Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels (26 page)

“I'm sorry about that, Betty; this has nothing to do with you, really.”

“That's not the impression I got,” Betty said. “Frankly, she sounded nuts to me. I'm scared.”

“Tell you what,” Stone said. “Why don't you take a trip to Hawaii, do some scouting for just the right place when you bail out of L.A.”

Betty brightened. “You think you could get along without me for a while? Careful how you answer that.”

Stone laughed. “It'll be tough, but I'll manage.”

“Maybe that's not such a bad idea,” Betty said. “I'll get you some help from the studio secretarial pool, then call the travel agent.” She headed for her office.

“Any other calls?” he asked.

“Brandy Garcia called; said his friend has already got your message.”

“I've no idea what
that
means,” he replied, covering his ass.

“Oh, and I almost forgot: Dolce says you're to meet her at the Bel-Air for lunch at one o'clock.”

“Yep. And she said, ‘Tell him to be there without fail, or I'll get mad.' ”

Stone gave a low moan.

Betty picked up her phone and dialed a number. “Try to keep her busy long enough for me to get out of town, okay?” she called to him.

“I wish I could reverse our roles,” Stone replied.

 

 

 

S
TONE ARRIVED AT THE BEL-AIR ON TIME AND WITH trepidations. What will I do if she starts shooting? he asked himself. What if she only makes a scene? What then? He liked to think he had had less than his share of arguments with women, and that he managed that by being easy to get along with. He had a dread of public disagreements, especially in the middle of places like the Bel-Air Hotel.

He wasn't sure where to meet her, so he wandered slowly through the lobby and outside again, toward the restaurant. Then he saw her, seated at a table in the middle of the garden café, wearing a silk print dress, her hair pinned to the top of her head, revealing her long, beautiful neck. Her chin rested on her interlocked fingers, and her mien was serene.

“Oh hello, Mr. Barrington,” the headwaiter said as he approached. “Mrs. Barrington is waiting, and may I congratulate you?”

Stone leaned over and spoke quietly, but with conviction. “There is
no
Mrs. Barrington,” he said. “The lady's name is Miss Bianchi.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, a little flustered. “Whatever you say.” He led Stone to the table and pulled out a chair for him.

Stone sat down and allowed her to lean over and brush his cheek with her lips.

“Hello, my darling,” she purred.

“Good afternoon, Dolce.”

“I hope you're enjoying your stay in Los Angeles.”

“I can't say that I am,” he replied, looking at the menu.

“Poor baby,” she said, patting his cheek. “Maybe it's time to go back home to New York—yet again.”

“Not for a while.”

“But what's to keep us here?” she asked, all innocence.

“Business is keeping
me
here,” he replied.

The waiter appeared. Dolce ordered a lobster salad and a glass of chardonnay, and Stone, the taco soup and iced tea.

“Why are you in L.A.?” he asked, hoping for a rational answer. She began rummaging in a large handbag for something, and Stone leaned away from her, fearing she might come up with a weapon.

She came up with a lipstick and began applying it. “I want to be with my husband,” she said, consulting a compact mirror.

“Your husband is dead,” Stone said through clenched teeth.

“You look perfectly well to me,” she replied, gazing levelly at him.

“Dolce . . .”

“And how is the murderess, Mrs. Calder?”

“Dolce . . .”

“I think I will be quite happy when they put her away.”

“Dolce . . .”

“Vance was such a lovely man, and we were such good friends. I think it would be terribly unfair if she got away with it.”

“Dolce, stop it!”

“My goodness, Stone, keep your voice down. We don't want a public scene, do we?”

Stone decided to treat this as a negotiation. “Just tell me what you want,” he said.

Her eyebrows shot up. “What
I
want? Why, I want whatever my darling husband wants. What do
you
want, dear?”

“I want to end this little charade of yours; I want us to go our separate ways in an amicable manner.” He paused and decided to fire the last arrow in his quiver. “I want to be with Arrington.”

Her eyebrows dropped, and her eyes narrowed. “Believe me when I tell you, my darling, that I will never, ever allow that to happen, and you had better get used to the idea now.”

Stone felt his gorge rising, but the waiter appeared with their lunch, allowing him to cool down for a moment before continuing. “I don't understand,” he said.

“You asked me to marry you, did you not?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“And I married you, in Venice, did I not?”

“That wasn't a legal marriage.”

“Oh, Stone, now you're beginning to sound like a lawyer.”

“I
am
a lawyer, and I know when I'm married and when I'm not.”

“I'm afraid not, sweetie,” she said, attacking her lobster salad. “You seem unable to face reality; you're in complete denial.”

Stone nearly choked on his soup.

“
I
am in denial?”

“A serious case of denial, I fear.”

“Let's talk about denial, Dolce. I've explained to you, in the clearest possible terms, that I no longer wish to continue my relationship with you. I've explained why.”

“I seem to remember your saying something about that, but I hardly took you seriously,” she said.

This was maddening. “Dolce, I do not love you; I thought I did for a while, but now I realize I don't.”

She laughed. “And I suppose you think you love Arrington?”

“Yes, I do.” Funny, he hadn't said that to Arrington.

“But Stone, how can you love a woman who has murdered her husband? How do you know you won't be next?”

“That's a very strange thing for
you
to say,” Stone said under his breath, trying to control his temper. “I seem to remember that you once had a husband who is now dead of extremely unnatural causes.”

“That was the business he chose, if I may paraphrase Don Corleone, and he had to live with it.” She speared a chunk of lobster. “Or die with it. You might remember that.”

“I chose a different business, and I am choosing a different woman.” My God, he thought, what do I have to say to get through to her?

Dolce shook her head. “No, Stone; you haven't yet come to the point where you have to make a real choice.” She chewed her lobster. “But you will.”

“Is that some sort of threat, Dolce?”

“Call it a prediction, but take it any way you like.”

“Why would you want a man who doesn't want you?” he demanded. “Why do you demean yourself?”

She put down her fork, and her eyes narrowed again. “You do not know me as well as you will after a while,” she said, “but when you do come to know me, you will look back on that remark as dangerous folly.”

“That's it,” Stone said, putting down his spoon. “One last time, for the record: I do not love you; I will not marry you; I
have not
married you. I love another woman, and I believe I always will. I want nothing more to do with you, ever. I cannot make it any clearer than that.” He stood up. “Good-bye, Dolce.”

“No, my darling,” she replied smoothly, “merely
au revoir.
”

“Dolce,” he said, “California has a very strong law against stalking; don't make me publicly humiliate you.” He turned and walked out of the café.

 

All the way back to the studio he ran the conversation through his head, over and over. It had been like talking to a marble sculpture, except that a sculpture does not make threats. Or had she made threats? Was there anything in her words that could be used against her? He admitted there was not. What was he going to do? How could he get this woman off his back? More important, how could he get her off his back without grievously offending her father, whom he did not want for an enemy?

He parked in front of the bungalow and, finding it locked, used his key. On Betty's desk there was a note, stuck to a package.

“I've taken your advice, lover; I'm on a late afternoon plane. I'll call you in a couple of days to see how you're making out. A girl from the pool will be in tomorrow morning to do for you, although she probably won't do for you as I do. Take care of yourself.”

He turned to the package, which was an overnight air envelope with a Rome return address. He opened it, and two sheets of paper fell out. The top one was a heavy sheet of cream-colored writing paper. Stone read the handwritten letter:

 

Stone looked at the other piece of paper. It was printed in Italian, bore his and Dolce's names, and appeared to be a certificate of marriage.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

 

 

 

S
TONE CALLED DINO. “DO YOU REMEMBER TELLING ME, on the way to Italy, that there would be two marriage ceremonies, a civil one and a religious one?”

“Sure. Why do you ask?”

“You remember telling me that the civil ceremony wasn't legal until the religious ceremony had been performed?”

“Sure. Why do you ask?”

“Where did you get that information?”

“Which information?”

“The information that one ceremony didn't count without the other?”

“I said one wouldn't be legal, without the other. I didn't say it wouldn't
count
.”

“Where did you get that information?”

“From Mary Ann.”

“Is Mary Ann an authority on Italian marital law?”

“All women are authorities on marital law, in any country.”

“Do you know where Mary Ann got that information?”

“No, why?”

“Because I want to strangle the person who gave it to her.”

“My guess is, that would be Dolce. Good luck on strangling her without getting offed yourself. What the fuck is this about, Stone?”

“I called Bellini to ask him about this. I just got a letter from him, along with a copy of my marriage certificate.”

“You mean the ceremony is valid, legally?”

“Yes.”

Dino began giggling. “Oh, Jesus!” he managed to get out.

“This isn't funny, Dino. I just had lunch with Dolce, where I made it as clear as possible that I was not married to her and didn't intend to be.”

“Let me guess: She didn't buy that.”

“You could put it that way. She as much as said she'd kill me or, maybe, Arrington if I continue to deny the marriage.”

“Well, if I were you, I'd take the threat seriously.”

“I
am
taking it seriously.”

“What's your next move? I'm dying to hear.”

“I haven't the faintest idea.”

“Want a suggestion?”

“If it's a serious one.”

“First, I'd see a divorce lawyer; then I'd watch my ass. Arrington's, too, which isn't too much of a chore, if I correctly recall her ass.”

“Do you have any idea what it takes to get a divorce in Italy?”

“Nope; that's why I suggested a divorce lawyer. Listen, pal, be thankful you didn't get married in the Italian church. Then you'd
really
be in deep shit.”

“Dino, I don't think I ever thanked you properly.”

“Thanked me for what?”

“For advising me to stay away from Dolce.”

“You didn't take my advice; why are you thanking me?”

“It was good advice, even if I didn't take it.”

“Well, I'm glad you remember; saves me from saying I told you so.”

“I'm happy to save you the trouble.”

“Listen, Stone, this isn't all bad, you know?”

“It isn't? What's not all bad about it?”

“You've got the perfect means of staying single now. Every time some broad presses you to marry her, all you've got to say is, that you're already married, and your wife won't give you a divorce.” Dino suppressed a laugh, but not well. “And you'll be telling the truth. Millions of guys would envy you!”

“You don't happen to know an Italian divorce lawyer, do you?”

“Nope, and can you imagine what will happen if you get one, and then he finds out who you're trying to divorce?”