6 Stone Barrington Novels (17 page)

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 Arrington'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.

 

 

 

O
N 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.”

“I like a lawyer who comes prepared,” Blumberg said. “Now, at this meeting, I don't want you to say anything at all.”

Stone shrugged. “All right.”

“It may get rough, and you may feel the need to come to Arrington's rescue, but allow me to make the decision as to when that becomes necessary. If we can get through this questioning without either of us having to speak, then we'll have won our point.”

“I understand. If they arrest her, though, she's going to have to spend the weekend in jail. We're not going to get a judge for a bail hearing on a Saturday.”

“Let me worry about that,” Blumberg said. “And if, for any reason, we can't get bail, I'll arrange for her to be segregated at the county jail.”

Arrington walked into the room, wearing a simple black suit and carrying a small suitcase. “Good morning, all,” she said, and held up the bag. “I've brought a few things, in case I have to stay.”

Stone was relieved that he had not had to suggest that to her.

“Let's go, then,” Blumberg said. “I've hired a limo to take us all in comfort. We'll go out the back way, and we'll enter the courthouse through the basement parking lot.”

The three of them joined Blumberg's associate, Liz Raymond, in the long black car and departed the property by way of the utility gate, unobserved. The ride to the courthouse was very quiet.

On reaching the courthouse, they drove into the underground garage and stopped at the elevators, where detectives Durkee and Bryant were waiting.

“Hello, Sam, Ted,” Blumberg said, shaking their hands. Stone ignored them.

The group rode upstairs in the elevator, walked down a hallway, and entered a large conference room, where the district attorney and two of his assistants, a man and a woman, awaited, along with a stenographer. Blumberg introduced the D.A., Dan Reeves, and the two A.D.A.s, Bill Marshall, who was black, and Helen Chu, who was Asian. No hands were shaken.

“Please be seated,” Reeves said, and they all sat down around the table.

“As I understand it,” Reeves said, “you are here to surrender Mrs. Calder.”

Blumberg held up a hand. “Before any charge is made, I request that you question my client. It's my belief that, when you are done, you will see that an arrest is unnecessary.”

“All right; do you have any objection to a steno-graphic record being made?”

“None whatsoever. I'd also like to volunteer my client for a polygraph; you choose the examiner.”

“Yes, I saw your press conference,” Reeves said dryly. “Shall we begin?”

“By all means.”

Reeves dictated the names of those present and started to ask his first question, but Blumberg interrupted.

“I'd like the record to show that my client is here voluntarily and is willing to answer all questions.”

“So noted,” the D.A. said. “Mrs. Calder, you understand you are here because you are a suspect in the murder of your husband, Vance Calder?”

“I understand it, but I don't understand it,” Arrington replied in a calm voice.

“Beg pardon?”

“I mean, I accept your characterization of my visit here, but I don't understand why I'm a suspect.”

“That will become apparent as we proceed,” Reeves said. “Mrs. Calder, please recount the events as you recall them on the evening of your husband's death.”

“I have only one memory of that evening,” Arrington said. “I remember being shown my husband's body as it lay on the floor of the central hallway of our house. Apart from that single image, I have no recollection of anything between midafternoon the previous day and the following morning, when I woke up at the Judson Clinic.”

Blumberg spoke up. “For the record, Dr. James Judson, an eminent psychiatrist, is available to testify that Mrs. Calder is suffering from a kind of amnesia, brought on by the shock of her husband's violent death.”

“So you have no recollection of shooting your husband?” Reeves asked.

“I would never have shot my husband,” Arrington replied, “but I have no recollection of the events of that evening.”

“So you don't know if you shot him?”

“I know that I would
never
do such a thing.”

“But you don't
know
.”

“Asked and answered,” Blumberg said. “Perfectly clear.”

“Mrs. Calder, is it possible that, while delusional, you might have shot your husband?”

“I have never been delusional,” Arrington replied. “My doctor has explained to me that my amnesia has nothing to do with delusion.”

“Have you ever threatened to kill your husband?”

“Certainly not.”

Reeves took a small tape recorder from a credenza behind him and placed it on the table. “This is an excerpt from an interview with a friend of yours, Mrs. Beverly Walters.”

“An acquaintance, not a friend,” Arrington replied.

Reeves pressed a button.

“I told Arrington,” Beverly Walters's voice said, “that I had it on good authority that Vance, during the filming of his last picture, was sleeping with his costar, Charlene Joiner, on a regular basis. She pooh-poohed this. I asked her if she would divorce Vance, if she found out that it was true. She replied, and these are her exact words, ‘I wouldn't divorce him. I'd shoot him.' And this was two days before Vance was killed.”

Reeves stopped the machine. “Do you recall this conversation with Mrs. Walters?”

“Yes, I do,” Arrington replied.

“So you admit having said that you would not divorce your husband on learning of his adultery, but shoot him, instead?”

“I spoke those words in jest, and Mrs. Walters took them as such. We both had a good laugh about it.”

“But you don't deny having said that you would shoot your husband?”

“Mr. Reeves, how many times have you said, in jest, that you would kill somebody, maybe even your wife? This is common parlance, and we all do it. I had no evidence of adultery on my husband's part. I regarded him at that time, and still do, as a faithful husband.”

“But Mrs. Walters had just told you that she, quote, had it on good authority, unquote, that your husband was actually committing adultery with his costar, Ms. Joiner.”

“Mr. Reeves, I would never accept Beverly Walters's word about such a thing. She is an inveterate and vicious gossip, who enjoys stirring up trouble, and that is why she is an acquaintance, and not a friend of mine. If her husband were not an occasional business associate of my husband, I would not see her at all.”

“But she said she had it on good authority.”

“‘Good authority,' to Beverly Walters, is something she heard at the hairdresser's or read in a scandal sheet. Did you ask her to substantiate this rumor she was spreading?”

Reeves didn't reply.

“I assure you that if I were a murderous person, I would have been much more likely to shoot Beverly Walters than my husband.”

Stone had to suppress a smile.

“Mrs. Calder, did you and your husband ever fight?”

“Occasionally—perhaps rarely would be a better choice of words.”

“Physically fight?”

“No, never.”

“I will reserve the right to present evidence to the contrary at a later date,” Reeves said. “That concludes the questioning,” he said to the stenographer. “Thank you; you may leave us now.”

The stenographer took her machine and left the room.

Stone was surprised that Arrington's questioning had been so brief, and that no further evidence against her had been offered.

“Mrs. Calder,” the district attorney said, “you are under arrest on a charge of second-degree murder. Please stand up.”

Arrington stood, and the two police detectives began to handcuff her.

 

 

 

O
N SUNDAY MORNING, STONE GOT UP AND WENT OUT for the papers. He'd have to arrange daily delivery, he thought. The studio, ordinarily a hive of activity, was dead on a Sunday. He drove through the empty streets, inquired of the guard at the gate where to get a paper, and for his trouble was rewarded with a
New York Times
and a
Los Angeles Times
.

“We get a few delivered for folks who are working over the weekend,” the guard said.

Stone returned to the bungalow, and as he entered, the phone was ringing. He picked it up.

“Stone Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“This is Charlene Joiner.”

“Good morning.”

“As I mentioned at the funeral, I'd like to get together with you; I have some information you might find interesting.”

“All right,” Stone said.

“Why don't you come to lunch? There'll be some other people here, but we can find a moment to talk.”

“Thank you, I will,” Stone replied.

“Do you know the Malibu Colony?”

“Yes, I've been to the Calder house there.”

“I'm six doors down,” she said. She gave him the house number. “One o'clock, and California casual.”

“See you then.” He hung up, wondering what information she might have for him and what “California casual” meant.

Betty had left Danish pastries in the fridge for him; he made himself some coffee and spent the morning reading the papers. The L.A. paper had a front-page story about Arrington's arrest, while the New York paper had a blurb on the front page and an inside story—this seemed to be the standard coverage. Marc Blumberg had issued a press release, detailing Arrington's willingness to answer all questions. “I don't expect this to go to trial,” he said, “if the LAPD does its job, but should it do so, Mrs. Calder will testify without fear of any question.”