6 Stone Barrington Novels (18 page)

Stone thought that was immoderate; things might change before the trial, and they might not want her to testify. Still, it sounded good now, and helped create the impression that Arrington had nothing to fear from a trial. He was troubled by the D.A.'s reluctance to disclose the evidence against her. Normally, they would use the press to reinforce the idea that they had a strong case.

He passed through the Malibu Colony gate a little after one, then drove to Charlene Joiner's house. A uniformed maid opened the door for him and took him out to a rear terrace. Charlene and another woman were sitting beside the pool, talking, both wearing swimsuits. Charlene stood up, wrapped a colorful sarong skirt around her lower body, and came to greet him, hand out.

“Hello, Stone,” she said, taking his hand and leading him toward the other woman. “This is Ilsa Berends,” she said.

Stone recognized the actress from her films. She was in her early forties, he thought, but in wonderful shape. “How do you do, Miss Berends,” he said. “I've enjoyed your work in films.” He turned to Charlene. “Yours, too. In fact I saw one on the airplane from Milan.”

“You were in Milan recently?” Berends asked.

“Venice, really; I flew out of Milan.”

“Vacation?” Charlene asked.

“Sort of,” Stone replied. He turned to see another woman arriving, and she was another recognizable actress, though he could not remember her name. Five minutes later, two more arrived.

Charlene introduced everyone. “I'm afraid you're going to be in the middle of a hen party,” she said. “You're our only man.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Stone replied. A houseman brought everyone mimosas, and half an hour later, they sat down to lunch.

The conversation was about L.A. matters—films, gossip, and shopping.

“I understand you're a friend of Arrington Calder,” Ilsa Berends said to Stone.

It was the first question addressed to him by anyone. “That's right,” Stone said.

“I also hear you used to live together,” the actress said. This got everyone's attention.

“I think I'll stand on attorney-client privilege,” Stone replied.

Everyone laughed.

“Were you there when Arrington was arrested?” another woman asked.

“I was at the meeting at the D.A.'s office, where Arrington had voluntarily appeared and answered questions.”

“I think she did it,” the youngest woman, who could only have been in her early twenties, said.

“Certainly not,” Stone replied.

“The loyal attorney,” Berends said.

“So far, the district attorney seems to have no evidence against her.”

“Except Beverly Walters's statement,” Charlene said.

Stone was astonished. “How did you know about that?” he asked.

Everybody laughed.

“Because Beverly has told everyone she knows about it,” Charlene replied. “She would never be involved in anything like this without telling all of Beverly Hills.”

“Well, I can tell you that her version of the conversation is different from Arrington's. It was an entirely innocent remark.”

“Innocent, that she said she was going to kill her husband?” Berends asked.

“Haven't you ever said you were going to kill somebody?”

“No, not seriously.”

“Neither has Arrington—seriously.”

“You're sweet, standing up for her like that. You really think she's innocent?”

“I really do,” Stone said. “Or I wouldn't say so.”

“So, what's your strategy going to be at trial?” somebody asked.

“That will be for Marc Blumberg to decide; he's the lead attorney in the case. I'm just helping out when I can and handling Arrington's personal affairs.”

“Oh, so Arrington had affairs, too?” someone asked.

“Her business affairs,” Stone said, wagging a finger at her. “There's an estate to settle and a lot of other things to be taken care of.”

“Didn't Vance have a lawyer?”

“Yes, but Arrington is entitled to her own representation.”

“So, what have you handled for her?”

“Ladies, you'll have to forgive me; I've said about all I can.”

“Oh, shoot,” Berends said. “And there was
so
much I wanted to know.”

“I'm sorry to disappoint you,” Stone said.

The absence of further information seemed to cast a pall over the luncheon, and soon the women began leaving. Finally, Stone was left alone with Charlene Joiner.

“Thank you, Ramon,” she said to the houseman, who was clearing the dishes. “Just put those things in the dishwasher, and you and Reba can go. Thank you for coming in today.” She watched the man go into the kitchen, then turned to Stone. “Alone at last,” she said, standing up and slipping out of the sarong. “I hope you don't mind if I get some sun.”

“Not at all,” Stone said. To his surprise, she didn't stop with the sarong; she unhooked her bra, freeing her breasts, and shucked off the bikini bottom. He noted that there were no sun lines on her body.

She stretched like a cat. She was tall and slender, and she obviously took very good care of herself. Her legs were long, her hips were narrow, and her breasts were impressive.

“They're original equipment,” she said, catching Stone's glance.

Stone laughed. “I'm glad to hear it. You said you had some information for me.” He tried to keep his tone light and his breathing regular.

She settled on the chaise beside his, turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes. “Yes, I do. It may not be important, but I thought you ought to know about it.”

“I'm all ears.”

“Vance and I use the same gardening service, which takes care of the grounds of both his Malibu and Bel-Air houses. The man, whose name is Felipe, was due here on Monday morning to cut the grass and do some gardening work, and he didn't show up. I called the service, and they sent somebody else that afternoon.”

Stone waited for this to become relevant. “Go on.”

“The man who came in the afternoon didn't do a very good job, so I called his boss and asked when Felipe would be back. He said he had called Felipe's house—he apparently lived with a sister—and was told that he had returned to Mexico over the weekend, and he didn't know when he'd be back.”

“Did Felipe also work at the Calders' house?”

“Yes; he worked there last Friday and on Saturday, the day Vance was killed.”

“And he suddenly went back to Mexico on the Sunday?”

“On the Saturday night, according to his boss.”

“So he couldn't have been questioned by the police,” Stone said. “That
is
interesting.”

“I thought you might think so. The man did good work, but once I caught him in my house. He said he was looking for a drink of water, but he wasn't in the kitchen; he was in the living room.”

“Did he know where the kitchen was?”

“Yes, he had been in there before. I think he fancied Reba, my maid.”

“You think he might have stolen something?”

“I think he would have, left to his own devices. I told him not to come into the house again. If he wanted water, he was to ask Reba to bring it to him. There's a staff toilet off the kitchen he could use. His full name is Felipe Cordova; his boss says he's from Tijuana.”

“Thank you for telling me this,” Stone said. “There's something I'd like to ask you; it's a rude question, but I'd appreciate a straight answer.”

“Was I fucking Vance Calder?” she asked.

“That's the question.”

She laughed. “Sweetie, all of the women here today have fucked Vance, at one time or another.”

“
All
of them?”

“Every one of them is a member of the I Fucked Vance Calder Club. The club is bigger than that, of course; we're only the tip of the nipple.”

“Let's get back to my original question.”

“You bet I was fucking him, and loving it.” She smiled. “So was he.”

“Where did these meetings take place?”

“You mean where did we fuck? I hate euphemisms. In his bungalow at the studio; in his trailer, when we were on location; in his Colony house just down the street; and here. Right up until the day before his death.”

“How often did this happen?”

“Every day we could manage it; sometimes twice a day. Vance was always ready,” she said, “and so was I.” She turned toward him and placed a hand on his arm. “In fact,” she said, “I'm ready right now.”

Stone patted her hand. “That's a kind thought,” he said, “but it's very likely that you're going to be called as a witness for the prosecution at Arrington's trial, and . . .”

“I'll bet you could get me to say whatever you wanted me to,” Charlene said, getting up and sitting on the edge of his chaise.

“That would be suborning perjury,” Stone said, trying to keep his voice calm. “My advice to you is to tell the truth.”

“I'll tell you the truth,” she said, and her hand went smoothly to his crotch. “I want you right now, and,” she squeezed gently, “I can tell you want me.”

“I'm afraid . . .”

She squeezed harder. “Stone,” she said, “you don't want to turn down the best piece of ass on the North American continent, do you?”

Stone got to his feet, and his condition was something of an embarrassment. She got up, too. “Charlene,” he said, “I don't doubt you for a moment, but, believe me, it could mean big trouble for both of us.”

“It might be worth it,” she said, rubbing her body against his.

Stone was backing away, but he could not bring himself to disagree. “I have to leave,” he said, turning for the door.

“All right,” she sighed, “but when this trial is over, you call me, you hear?”

Stone waved and walked quickly through the house and to his car. When he was finally behind the wheel, he noticed that he was breathing harder than the effort had required.

 

 

 

S
TONE DROVE SLOWLY BACK TO THE STUDIO, TOP DOWN, trying to enjoy the California weather, instead of thinking about Charlene Joiner. He had read the newspaper accounts of her long-ago affair with the senator and presidential candidate Will Lee, and he had every sympathy for the senator. She was extraordinarily beautiful, all over, and, if Betty Southard's account of her prowess in bed was true, the senator was lucky to get out with his scalp.

He could not make the randiness go away. Just when he thought he had it under control, he passed the public beach area near Sunset, and a girl walking along the sand in a bikini got him going again. Stone sighed and tried to think pure thoughts.

 

As he walked into the studio bungalow, the phone was ringing, and Betty answered it.

“It's for you,” she said.

Stone went into the study and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Stone, it's Rick Grant.”

“Hi, Rick. What's up?”

“I just wanted to see how you're doing. I heard about the scene at the D.A.'s office. Blumberg pulled that one out of the fire.”

“At least, temporarily.”

“It was a shitty thing for the D.A. to do—try to make her spend the weekend in jail.”

“Do I detect a sympathetic note?”

“Sort of.”

“Rick, what have they got on her that they're not telling us?”

“I can't get into that,” Rick replied, “but there is something I can tell you.”

“Please do.”

“They found a good footprint outside the French doors leading to the pool. A Nike, size twelve.”

“That's interesting.”

“The guy had walked through some sprinkler-dampened dirt, or something; there was only one good one, but they got a photograph of it.”

“I learned something else,” Stone said.

“Tell me.”

“There was a Mexican gardener there, on both the Friday and Saturday, but he left the country Saturday night, went back to Tijuana, so he couldn't have been questioned by Durkee and Bryant.”

“That's very interesting,” Rick admitted.

“What's more, another customer of the same gardening service caught the guy in her living room, once. She thought he would have stolen something, left to his own devices.”

“Pretty good; now you've got another suspect. That should take some of the heat off Arrington.”

“It will, if Durkee and Bryant investigate—find the guy and bring him back.”

“I wouldn't count on that,” Rick said. “Getting somebody back from the Mexicans almost never happens. Unless he comes back across the border voluntarily, well, you're not going to see him. Do you know his name?”

“Felipe Cordova, and he's from Tijuana. Had you heard about this guy from your people?”

“No, and that's puzzling; I'll check into it. I'll pass this on to Durkee, and we'll see what happens.”

“I'll tell you what I think, Rick: I think Durkee and Bryant, and now the D.A., have the hots for Arrington as a suspect, and they don't want to know anything that points to anybody else.”

“Could be,” Rick admitted. “Wouldn't be the first time that's happened.”

“Happens all the time,” Stone said. “In New York, and everywhere else. The path of least resistance, never mind who really did it; nail
somebody
.”

“We've all seen that.”