Stone Barrington 36 - Scandalous Behavior (19 page)

A
fter Susan had driven away, Stan brought the Land Rover around for Marcel.

“You’re leaving so soon?” Stone asked.

“Yes, my airplane is on the way to your field. I must run to Paris, then Rome for a few days, to keep our kettles boiling there, then I’ll be back.”

“You’ll be very welcome,” Stone said.

“I’ve left a few things in my room,” Marcel said, “including some laundry.”

“I’ll see that it’s taken care of.”

Marcel got into the car and was driven away.

Stone and Dino walked over to the stables, where horses had been saddled for them.

“You should keep some riding clothes here,” Stone said.

“What riding clothes? I don’t own any.”

“There’s a shop in Beaulieu that will fix you up.”

They mounted, then rode across the meadow, through the wood, then jumped the stone wall onto the Curtis House property. There were two large moving vans parked in front of the house, and furniture was being loaded on them.

“They’re going to London, to Susan’s workshop, for reupholstering,” Stone explained.

“Susan is quite a girl,” Dino said. “Why don’t you hang on to her?”

“I’d like that, but I don’t know if she’s going to have time for me. She’s expanding her company while redoing Curtis House, and she’s got her hands full.”

“She doesn’t work nights, does she?”

“That’s what’s keeping us going.”

They rode slowly around the property, seeing things they hadn’t noticed before.

“I saw the hermit’s house,” Dino said. “I’ll bet the brigadier was an interesting guy.”

“I never met him, and saw him on the property only twice.”

“You remember when we were young, back at the Nineteenth, and got our first big homicide?”

“How could I forget?”

“Remember the lesbian lady who offed herself in the bathtub?”

“I do.”

“And we thought for a while she had done it out of guilt, but it turned out she wasn’t the murderer?”

“I do.”

“Ever since, I’ve always been suspicious when suicides confess.”

“As I recall, she didn’t confess.”

“Right, but we assumed she was guilty, anyway.”

“I see your point. Are you suspicious of the brigadier’s confession?”

“Sometimes there are motives for suicide other than guilt,” Dino said. “I don’t know enough about this one to form an opinion, but I think you ought to keep that in mind.”

“Why? I’m not investigating it. I accept his confession as sincere.”

“Maybe you ought to know more about the case,” Dino said, then spurred his horse into a gallop and jumped another stone wall.

Stone followed him and concentrated on the wall, putting everything else out of his mind.

—

D
r. Don was enjoying his first breakfast back in New York, and his wife, Cheree, seemed to be, as well. “How are you feeling?” he asked her.

“Well, I hadn’t expected to be back in New York this soon. I thought we were going to buy that house and operate over there for a while.”

“Well, yes . . .”

“After all, it’s gotten a little hot on this side of the Atlantic,
hasn’t it? I mean, that magazine piece we heard about is going to come out sooner or later. What was it,
New York
?”

“The
New Yorker.”

“You should never have given that woman the interview.”

“Oh, I don’t know, at least I got my side of the story told.”

“You just wanted to screw her,” Cheree said with a snort. “Did you, by the way?”

“I did not, she was not my type.”

“Oh, Don, your type is anything with a pussy.”

He laughed. “I’ve been accused of that.”

“I thought I was keeping you satisfied.”

“Oh, you are, my sweet,” he said, patting her on the knee. He finished his coffee just as the doorbell rang, and he went to answer it. He opened the door to find the
New Yorker
writer, Lisa Altman, standing there.

“Good morning,” she said brightly.

“How did you get past the doorman?” he asked.

“Oh, we’re old friends,” she said. “May I come in?”

“Of course,” he said, stepping back and admitting her.

“
The
New Yorker
is gearing up to run my profile on you, and I wanted to ask a couple more questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.” He led her into the living room, with its spectacular view of Central Park, and sat her down facing the window. “Now,” he said, settling into a chair, “what can I tell you?”

“Tell me how you managed to get yourself declared persona non grata from Britain.”

Calhoun was stunned. “How on earth . . . ?”

“Oh, you made the papers this morning. Haven’t you seen the
Times
?”

He had not. His secretary didn’t know they were back; she hadn’t restarted the papers. “No. What did they have to say?”

“Only that you, your wife, and half a dozen of your staff had been hauled into court, charged with trespassing and possession of illegal weapons, and fined and deported.”

“Oh, they’ve blown that all out of proportion. We had an argument over a real estate deal, and the fastest way to settle it was just to leave.”

“And not come back?” she asked, while taking notes on a pad.

“That’s just temporary.”

“What sort of real estate deal?”

“We were looking at a country house and some property. Somebody outbid us.”

“And that would be a Mr. Stone Barrington?”

Calhoun blinked. “Ah, yes, he owns an adjoining property.”

“And two of your people were arrested earlier in New York and Connecticut on weapons charges, weren’t they?”

“I’m afraid they hadn’t researched the local laws on the subject. They’re Westerners, you see, and unaccustomed to restrictions on Second Amendment rights.”

“So that’s twice you’ve had to exert your Second Amendment rights against Mr. Barrington? Is there some sort of animus between you?”

“Certainly not on my part,” Calhoun said, sounding wounded. “His son has made a defamatory film about me.”

“Oh, yes,
Hell
’
s Bells
. Nice title.”

“We’ll be filing a libel suit soon.”

“Libel is tough to prove. Are you sure you have enough evidence? Movie scripts are very well vetted by the studios before they’re put into production.”

“I don’t want to say too much at this point.” He looked at his watch. “Goodness, I have an appointment. You’re going to have to excuse me,” he said, rising. “Let me show you out.”

He got her out the door, then went back to the kitchen. “That
New Yorker
woman is back,” he said. “She says they’re running her profile soon.”

“Maybe we’d better go back to L.A.,” she said.

“Not just yet,” he replied. “I’ve some work to do here.” He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

35

T
he following morning, early, Stone got a phone call from Joan. “You didn’t tell me you were redecorating the house,” she said.

“How’s that again?”

“The paint job on the front of the house. Did you order that done?”

“No, I didn’t. What kind of a paint job?”

“Pink,” she said, “with dirty words. I shouldn’t have to read them to you, they’re always on the tip of your tongue.”

“Any messages?”

“Something about Second Amendment rights.”

“Take pictures, e-mail them to Dino and me, then call the police and say we suspect followers of Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun. He arrived in New York yesterday. I don’t know if he’s in a hotel
or home in California. Then get somebody to come in and clean the facade. They may have to clean it all the way to the top to get a match in the brick color.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Yes, call Mike Freeman and ask him to put an armed guard in your reception area, so he can see out the window. Twenty-four/seven, until further notice.”

“I’ll feel so safe,” she said. “I hope he’s cute.”

“Don’t distract him.” Stone hung up and called Dino’s room and told him what had happened. “You’ll have the photos in a minute.”

“What do you need?”

“I need to make Dr. Don’s life continuously miserable until he crawls back into his hole.”

“Sounds like that’s what he’s trying to do to you.”

“Right. I want to trump him.”

“Does he have a residence in New York?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll look into that. The New York State tax department is on a tear about part-time residents right now. They seem to think that anybody who breathes in New York should pay income taxes.”

“What a good idea!”

“Oh, by the way, I got a call: U.S. Customs nailed Dr. Don at Kennedy with something over a hundred thousand bucks and half that much in pounds, confiscated it all, except five thousand dollars, pending a hearing.”

“Oh, grand! See you later.”

Stone’s bedside phone rang. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington, my name is Lisa Altman. I’m a writer for
The
New Yorker
.”

“
Good morning, how can I help you?”

“We’re about to publish a profile of Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun.”

“I’m delighted to hear it. I’m sure he won’t like it.”

“I’m sure, too. I spoke to Dr. Don yesterday and asked him why he is now persona non grata in the U.K. He said it was over a real estate argument with you.”

“Have you got a tape recorder running?”

“I will in two seconds . . . there.”

Stone gave her an account of events since Peter’s movie opened, right up to having his New York house repainted.

“Sounds like war,” she said.

“Does Calhoun have an apartment in New York?”

“Yes, on West Fifty-seventh Street, high up in one of those skinny, impossibly expensive buildings.” She gave him the street and apartment number.

“Do you know how long he’s had it?”

“Since the building opened last year, and he had another place on Central Park West before that.” She gave him the address.

“For how long?”

“Something like ten years, I believe.”

“I hope you’ll include the painting of my house in your piece,” Stone said. “I can e-mail you fresh photos.”

“Thank you, I’d like to see them.”

“Other news: I’ve just heard that Calhoun was searched in customs at Kennedy yesterday, and they found a hundred grand in dollars and fifty grand in pounds, all confiscated, except the legal five thousand dollars, pending a hearing. And that’s after he paid eight thousand pounds in cash fines before departing London.”

“I’ll call customs right away and get a quote.”

Stone had a thought. “How close are you to publishing?”

“Next week.”

“Could you delay it for a week in order to peruse a file on Calhoun from a certain federal law enforcement agency? One that could be anonymously delivered to you today, and the source of which will never be revealed? The Brits saw it before Calhoun’s deportation.”

“I’ll know as soon as I see it.”

“Within the hour,” Stone said, grabbing a pencil. “Where are you?”

“At the
New Yorker
building.” She gave him a room number.

“Bye.” He hung up and called Joan. “Please send the FBI file on Calhoun, in a plain brown wrapper, no return address, to the following person.” He read her the name and address. “Include prints of your architectural photos.” He hung up and called Dino. “Here’s Dr. Don’s address in New York. He’s lived there for a year. Before that he lived at this address on Central Park West.”

Dino wrote them down. “You’ve been busy.”

“Not busy, lucky. I’ll tell you over lunch.”

36

T
wo days later, Dr. Don received a letter from the New York State tax people, demanding his federal tax returns for the past four years and a list of the days he had spent in New York during those years and their purpose. He immediately called his accountant. “How the hell am I supposed to get all this information?”

“I have your tax returns. Do you have a diary or keep a calendar of your travels?”

“Yes.”

“Then extract the information they want and send it to me. I’ll send them a letter saying that we’re working on it.”