The Short Forever(61)

Stone snapped back to the present and made his way down the steps toward her. She was tall, a little blonder than before, dressed in a long, emerald-green gown. Ravishing. To his surprise she met him halfway, embraced him warmly, and gave him a light kiss on the lips.

“Hello, Stone,” she said, nearly laughing. “Are you surprised to see me?”

“I certainly am,” he replied; “what brings you to London?”

“Barbara Wellington and I were roommates at MountHolyoke; she invited me over to see what she’s done with the residence. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes, it is.” But he wasn’t looking at the residence. “And you are more beautiful than I’ve ever seen you.”

“Aren’t you sweet! I saw your name on the guest list this afternoon, and I jiggled the place cards around so we’re seated together.” She stopped and looked at him. “I’m alone in London.”

Stone was beginning to sweat a little, and he was grateful when a waiter showed up with a tray of champagne flutes. He took one and replaced hers with a full one. “I’ll look forward to catching up,” he said.

Then he remembered the other face he had recognized and looked for it. Gone. Lost in the crowd.

“Looking for someone?” Arrington asked.

“I thought I saw a familiar face, but no more.”

She took his arm and led him across the room and out some French doors to a garden. “And what brings you to London?”

“A client asked me to come over and look into something for him.”

“Sounds mysterious.”

“It is.”

“It’s always mysterious when you’re involved, Stone. Tell me about it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. Maybe when it’s over.”

“Oh.”

“How is Peter?”

“Growing,” she said. “You must come and see him sometime.”

“I’d like that very much,” he said. “Where are you spending most of your time?”

“I’ve been dividing it between LA and Mother’s house in Virginia. Peter is there for the summer with her, while I’ve been apartment hunting.”

“In London?”

“In New York.”

Stone began to sweat again and sipped the cold champagne. From inside the house a chime was being struck repeatedly.

“Sounds like dinner,” Arrington said. “Shall we?”

“Let’s do.” The thought of Arrington living in New York again thrilled and frightened him. Immediately, his life seemed in turmoil.



They sat at round tables for ten, and there were at least twenty of them. Arrington knew some of the other guests, having “jiggled the place cards,” and she chatted animatedly with them all, leaving Stone with a thousand questions and no opportunity to ask any of them. Dinner was good, for banquet food, and when dessert came, Stone excused himself and went to look for a men’s room. A staffer showed him the way, and he went inside and stepped up to a urinal. A moment later, the door opened and someone walked behind Stone and around the room, then stepped up to the neighboring urinal.

“See anyone you know?” Hedger asked.

“Yes, Arrington Calder,” Stone said.

“The movie star’s widow? I think she killed him, don’t you?”

“No.”

“How do you know her?”

“We’ve been friends for a long time.”

“Oh, wait a minute, I remember now; you were involved with her trial, weren’t you?”

“She was never tried,” Stone replied. “Her lawyer and I got it quashed at a hearing. She was plainly innocent.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hedger said.

Stone zipped up and went to wash his hands. Hedger was right behind him.

“I saw someone else,” Stone said.

“Who?”

“The man who interrogated me. At least, I think it was he; I only got a glimpse of him, and he wasn’t very well lighted the last time I saw him.”

“Where is he sitting?”

“I don’t know; when I looked for him again, he was gone.”

“You mean, he left?”

“I don’t know; he may have just moved elsewhere in the room.”

“Did he see you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try and spot him again, and find a way to let me know where he is. I’m at table sixteen.”

“All right. There’s something else we have to talk about, but we can’t do it now.”

“How about lunch tomorrow in the Connaught grill? One o’clock?”

“Fine, see you then.”

Stone left first and went back to his table. He took the scenic route, wandering among the tables, and then, over near the doors to the garden, he saw the man, who was raptly listening to an elderly woman seated next to him. Table twelve, he noted. He looked at the man as closely as he dared. Was it his inquisitor, or was he simply a bald, bullet-headed man? Stone wished he could hear his voice; that would complete the identification. The man never looked at him, and he made his way back to his table and Arrington.