6 Stone Barrington Novels (32 page)

“Of course you are. That's what you do best, isn't it?”

“Will you listen . . .”

“I'm sure she's
very
good in the sack.”

“Dolce . . .”

“Is she, Stone? Does she give good head?”

“For Christ's sake, keep your voice . . .”

“I'll bet she's spent more time on her knees than Esther Williams spent in the pool.”

“Dolce, if you don't . . .”

“Oh, good, a martini,” Dolce said, as a waiter approached with a tray. She took one, tossed it into Stone's face, returned the glass to the tray, and walked away.

The room was suddenly silent. Then Charlene's laugh cut through the quiet. “I don't
believe
you,” she was saying to Eduardo, who, uncharacteristically, seemed to be laughing, too.

“Dinner is served!” the butler called out, and the guests began filtering toward the dining room.

Charlene came, took Stone by the arm, and turned him toward dinner.

“Let's get out of here,” Stone said, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.

“Are you kidding?” Charlene laughed, dragging him toward the dining room. “I wouldn't miss this dinner for anything!”

 

 

 

T
HERE WERE SIXTEEN AT DINNER. STONE FOUND HIMSELF near the center of the long, narrow table, on his hostess's left. Directly across from him was Dr. Lansing Drake, who had landed with Dolce on his right and Charlene on his left. Most men, Stone reflected, would have been delighted to find themselves bracketed by two such beautiful women, but Dr. Drake looked decidedly uncomfortable, and when Stone nodded to him, he looked at his plate, then up and down the table, as if seeking an escape route.

The woman to Stone's left seemed to be in her eighties and deaf, while the handsome and chilly Livia, to Stone's right, seemed disinclined to acknowledge his presence. Dolce, across the table, shot him long, hostile looks whenever his eyes wandered her way. Only Charlene seemed happy. She had drawn Eduardo, to her left, and between her large eyes and her beautiful breasts, she seemed to have him mesmerized.

“How long have you known that woman?” a deep, whiskey-scarred voice asked.

Stone jerked to attention. Livia had spoken to him. “Oh, we met only recently. This is the first time we've been out.” That was, strictly speaking, the truth. They had done all sorts of things at home, but they had not been out.

“I would be careful, if I were you,” Livia said. “She probably has a social disease.”

“I beg your pardon?” Stone said, astonished that a hostess would say such a thing to her guest about his companion.

“More than likely, a
fatal
social disease,” Livia said, ignoring his reaction.

“Mrs. Regenstein . . .”

“I detest that name; call me Livia.”

“You detest your husband's name?”

“And my husband, as well.”

“Then why are you married to him?”

“I find it convenient; I have for more than twenty years. But enough about me; let's talk about you. What did you do to little Miss Bianchi that would invite a drink in the face?”

“My private life,” Stone said, “unlike yours, is private.”

“You're going to be a bore, aren't you?” she asked.

“You will probably think so.”

“Who are you, anyway?”

“My name is Stone Barrington.”

“Ah, yes, Louis has mentioned you. You're that disreputable lawyer from New York who was screwing Arrington Calder just before she married Vance, aren't you?”

Stone looked across the table, caught Charlene's eye and jerked his head toward the door. Then he turned to Livia Regenstein. “Good-bye, you miserable bitch,” he said quietly; then he got up and walked out of the dining room. He waited a moment for Charlene to catch up, then led her toward the front door.

While Charlene was waiting for her wrap, and the valet was bringing Stone's car, Lou Regenstein caught up with them. “What's wrong, Stone? Why are you leaving?”

“Lou, I must apologize; I'm afraid I don't have a scorecard for the games that are played in this town. I'm sorry if I made your wife and your guests uncomfortable.”

“It's I who should apologize,” Lou said. “Livia can be hard to take.”

“I'll see you soon,” Stone said. They shook hands, and he and Charlene left the house.

Stone put the top down. “I need some air,” he said, turning down the street. “I hope it won't disturb your hair.”

“Don't worry about it,” Charlene replied. “Well, that was quite an evening. What were you and Livia talking about, dare I ask?”

“You, mostly,” Stone said.

“Oh. I may as well tell you. For a short time Livia and I shared a lover.”

“Not Lou, I hope.”

“No, someone much younger. Soon after I came into the picture, the man stopped seeing Livia. Livia has been livid ever since.”

“This is my fault; I should have told you where we were having dinner.”

“Listen, sugar, don't worry about it; I didn't have half as bad a time as you.”

“What were you and Eduardo talking about?”

“The movie business, mostly.”

“He seemed fascinated.”

“I'm sure he was. He spoke well of you, too.”

“Did he?”

“He said you were a gentleman.”

“And that was just before I caused a scene by walking out of an elegant dinner party.”

“I'm sure his opinion of you hasn't changed.”

“You know, until this week, I had never in my life walked out of any dinner party, and now, in the space of three days, I've walked out of two.”

“Are you upset?”

“Not really; I must be getting used to it.”

“I guess folks out here aren't working with quite the same social graces as their counterparts in New York.”

Stone reached Sunset and turned toward the studio. “How'd you happen to come out here?”

“You want the fan magazine version, or the truth?”

“The truth will do nicely.”

“Hang a left here,” she said. “There's a nice little restaurant down the street, and we haven't had dinner.”

Stone followed directions. “No, we haven't.”

The restaurant was not all that small, but it was very elegant, and the headwaiter, spotting Charlene, had them at a special table in seconds. They ordered drinks and dinner.

“Okay, now tell me your story,” he said.

“It's a strange one,” she said. “I'm from Meriwether County, Georgia, near a little town called Delano.”

“That's where Betty Southard, Vance's secretary, is from.”

“True, but she was older than I, so we didn't really know each other. Anyway, I was pretty much a country girl, and I had this boyfriend who murdered a girl, in Greenville, the county seat. The court appointed a lawyer named Will Lee to defend my boyfriend.”

“Wait a minute, is this the senator from Georgia? The presidential candidate?”

“Yes, but not at that time. Old Senator Carr, who Will worked for, had a stroke, and Will ran for his seat, but the judge wouldn't let him out of defending Larry, my boyfriend, even though it was during the campaign. As you might imagine, the trial attracted a lot of press coverage.”

“I think I remember this vaguely,” Stone said, “but not the outcome.”

“Larry was convicted and sentenced to death. A tabloid paid me for my story, and all of a sudden, Hollywood was sniffing around. Next thing I knew I was out here, with a part in a movie. Then there was another part and another, and the rest is pulp fiction.”

“Amazing. Was the boyfriend executed?”

She shook her head. “I went to see the governor of Georgia and personally, ah, interceded on his behalf. His sentence was commuted to life without parole. We still correspond.”

“Was he guilty?”

“Oh, yes.”

“That's the damnedest story I ever heard.”

“There's more.”

“Tell me.”

“Will Lee and I had a little one-time encounter that became a side issue in the presidential race.”

“That was you?”

“I'm afraid so. When I'm old and washed up, somebody's going to make a really bad TV movie about all this, and then I'm going to write my memoirs.”

“I'm sure it will be a hot seller.”

“You better believe it, sugar.”

 

After dinner, he drove her back to her car at Centurion, and they said good night.

“One thing,” he said to her.

“What's that, baby?” she asked, putting her arms around his neck.

“Dolce has taken this whole business hard. After tonight's events, I think you should be careful.”

“You mean, watch my back?”

“Yes, that's what I mean.”

She kissed him. “Sugar,” she said, “Dolce doesn't want to mess with me.”

“I hope you're right.”

She kissed him again. “Should I go armed?”

“Do you own a gun?”

She nodded. “All legal-like, too.”

“Try not to shoot at anybody; you might hit me.”

“I shoot what I aim at, sugar.” She kissed him again, then got into her car. “By the way,” she said, as she put the top down. “There's going to be a kind of memorial for Vanessa tomorrow at my house. Will you come?”

Stone nodded. “Sure.”

“Just a few people. Six o'clock.”

“I'll be there.”

She gave a little wave and drove away.

 

 

 

T
HE MEMORIAL FOR VANESSA PIKE AT CHARLENE'S house seemed more of a memorial cocktail party, Stone reflected as he walked into the well-populated living room. Everyone had a drink, even if, in the California style, it was designer fizzy water, and there was a buffet at one end of the room laden with raw vegetables, melon, and other low-fat delicacies.

Charlene came and gave him a virtuous peck on the cheek. “I think you'll know a few people,” she said. “Mingle while I greet.”

Stone nodded, went to the bar, and waited while the barman ransacked the house for a bottle of bourbon. He would not bear his grief in sobriety, no matter what the West Coast convention. While he waited, he surveyed the room, picking out most of the women he had met on his first visit to the house, along with Dr. Lansing Drake and his wife and, somewhat to his relief, Marc Blumberg. At least he'd have somebody to talk to. He collected his drink and joined Marc.

“What've you been up to?” Marc asked.

“Not much,” Stone said.

“I think it's about time to go for a motion to dismiss,” Marc said.

“I'm not so sure about that,” Stone replied.

“Why not?”

“Because I think it's quite possible that Beverly Walters was there when Vance was shot, and she's the prosecution's prime witness.”

“Are you sure she was there?”

“As sure as I can be without putting her under oath and asking her.”

Marc mulled that over for a moment. “I wonder if she hates Arrington that much, that she'd testify?”

“She hates her enough to testify to a conversation in which Arrington, apparently in jest, says she'd kill Vance if she caught him with another woman.”

“You have a point,” Marc admitted.

“Have you heard anything new from the investigation into Vanessa's death?” Stone asked.

“They've cleared the husband,” Marc replied, nodding toward two men across the room.

Stone followed his gaze and found the two cops he'd met after the fire at Vanessa's. “What are they doing here?”

“They must think the murderer is present,” Marc said. “Such a person might call attention to himself by his absence.”

“Have you caught them staring at anybody?” Stone asked, glancing out the big windows toward the beach.

“They're staring at you right now,” Marc said.

Stone looked back toward the two detectives and found that Marc was not lying. Both men gazed gravely back at him. Stone raised his glass a little and nodded; both men nodded back. “You think I'm all they've got?”

“I guess so.”

“What do you suppose they think my motive is?”

“Who knows?”

“I mean, I met her only twice, both times in your company. Did you notice any murderous intentions on my part?”