no TV vans or reporters about. Manolo let him in and escorted him into the living room where Arrington, Dino, and Mary Ann sat on sofas before the fireplace. Another woman was there, too, but her back was to him.
He hugged Dino and Mary Ann, but when he went to embrace Arrington, she kept an elbow between them. “And look who else is here!” she cried, waving a hand toward the sofa. The other woman turned around.
“Dolce,” Stone said weakly. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Well, you can reach me now,” Dolce replied, patting the sofa next to her.
Stone started to take another seat, but Arrington took his arm tightly and guided him next to Dolce. “Dolce has told me your wonderful news!” Arrington said brightly, showing lots of teeth. “Let me congratulate you!”
Stone looked at Dino and Mary Ann, both of whom looked extremely uncomfortable. He sat down next to Dolce and submitted to a kiss on the cheek.
“My darling,” she said, “how handsome you look tonight.”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Stone said to Arrington, ignoring Dolce. “I had a flat tire on the way.”
“Of course you did, Stone,” she replied, as if he were lying.
Manolo brought him a Wild Turkey on the rocks, and Stone sipped it. This whole thing was insane; what was Dolce doing here? He discovered that he was sweating. “How was your flight?” he asked Dino and Mary Ann.
“Pretty much the same as being moved around the Chicago Stockyards with an electric cattle prod,” Dino replied gamely, trying to hold up his end.
“Heh, heh,” Stone said
, taking a big swig of the bourbon. He stole a glance at Dolce, who was smiling broadly. He hoped she wasn’t armed.
Across the coffee table, on the sofa opposite, Arrington was smiling just as broadly. She emptied a martini glass and motioned to Manolo for another. “Well, isn’t this fun!” she said. “Old friends together again. How long has it been?”
“A long time,” Mary Ann replied, as if it had not been long enough.
“Oh, Stone,” Dino said, standing up. “I brought you something; come out to the guesthouse for a minute.”
“Excuse me,” Stone said to Arrington.
“Hurry back, now!” she replied.
Stone followed Dino out the back door and toward the guesthouse. “What the fuck is going on?” he demanded.
“How should I know?” Dino replied. “I didn’t know Dolce was coming until she got here, ten minutes before you did. Mary Ann must have invited her, but she didn’t say a goddamned thing to me about it.” He opened the door to the guesthouse and led the way in.
“And she told Arrington we were married in Venice?”
“You bet she did, pal, and she laid it on thick. Arrington was smiling a lot, but she would have killed her, if there had been anything sharp lying around.” Dino went to his suitcase and handed Stone his little Walther automatic, in its chamois shoulder holster.
“What am I going to do with this now?” Stone asked.
“I’d wear it if I were you,” Dino replied. “You might need it before the evening is over.”
Stone shucked off his jacket and slipped into the shoulder holster.
“My thirty-two automatic wasn’t on your bedside table, where you said it would be, and it wasn’t in your safe, either.”
“That’s weird,” Stone said. “Helene wouldn’t have touched it when she was cleaning; she hates guns, and Joan wouldn’t have had any reason to be upstairs.”
“I asked Joan about it, and she said she hadn’t seen it.”
Stone checked the Walther; it was loaded. He put the safety on and returned it to the holster.
“You’re going to need a local permit for that, aren’t you?” Dino asked.
“Rick Grant got me one last year when I was out here; it’s in my pocket. Can you think of some way to get Dolce out of here? I’ve got to explain to Arrington what’s going on.”
“I thought you would have explained it to her a long time ago,” Dino said. “That girl is really pissed off.”
“I realize I should have,” Stone said, “but I just didn’t want to bring up Dolce while Arrington is in all this trouble.”
“Well, you’re the one who’s in trouble, now, and we’d better get back in there, so you can face the music.”
They went back into the house, and found Mary Ann struggling to keep some sort of conversation going.
Manolo came into the room. “Dinner is served, Mrs. Calder,” he said.
Everyone rose and marched into the dining room.
“Now let’s see,” Arrington said, surveying the beautifully laid table. “We’ll have Mr. and Mrs. Bacchetti to my left, and Mr. and Mrs. Barrington, here, to my right.”
Stone winced as if lashed. Everybody sat down, and a cold soup was served.
“This is a beautiful house,” Dino said.
“Thank you, Dino; Vance let me redo the place after we were married, so I can take full credit. Stone, where are you and Dolce going to make your home?”
Stone dropped his spoon into his soup bowl, splashing gazpacho over his jacket.
Dolce took up the slack. “Papa offered to give us his Manhattan place, but Stone has insisted that we live in his house,” she said. “I’m so looking forward to redecorating the place. It’s a little . . . seedy right now.”
Stone could not suppress a groan. Dolce knew that Arrington had had a big hand in decorating his house. The soup was taken away, before Arrington could throw it at Dolce.
“And how is your father?” Arrington asked solicitously. “And all those business associates of his? The ones with the broken noses?”
Stone stood up. “Excuse me.” He left the table.
Arrington caught up with him at the front door. “Running away, are you? You complete shit! You married that bitch?”
“I have a lot to explain to you,” Stone said. “Can we have lunch tomorrow?”
“Lunch? I don’t ever want to see you again! Not as long as I live!”
“Arrington, you’re going to have to listen to me about this.”
“The hell I do!” she hissed, then pushed him out the front door and slammed it behind him.
Stone was already in his car when he saw Dolce in his rearview mirror, coming out of the house. The gates opened for him, and he floored the accelerator.
He made a couple of quick turns, headed nowhere, just trying to be sure that Dolce wasn’t following him. He made the freeway, then got off at Santa Monica Boulevard, so he could keep an eye on several blocks behind him. Sweat was pouring off him, and he was breathing rapidly. When he had to stop for a traffic light he took the opportunity to put the car’s top down, and the breeze began to cool him. His breathing slowed, and he began to feel nearly normal, except that he was numb between the ears. He did his best to drive both Dolce and Arrington out of his head, tried to think of nothing. For a while he was in a nearly semiconscious state, driving by instinct, un-caring of his direction.
When his head cleared he found himself at a traffic light in Malibu. He dug his notebook out of his pocket, looked up the number and dialed the hands-free phone.
“Hello?” she said, her voice low and inviting.
“It’s Stone; I’m in Malibu. Are you alone?”
“I sure am,” she replied.
“Not for long.” He headed for the Colony.
Forty-five
CHARLENE MET HIM AT THE DOOR, WEARING NOTHING but a short silk robe. Neither of them said a word. He kissed her, then, without stopping, lifted her off her feet.
She climbed him like a tree and locked her legs around him. “Straight ahead,” she said, removing her lips from his just long enough to speak. “Hang a right at the end of the hall.”
He followed her directions and came into a large bedroom only steps from the sand. The sliding doors to the beach were open, and a breeze billowed the sheer curtains. She unlocked her legs and dropped to the floor, tearing at his clothes. Together they got him undressed and her robe disappeared. They dived at the bed.
Stone had been erect since she’d answered the phone, and Charlene wasn’t interested in foreplay. He was inside her before they were fully on the bed, and she was already wet. They made love hungrily, rolling about on the king-size bed, he on top, then she. There were no words, only sounds—yells, bleats, cries, moans. The breeze from the Pacific blew over their bodies, drying their sweat, keeping them going. She came slowly to a climax, and Stone followed her more swiftly, penetrating her fully. More sounds, followed by gasps for breath, then they were both lying on their backs, sucking in wind.
“Good God!” she managed to say finally. “I’ve done a lot of fucking in my time, but I don’t think I ever had a running start before.”
“I was in a hurry,” he panted.
“Oh, I’m not complaining, sugar.”
He turned and reached for her. “Again,” he said.
She pushed him onto his back. “Now you take it easy,” she said. “My call for tomorrow isn’t until eleven, and you’ve got to last until then. I don’t want you to leave in an ambulance.”
Stone burst out laughing. “Oh, I feel wonderful,” he laughed. “First time in I don’t know how long.”
“You’ve been wound a little tight, haven’t you?”
“You wouldn’t believe how tight.”
“Well, I think I’ve just had a demonstration, and if it took you that long to start unwinding . . .”
“I think I may live now, if Dolce doesn’t shoot me.”
“Dolce? Is there somebody I don’t know about?”
&nb
sp; “My wife, God help me.”
“Sugar, I believe we’ve skipped a part of your bio,” she said, rising onto one elbow and tossing her hair over her shoulder.
“Paper marriage,” he said. “Piece of paper, nothing more. Trouble is, it’s an Italian piece of paper.”
“Baby, you’re not making any sense. Did you get drunk in Vegas, or something?”
“Happened in Venice,” he panted. “The real one, not the Vegas one. Glorious place to get married.”
“Did she Shanghai you?”
“I went voluntarily, I’m afraid. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“So, what’s the next level of that relationship?”
“The next level is divorce, and I have a feeling it’s not going to be easy, since it has to happen in Italy.”
“I don’t understand how . . . wait a minute; you came out here just to help Arrington, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Were you in Venice when you heard about Vance?”
“Yes. We’d had the civil ceremony; we were due for the big one, in St. Mark’s, the next day. When I heard about Vance, I dropped everything.”
“Including Dolce?”
“Turned out that way.”
“How did she take it?”
“Badly.”
“And now you think she wants to shoot you?”
“Oh, no; she’d rather have me drawn and quartered and the pieces barbecued.”
“What does she want?”
“Me, dead or alive.”
“You mean she still wants to be married to you?”
“Apparently so. She’s been introducing herself to the world as Mrs. Stone Barrington.”
“Oops.”
“Yeah, oops.”
“Who is this girl?”
“Her last name is Bianchi.”
“Wait a minute: at Vance’s funeral I saw you talking to . . .”
“Her father.”
“I’ve heard a little about him,” she said. “Sounds like this could be tricky.”
“Well put. Tricky.”
She pushed his hair off his forehead with her fingers and kissed him. “I could hide you here for a few months,” she said.