Cold Paradise (4 page)

6

S
TONE REAPPEARED ON THE AFTERDECK JUST BEFORE eight, showered, shaved and wearing a gray linen suit, a cream-colored silk shirt, a yellow tie and black alligator shoes. He took a long look at the lights of West Palm, and then he was joined by Callie.

“Good evening,” she said.

He turned to look at her and was stunned by the transformation. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she was wearing a tight-fitting, short dress of a dark brown espresso color. It was cut fairly low, showing off handsome breasts and a good tan. When she smiled, her teeth practically glowed in the dark. “Good evening,” he said, when he got his breath back.

“Shall we go?” She led him back through the gardens, their way lighted by low lamps along the path, through the house and to the car. “Would you like to drive?” She held out the keys.

Stone took them. “Sure. I haven’t driven one of these.” He opened the door for her, then went around to the driver’s side. The engine purred, rather than roared, to life, and he pulled into the lamplit street and accelerated. “Nice. What kind of power?”

“A two-hundred-and-ninety-horsepower V-eight.”

“Very smooth, too. Is it yours?”

“Yes.”

“Cooking must pay better than I thought.”

“Well, I don’t have rent, utilities or any other household expenses to worry about, and it helps when your boss gives you an interest-free loan.”

“Sounds as though you’ve made yourself important to Thad.”

“I try.” She directed him through a number of turns and shortly they pulled up before a restaurant called Cafe L’Europe. A valet took the car.

“I would have thought the ‘el, apostrophe’ was a little much,” Stone said as they entered.

“A great deal about Palm Beach is a little much,” she said.

They were shown to a table near the center of the room. “What would you like to drink?” Stone asked.

“A Tanqueray martini, please.”

“And a vodka gimlet,” Stone told the waiter. “This is a very good table,” he said to her.

“I booked it in Thad’s name,” she replied.

“Smart move.” Menus and a wine list were brought.

Callie closed her menu. “I’m sick of thinking about food,” she said. “Order for me.”

“Anything you don’t eat?”

“I can’t think of anything.”

The waiter returned. “Are you ready to order, sir?”

“Yes,” Stone said. “We’ll start with the beluga caviar and iced Absolut Citron,” he said. “For the main course, the rack of lamb, medium rare.” He opened the wine list. “And a bottle of the Phelps Insignia ’ninety-one.”

“Very good, sir.” He went away.

They sat back and sipped their drinks until the caviar came, then they ate it slowly, sipping the lemon vodka and making it all last. A couple came into the restaurant, the young woman wearing a sleeveless sweater with the name “Chanel” emblazoned across her chest, in two-inch-high letters.

“A billboard,” Stone said.

“Typical of Palm Beach,” Callie replied.

“Eurotrash?”

“Just trash. There’s a lot of it about. Oh, there are still some old-line families around, living quietly, if grandly, but mostly it’s what you see here—people who somehow got ahold of a lot of money and want everybody to know it. They’ve bid up the real estate out of sight. A nice little house on a couple of acres is now three million bucks, and last week I saw an ad for what was advertised as the last vacant beachfront lot in Palm Beach—all one and a half acres of it—and they’re asking eight and a half million.”

Stone nearly choked on his vodka.

The waiter had just taken away the dishes when three people, two women and a man, entered the restaurant and were shown to a table by the street windows. Stone followed their progress closely. One of the women, a redhead, had something very familiar about her.

Callie kicked him under the table. “I thought that in this dress, I might get your undivided attention.”

“I’m sorry,” Stone said, “but I think I know one of the women. Except she’s a redhead, and the woman I knew was a blonde, like you. Well, not as beautiful as you.”

“She must have been important,” Callie said. “Tell me about her.”

“It’s not a short story,” Stone said. “More of a novella.”

“I’ve got all night.”

“All right.”

Dinner arrived, and Stone tasted the wine. “Decant it, please,” he said to the waiter.

When that was done, Callie said, “Continue.”

“Oh, yes. A few years back I scheduled a sailing charter out of St. Marks. You know it?”

“Yes, we’ve been in there on
Toscana
.”

“My girlfriend was supposed to follow, but she got snowed into New York, then she got a magazine assignment to interview Vance Calder.”

“Lucky girl,” she said. “My favorite movie star.”

“Everybody’s favorite. That’s why she couldn’t turn it down. Anyway, I was stuck there alone, and one morning I was having breakfast in the cockpit of the boat, and something odd happened. A yacht of about fifty feet sailed into the harbor, the mainsail ripped, and nobody aboard but a beautiful blonde. After customs had cleared the boat, the police came and took her away.

“The following day I was passing the town hall and there was some sort of hearing under way, and I went in. Turned out to be an inquest. The girl, whose name was Allison Manning, had been sailing across the Atlantic with her husband, who was the writer Paul Manning . . .”

“I’ve read his stuff,” she said. “He’s good.”

“Yes. Anyway, her testimony is that they’re halfway across, and he winches her up the mast to fix something, then cleats the line. She finishes the job and looks down to find him lying in the cockpit, turning blue. She’s stuck at the top of the mast, but eventually she manages to shinny down. He’s dead, probably of a heart attack. He’s the sailor, and she’s the cook and bottle-washer, and now she’s in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, alone, her husband starting to rot in the heat. She buries him at sea and, in a considerable act of seamanship for somebody who isn’t a sailor, manages to get the yacht across the Atlantic to St. Marks.”

“This is beginning to sound familiar. Wasn’t there something about it on
Sixty Minutes
a while back?”

“Then you know the story?”

“No, go on. Tell me everything.”

“St. Marks’s Minister of Justice doesn’t buy her story, and he charges her with murdering her husband. Stone to the rescue. I offer to help. She’s tried. With the help of a local barrister, I represent her. Long story short, she’s convicted and sentenced to hang.”

“Jesus.”

“Yes. I call New York and pull out all the stops on publicity.
Sixty Minutes
shows up, and many telegrams are sent to the prime minister, demanding she be released. On the day of the execution, fully expecting a pardon, I and the barrister and a priest visit her in her cell. Suddenly she’s taken out, and the three of us are locked in. A minute later, we hear the trap sprung on the gallows.”

“That’s horrible,” she said. “I don’t think I knew the end of the story. I must have been traveling at the time.”

“There’s more. Turns out her husband wasn’t dead; it was all an insurance scam. He’d lost a ton of weight and shaved off a beard and was unrecognizable, and he was there, in St. Marks, posing as a magazine writer covering the story.”

“And he didn’t stop the hanging?”

“No. What’s more, in order to cover up his new identity, he engineered a light airplane crash in which his ex-wife and two others died.”

“And he got away with it?”

“Fortunately, no. He turned up in New York a few weeks later, demanding his yacht.”

“What?”

“Didn’t I mention that Allison, by way of my fee, gave me the yacht?”

“No.”

“Well, she did.”

“And now Paul Manning wanted it back?”

“He did.”

“What did you do?”

“I’d been expecting him to show up, so I made a phone call, and the police came and took him away. He was extradited to St. Marks, where he was tried, then hanged for the three murders.”

“God, what a story. And what made you think of it tonight?”

“I thought of it because Allison Manning is sitting right over there by the windows.”

Callie’s head spun around.

Stone tapped her on the arm. “Don’t stare. I don’t want her to see me.”

“You’re sure?”

“She’s dyed her hair red, but that is Allison in the flesh, and very nice flesh it is.”

“How could she possibly be here if she was hanged in St. Marks?”

“I didn’t finish my story. Unbeknownst to me, Allison had, through the local barrister, arranged to deliver a cashier’s check for one million dollars into the prime minister’s hands. Accordingly, the execution was faked, and Allison departed the island in a fast yacht she had chartered for the purpose.”

“That didn’t make it into the
Sixty Minutes
report, did it?”

“It did not. And I may have violated attorney-client confidentiality by telling you.”

“Where did Allison get a million dollars?”

“Paul Manning had been insured for twelve million dollars, and the insurance company had already paid.”

“So she skipped St. Marks with all that money?”

“Much to the annoyance of her husband.”

“But he got his comeuppance.”

“He did.”

“And you got the yacht.”

“I did.”

“Do you still have it?”

“No. I sold it in Fort Lauderdale.”

“You said you’d never been anywhere in Florida except Miami.”

“I forgot about Lauderdale.”

“How much did you get for the yacht?”

“A million, six.”

“And what did you do with it?”

“I gave the IRS a large chunk, and the rest is in a sock, under my mattress.”

She threw back her head and laughed. When she had recovered herself, she asked, “Why do you suppose Allison Manning is in Palm Beach?”

“I have no idea.”

They got back to
Toscana
around eleven and stood on the afterdeck, watching the moon come up.

“If you will forgive me,” she said, “I’m going to turn in. It was a long day, and I’ve had a lot to drink.”

“I’m hurt,” he replied, “but I’ll get over it.”

She leaned into him and kissed him, just long enough to be interesting; creamy lips, warm tongue. “Sleep well.”

“Now I won’t sleep at all,” Stone said.

“Oh, good,” she replied, then walked off toward her cabin.

7

L
ATE THE FOLLOWING MORNING, STONE BORROWED Callie’s Jaguar, drove downtown and found a parking space on Worth Avenue. He arrived at Renato’s five minutes early and presented himself to the headwaiter. “I’m meeting a Mrs. Harding,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” the man replied. “We have you in the garden.” He led Stone to a table under overhanging bougainvillea and left a pair of menus. Stone sipped some mineral water and waited for Mrs. Winston Harding to appear. When she arrived, Stone choked on his mineral water. This, he had not been expecting.

She was only fashionably late, wearing blue slacks and a matching cashmere sweater, pearls at the neck, the very picture of the fashionable young matron. He tended to remember her in short shorts, with a shirt tied below her breasts, revealing an enticing midsection, and he tried to make the adjustment.

Stone stood to greet her. “Hello, Allison,” he said.

“Shhh,” she whispered, hugging him, her breasts pressing against him for an extra moment. “We don’t use that name here.”

He held her chair and ordered a cosmopolitan for her. “Brad,” she said to the headwaiter, “this is Stone Barrington. I’m sure you’ll be seeing more of him.”

The headwaiter shook Stone’s hand, then went to get her drink.

“So what is this Mrs. Winston Harding business?”

“That, my love, is my name these days. It’s good to see you.” She smiled, leaning forward to allow her breasts to be seen down the V-necked sweater.

“And you,” he said. “You disappeared over the horizon in that rented yacht, and I thought I’d never see you again. I’ve often wondered where you got to.”

“Oh, all over,” she said, smiling. “I’ve seen the world since last I saw you. I started with a cruise in the Pacific and the Far East, and I just kept going. A year later, I met Winston Harding in London, and a few weeks later we were married in Houston, his home. Winston was a property developer.”

“Was?”

“I’m a widow now.”

“My condolences. Was there insurance involved?”

She blushed a little. “That was an evil thing to say. He died of a heart attack. He was fifty-five.”

“My apologies.”

“But there was insurance involved, and a great deal else. Let’s order.”

She chose the poached salmon, and Stone the rigatoni with a sauce of wild boar sausage and cream. He ordered a bottle of Frascati.

“Well, Palm Beach must be the perfect spot for a wealthy widow,” Stone said.

“We bought the house the year after we were married,” she replied. “I hardly chose it for widowhood; it just worked out that way. Funny, it’s worth three times what Winston paid for it.”

“I’ve heard the market is hot.”

“And so am I,” she said. She stopped talking while their lunch was served. “In a manner of speaking,” she said, when the waiter had left.

“I should think you would have cooled off considerably,” Stone said. “After all, you’re dead.”

“Being dead has its advantages,” she said, “but if you run into someone you used to know, it can come as a shock to them.”

“Has that happened to you?”

“From time to time, but I’ve always managed to duck out before we came face-to-face.”

“I think I prefer you as a blonde, though.”

She laughed. “I’m probably the only redhead in Palm Beach with blond roots.”

“So you’re finding it a strain, being dead?”

“I’d rather be alive.”

“Well, there is the insurance company,” Stone said.

“That’s why I called you. I want you to represent me in squaring things with those people.”

Stone blinked. “You mean you want to give them back their twelve million dollars?”

“Of course not,” she said. “Well, not all of it. I thought you might negotiate a settlement. What do you think the chances are of that?”

“I think the insurance company would be very surprised to get
any
of their money back.”

“How little do you think I could give them?”

“Who knows? After they get over their initial shock, they’ll probably begin to wonder who wants to give it to them. After all, both the culprits are dead.”

“I read about your part in sending Paul back to St. Marks,” she said.

“I hope you derived some satisfaction from that,” Stone replied. “After all, he could have stopped your ‘execution’ at any time, and he didn’t.”

She shrugged. “Well, that’s all in the past, isn’t it?”

“Apparently not, if you’re still suffering the after-effects.”

“Stone, I’ve always been an honest person. You mustn’t think I’m some sort of career criminal.”

“I don’t. I’ve always thought it was Paul’s idea to screw the insurance company.”

“It was. Of course, I went along with it, after he’d spent a few months persuading me. Who knew it would end the way it did?”

“Did you love him?”

“Oh, God, did I love him, and for years! It had begun to wear off, though, by the time we hatched the plot. My plan was to take half the money and kiss Paul goodbye.” She smiled. “That’s when I fell into your bed.”

“As I recall, it was
your
bed, but it hardly matters. I had just had the shock of my girl running off with somebody else, so I was easy.”

“Yes, you were,” she said, her voice low. “Maybe, now that I’m going to be legal again, we could see something of each other.”

Stone shook his head. “For the moment, all I can do is represent you in trying to put things right with the insurance company. If I spend any more time with you than that, then I’m a part of a criminal conspiracy.”

“But once I’m legal again . . .”

“That’s different.”

“I mean, I don’t want to start using my old name again, or anything like that. I just want to know that I can cross a border without popping up in some computer.”

“Not much chance of that, since you’re supposed to be dead.”

“I still have my old passport. I used it, until I married Winston. Then I used my old birth certificate to get a new one.”

“Did he know about your past?”

She shook her head. “Not the bad part. I reinvented my life without Paul Manning, and he believed me. He was a dear soul. He never doubted me.”

“Well, I think you’re right to want to settle this thing with the insurance company. How high will you go?”

She looked thoughtful. “Five million?”

“I should think they’d be delighted to get that much back. They wrote off the money a long time ago. Can you afford it?”

“Oh, yes. I still had ten million when I met Winston, and he had a considerable estate. Also, the market has been
very
kind to me.”

“You’d need to square things with the IRS.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, maybe file an amended return. Get a good accountant and let him handle it. It’s worth the money to be righteous again.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Well, Allison . . . I’m sorry, what do you call yourself these days?”

“Elizabeth.”

“That’s nice. I . . .” Stone stopped. No, it couldn’t be.

“I’ve had to be so wary all the time. Only last weekend, I met the most interesting man, but he’s apparently pretty well known, and I just didn’t want to get into anything like that until I had my life in order, so I got all nervous and just walked away from him.”

Yes, it could be. “And where were you last weekend?”

“In Easthampton.”

“Did you dine at Jerry Della Femina’s?”

Her jaw dropped. “How could you know that?”

“You’re Liz,” he said.

“You know Thad, what’s his name?”

“Shames.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Not if I can square things with the insurance company.” Stone got out his cell phone and notebook and dialed a number. “This is Stone Barrington. Is he available?”

“Who are you calling?” she asked.

“Yes, tell him it’s important.”

Shames came onto the line. “Stone? Anything to report?”

“There’s someone here who’d like to speak with you,” Stone said. He handed the phone to Liz.

She took it, baffled. “Hello? Yes, this is Liz. Oh, it’s you! We were just talking about you. Well, yes, I’d like to see you again. Saturday? I believe I’m free. All right, I’ll look forward to seeing you then.” She handed the phone back to Stone.

“Stone, bring her to the party on Saturday night, aboard
Toscana
. Seven o’clock.”

“All right.”

“See you then. Gotta run.”

Stone returned the cell phone to his pocket.

“So, you’re a matchmaker, as well?”

“Glad to be of service.”

“He is well known, isn’t he?”

“Yes, in the worlds of computer software and Wall Street, he’s something of a celebrity.”

“I don’t know about these things. I never read the
Wall Street Journal
.”

“Neither do I.”

She frowned.

“Anything wrong?”

“There is something else.”

“What’s that?”

“Paul Manning.”

“He’s dead.”

She shook her head. “No, he’s not.”

“But he went back to St. Marks and was . . .” Stone stopped. “You bought him out, didn’t you?”

She nodded sheepishly. “I called Sir Leslie, the barrister, remember?”

“Oh, yes. How much did it cost you?”

“Half a million.”

“You got a volume discount?”

“Stone, I couldn’t just let him be hanged.”

“Why not? He’s a triple murderer. And, when he thought you were going to be executed, he didn’t lift a hand to save you from the gallows.”

“That’s true, of course, but still . . .”

A terrible thought struck Stone. “Please tell me Paul doesn’t know you’re alive.”

She slumped. “I’m afraid he does. Sir Leslie let it slip.”

“Good God. Where is Paul?”

“I don’t know, but he was in Easthampton last weekend.”

“You saw him?”

“I was in a shop on Sunday afternoon, and he passed by in the street.”

“You’re sure it was Paul?”

“Absolutely sure. He’s kept all that weight off, and he’s had a nose job, but I recognized him just by the way he walked.”

“Did he see you?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. Still, I got the hell out of the Hamptons, and as soon as I got to Palm Beach, I changed my hair color. What can I do about this, Stone?”

“It’s the money he wants, isn’t it? You could try buying him off.”

“Will you deal with that for me?”

“Well, there are two problems with that. First, I don’t know where to find him. Second, the last time he saw me, he wanted to kill me, and since I got him arrested, imprisoned and nearly hanged in St. Marks, I doubt if he feels any more kindly toward me. In fact, it makes me nervous just knowing he’s out there somewhere.”

“Apparently, he wants to kill me, too,” she said. “At least, that’s what he told Sir Leslie.”

“Grateful, isn’t he?”

“Stone, what am I going to do?”

“Well, Allison—excuse me,
Liz
—since we don’t know how to find him, I suppose we’re going to have to wait for him to find you.”

She nodded. “Or you.”