Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels Read online

  “Yes; that should give you some idea of how careful you have to be. Marc Blumberg is coming to the house at three this afternoon; be ready to meet him, and don’t wear a bikini.”

  She laughed. “Touché. Will you be here?”

  “Yes.”

  “See you then.”

  Stone hung up and turned to Betty. “Will you make some notes on the tenor of the mail you’re receiving? I expect Blumberg will want to know about it.”

  “Sure; I’ll go add it all up now.” Betty left the room.

  Stone finished dressing. For the first time, he was beginning to feel some optimism about the way things were going. Marc Blumberg was a considerable force, when aroused, and Stone was glad to have him on Arrington’s side.

  Twenty-two

  HE HAD BEEN DREADING THIS CALL, BUT HE COULDN’T put it off any longer. Stone dialed Eduardo Bianchi’s private telephone number in New York. As usual, he got only the beep from an answering machine, no message.

  “Eduardo, it’s Stone Barrington. I would be grateful if you could call me sometime today; there’s something important I have to talk to you about.” He left the numbers of both the bungalow and the Calder house.

  Then he called Dino. He could not remember when so much time had passed without a conversation with his friend, and he knew he had been putting off this one, because he knew what Dino would say.

  “She’s guilty,” Dino said, after Stone had brought him up to date.

  “No, she’s not.”

  “You just don’t want to believe it, because you think she killed him so she could have you.”

  Stone winced at the truth. “She passed a polygraph yesterday, aced it,” he said lamely.

  “Yeah, I saw Blumberg’s press conference on CNN. I don’t believe it; she must have been on drugs, or something.”

  “The examiner told me drugs couldn’t fool him.” It had occurred to him that Arrington had seemed eerily calm since she had left the clinic.

  “Look, Stone, I’ve been getting updates from Rick Grant, and while they may not have her cold, his people really believe she whacked her husband.”

  “I’m aware of their opinion,” Stone said. “But don’t judge her so soon. I’m here, on the spot, up to my ears in this, and my instincts tell me she’s innocent.”

  “Stone, nobody’s innocent, you know that. Everybody’s guilty of something.”

  “Not murder; not Arrington. She doesn’t have it in her.”

  “Whatever you say, pal.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “I ended it with Dolce last night.”

  “Good news, at last! What made you see the light?”

  “We had a transatlantic conversation that I didn’t like the tone of, for one thing.”

  “And Arrington’s free, for another thing?”

  “There is that,” Stone admitted sheepishly. “It was something I hadn’t expected.”

  “Have you told Eduardo?”

  “I have a call in to him now.”

  “That should be an interesting conversation.”

  “Any advice as to how I should handle it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know; how do you feel about South America?”

  “Come on, Dino; how should I break it to him?”

  “Right between the eyes, dead straight; he might respect that.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Then again, he might not. He dotes on that girl; if he thinks you’ve done her wrong, well . . .”

  “Well, what?”

  “You might not be well for very long.”

  “Dino, this isn’t Sicily.”

  “To Eduardo, everywhere is Sicily.”

  “I see your point,” Stone said.

  “I think everything is going to depend on what Dolce says to Eduardo,” Dino said. “How pissed off was she when you broke it to her?”

  “Pretty pissed off.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe she’ll cool off before she talks to the old man.”

  “Maybe.”

  “For your sake, I hope so.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You want me to take some time off, come out there?”

  “I don’t know what you could do, Dino, except keep me company. That, I wouldn’t mind.”

  “You let me know if something comes up and you need me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I got a meeting; talk to you later.”

  Stone hung up. Why did everybody think Arrington was guilty, except him? Was he completely nuts? Blinded by how he felt about her? He made himself a sandwich in the bungalow’s kitchen, then went into Betty’s office. “How’s the mail coming?”

  Betty consulted a steno pad. “Nearly done,” she said, “and opinion is running about two to one against Arrington.”

  “Swell,” Stone said. He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to run; I’m meeting Marc Blumberg at the house.”

  Stone took the rear entrance, then watched through a front window as Marc Blumberg drove very slowly through the mob of press, through the gates, and up to the house. The lawyer certainly knew how to make an entrance.

  Arrington appeared from the bedroom just as Blumberg entered the house. She gave Stone a peck on the cheek, then shook hands with Blumberg.

  “How are you, Marc? It’s been a long time.”

  “I’m terrific, Arrington, and I hope you are, too.”

  “I’m all right, I guess. How is Arlene?”

  “Very well.”

  “Tell her I miss my yoga class with her.”

  “I know she misses you, too.”

  Manolo stepped up. “May I get you anything, Mr. Blumberg?”

  “No, thanks,” Blumberg replied. “Let’s get down to work. Arrington, I want to talk with you alone at some length; where can we do that?”

  “Vance’s study would be a good place,” she replied. “Can Stone be there?”

  “Sorry, this is just you and me.” He took a folder from his briefcase and handed it to Stone. “You might take a look at this while we’re talking. We’ll be a while.”

  Stone accepted the folder and watched as Arrington led Marc Blumberg into Vance’s study and closed the door. He asked Manolo for some iced tea, then went out onto the rear terrace, took a seat, and opened the folder. Inside was the medical examiner’s report on Vance Calder’s autopsy.

  Manolo brought the tea and left him alone. He began to read. Death as the result of a single gunshot to the right occipital region of the head. No news there. Subject: a well-developed male of fifty-two years, seven months, six feet two, a hundred and ninety pounds. Stone’s own height and weight. Drugs present in bloodstream: Zyrtec, an antihistamine; alcohol content: .03, a drink or two.

  He was surprised at the number of scars found on Vance’s body: two-inch scar over left collarbone—sutured; one-and-one-half-inch scar, inside of left wrist, unsutured, secondary tissue present; two-and-one-half-inch surgical scar, right shoulder; one-inch abdominal surgical scar; three-inch surgical scar, left knee; two-inch scar, sutured, right thigh; several small scars on both hands. X rays revealed some old broken bones—right femur, left tibia, and a broken nose. That, he reflected, had given Vance’s face additional character, kept him from looking pretty. All in all, though, it sounded as though Vance had led a rougher life than that of a pampered movie star. He noted the absence of any cosmetic surgical scars. Vance Calder had been the real thing.

  More than an hour passed before Arrington and Marc Blumberg emerged from the study. Arrington looked decidedly pale and shaken, while Blumberg was his usual, cool, well-pressed self.

  “I’m going to go lie down for a few minutes,” Arrington said, and went into the bedroom.

  “Well,” Stone said, “do you think she’s innocent?”

  “She’s my client,” Blumberg replied, “so she’s innocent.”

  “Come on, Marc, I want an opinion. So far, everybody I know except m
e thinks she did it.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Blumberg said.

  “It doesn’t matter?”

  “Not to me, Stone; but then I’m not in love with her.”

  Stone was surprised at this, but he said nothing.

  “She’s innocent until proven guilty, and I’m going to keep her that way.”

  “How are you going to handle the D.A. on Saturday?”

  “I’m not going to handle him,” Blumberg replied. “I’m going to stay out of his way, and let him at her.”

  “You really think that’s a good idea?”

  “Listen, the D.A.’s questioning is going to be nothing, compared with what I just put her through. I dragged her back and forth across the stones of her story for an hour, and she never budged from it. The woman is a rock, and the D.A. is not going to make a dent in her. She’s a good actress, too.”

  “Actress?”

  “She’ll have a jury on her side from the moment she opens her mouth, and I don’t have the slightest qualm about having her testify. O.J.’s team was smart to keep him off the stand—the prosecution would have gutted him, just as happened in the civil trial, but they won’t lay a glove on Arrington, trust me.”

  “You think it’ll go to trial?”

  “Not unless they’ve got a lot more than I think they’ve got. We’ll find out about that on Saturday morning. What did you think of the autopsy report?”

  “Pretty straightforward. He sure had a lot of scars.”

  “I asked Arrington about that; he did most of his own stunt work. Over the years, it took its toll.”

  “That would explain it,” Stone said. “God, I hope this doesn’t go to trial.”

  “I wouldn’t mind, if it did,” Blumberg said with a small smile. “A trial would be a lot of fun.”

  Twenty-three

  STONE GOT OUT OF THE BENTLEY AND WENT AROUND to the other side, where Manolo was holding the rear door open for Arrington and her son, Peter, and his grandmother, who had brought him back for the service, at the insistence of Marc Blumberg.

  Stone took her left hand, tucked it under his arm while she held Peter’s hand with her right, and led the little group through the open rear door of the sound stage, past a large truck with satellite dishes on top. The soft strains of a pipe organ wafted through the huge space. Schubert, he thought.

  As he led them to a front pew, he took in the atmosphere, which was fragmented, and a little unreal. The cathedral set was not complete, being composed of only those parts necessary for the shooting of a scene. Everything at the rear—the choir loft, the organ and its pipes, the pulpit (or whatever it was called in a Catholic or Anglican church)—looked like the real thing, while other parts of the ceiling and stained glass windows were incomplete. A coffin of highly polished walnut rested in front of the pulpit. Stone wondered if Vance Calder’s body was really inside, or if it was just a prop.

  He deposited Arrington and Peter next to her mother on the front pew, then walked to the side of the seating area and stood. From there, he had an excellent view of the crowd. Perhaps twenty pews had been placed on the concrete floor, and they were packed with Hollywood aristocracy. Stone recognized several movie stars, and he was sure that the others were the crème de la crème of producers, writers, and directors. Two pews behind Arrington he was surprised to spot Charlene Joiner, the costar of Vance’s last film, with whom he had, apparently, been sleeping. At the other end of the pew sat Dolce, accompanied by her father. Dolce pointedly ignored him, but Eduardo gave him a grave glance, and they exchanged somber nods. Eduardo had not returned his phone call.

  Behind the twenty pews was a sea of folding chairs, occupied by the working folk of Centurion Studios—directors, carpenters, grips, bit players, script ladies, and all the other people who made movies happen. Stone counted four large television cameras—the studio kind, not the handheld news models, and he realized that they must be feeding to the big truck outside. A boy’s choir began to sing, and Stone turned to find that the youngsters had filed into the choir loft while he had been looking at the crowd. It took him a moment to realize that their moving lips were not in synch with the music: That was recorded, and the boys were, apparently, child actors. The organist, too, was faking it; only the choir director seemed to truly understand the music. The whole scene was gorgeously lit.

  As the strains of the choir died, and the boys stopped moving their lips, a richly costumed priest (or actor?) walked onto the set and began speaking in Latin. If he was an actor, Stone reflected, he certainly had his lines down pat. Stone was glad the coffin was not open, if indeed Vance’s body was inside, because this was the first funeral service he had ever attended where he was wearing the corpse’s suit.

  The clothes he had brought with him had been chosen for Venice, and Dolce had insisted on light colors. When he had confessed to Arrington that he had nothing suitable for a funeral, she had suggested he wear some of Vance’s clothes, which had turned out to fit him very well—so well, in fact, that Arrington was insisting that he have all of Vance’s clothes, the thought of which made him uncomfortable.

  “Look,” she had said, “if you don’t take all these perfectly beautiful suits, jackets, and shirts, they’ll end up being sold at some ghastly celebrity auction. Please, Stone, you’d be doing me a great favor.”

  So now he stood staring at the coffin, wearing the deceased’s dark blue Douglas Hayward chalk-stripe suit, his handmade, sweetly comfortable Lobb shoes, and his Turnbull & Asser silk shirt and necktie. The underwear and socks were, mercifully, his own.

  The eulogies began, led by Lou Regenstein. They were kept short, and the speakers had, apparently, been chosen by occupation: There was an actor, a director, a producer, and an entertainment lawyer. Each, of course, spoke of Vance’s endearing personal qualities and gift for friendship, but his Oscars, New York Film Critics’ Awards, and his business acumen were all covered at some length, as well.

  When the service ended, the coffin was opened, and Vance’s body was, indeed, inside. Those in the pews were directed past the coffin to Arrington, who stood alone, well to one side of the coffin, while those in the folding chairs to the rear were directed out the hangarlike doors at the front of the sound stage.

  After speaking words of condolence, the mourners divided into two groups—some were directed toward the main doors, while the truly close friends and business associates were sent out the rear door, where their cars waited to take them to the cemetery.

  Stone stood near the rear door and, shortly, Eduardo Bianchi drifted over, while Dolce remained in the line of mourners. Eduardo, dressed in a severely cut black silk suit, held out his hand and shook Stone’s warmly. “Stone, I’m sorry not to have returned your call yesterday, but I was en route to Los Angeles and did not receive your message until this morning.”

  “That’s quite all right, Eduardo,” Stone replied. “It’s good to see you.”

  “I expect that you called to tell me of yours and Dolce’s . . . ah, difficulties. She had, of course, already told me.”

  “I’m sorry that I couldn’t tell you myself,” Stone said. “This is not easy, of course, but I believe it is the best thing for Dolce. I’m not sure what it is for me.”

  “I understand that these things sometimes do not work out,” Eduardo said. “People’s lives are complicated, are they not?”

  “They certainly are,” Stone agreed.

  “I understand that Dolce can be a difficult woman, and I know that Vance’s death has, perhaps, meant a sudden change in your life. I want you to know that I remain fond of you, Stone, in spite of all that has happened. I had hoped to have you for a son, but I will be content, if I must, to have you for a friend.”

  “Thank you, Eduardo, for understanding. I will always be very pleased to be your friend and to have you as mine.” To Stone’s surprise, Eduardo embraced him, then turned and walked back to join Dolce in the receiving line.

  The drive to Forest Lawn was quiet, except for Ar
rington’s patiently answering Peter’s questions about the service and who all the people were. Stone was glad he didn’t have to answer the questions himself.

  At the brief graveside service, Stone stood to one side again, and when it was over, he was surprised to be approached by Charlene Joiner, who held out her hand and introduced herself.

  “I’d like to speak to you privately, if I may,” she said.

  Her accent was southern, and Stone remembered that she was from the same small Georgia town, Delano, as Betty Southard.

  “This is probably not the best time,” Stone replied. “I’m staying at Vance’s bungalow at the studio. You can reach me there.”

  “I’ll call over the weekend,” she said, then turned and went to her car.

  After the service, Stone drove Arrington, Peter, and her mother home to Bel-Air. All the way, he wondered what Charlene Joiner could possibly have to say to him.

  Later, he met Vance’s accountant at the Calders’ bank, where he signed a very large note on Arrington’s behalf and drew a number of cashier’s checks. Now he was ready for the district attorney.

  Twenty-four

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, STONE ARRIVED AT THE BEL-Air house, entering through the utility entrance, as usual. Marc Blumberg arrived moments later, and since Arrington was not quite ready, they had a moment to talk.

  “Where do we stand on bail?” Blumberg asked.

  Stone took an envelope from his pocket. “First of all,” he said, handing Blumberg a check, “here is your one-hundred-thousand-dollar retainer.”

  “Thank you very much,” Blumberg said, pocketing the check.

  Stone displayed the remaining contents of the envelope. “I also have a cashier’s check for five million dollars, made out to the court, and five others for a million each, so we can handle any amount of bail up to ten million dollars immediately. If more is required, I can write checks on Arrington’s account for another five million.”