L.A. Dead (11 page)

“Tell me.”

“The story is, a group of prominent wives were having lunch here, when they overheard the owner make an anti-Semitic remark. They told their friends, their friends told their friends, and within two weeks, the place was empty. It went out of business not long afterward.”

“I’ll bet you’re full of Beverly Hills gossip,” Stone said.

“You bet I am.”

“Then tell me, was Vance sleeping with Charlene Joiner?”

Betty smiled. “What do you know about Charlene Joiner?”

“Just what I read in the papers during the presidential campaign. She had once had an affair with Will Lee, back when he was first running for the Senate, and the Republicans tried to make something of it.”

“Well, let me tell you: Charlene is some piece of work. She has cut a swath through the rich and powerful in this town, and she has done it very cleverly, choosing her partners carefully, as much for their discretion as for what they can do for her career.”

“Sounds like a smart girl.”

“Smart, and from what I can glean, spectacular in the sack, in a town where outstanding is ordinary.”

“But was Vance sleeping with her?”

Betty toyed with her drink.

“I don’t think it would be disloyal of you to tell me.”

“Yes, I know; Vance is dead, but sometimes I feel as though he’s just on location, or something, and that he might walk into the bungalow at any moment.”

“If you feel you’d be betraying a confidence, I understand.”

“This has something to do with Arrington, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“It might, before this is all over. It’s important that I know whether this is just a rumor, or if it’s true.”

Stone looked up to see a lush-looking brunette in her midthirties walk up to their table. She was fashionably dressed, coiffed, and made up, and Stone thought her breasts seemed too large for the rest of her.

“Hello, Betty,” the woman said, her voice dripping with sympathy. “How are you doing, sweetie?”

Stone stood up.

“Hi, Beverly,” Betty replied. “Oh, Stone, this is Beverly Walters; Beverly, this is Stone Barrington.”

“Arrington’s friend?” she held out a hand. “She’s told me so much about you.”

“How do you do?” Stone said.

“How long are you in town for?”

“Not very long,” Stone replied.

She fished a card from her handbag and handed it to him. “Call me; maybe I can help.”

Stone pocketed the card. “Thank you.”

“Betty, I’m so sorry about Vance; I know how close you were.”

“Thanks, Beverly,” Betty replied, without much enthusiasm.

“Call me, if you want to bend an ear,” the woman said. She gave Stone a little wave and walked back to her table.

“Steer clear of
her
,” Betty said through clenched teeth.

“She’s the source of the rumor I’m trying to confirm,” Stone said. “She told the police that Vance was sleeping with Charlene Joiner.”

“She doesn’t know anything; she’s just inventing gossip.”

Their dinner arrived.

“Betty, one more time: Was Vance sleeping with her?”

“All right, I’ll tell you about Vance. It was his practice to sleep with
all
his leading ladies, and a lot of those in supporting roles, too.”

“Even after he was married?”

“He never wavered. He’d either have them back to the bungalow for lunch or to his trailer. You haven’t seen the trailer, have you? It is
very
comfortable.”

“
All
his leading ladies?”

“You go back and watch
any
film that Vance starred in, and you may wonder why the love scenes are so convincing. Well, they were convincing, because they had been
very
well rehearsed.”

“And how many pictures did Vance make after he was married?”

Betty counted on her fingers. “Four,” she said.

“You think Arrington knew about this?”

“I don’t think Vance was shortchanging her, if that’s what you mean.”

“This Walters woman told police that Arrington had complained to her that Vance had stopped sleeping with her, and that the reason was an affair with Charlene Joiner.”

Betty shook her head. “That just doesn’t ring true. Vance was a sexual athlete his whole life. He was in superb physical condition, and he
loved
sex. He could have made a very nice living doing porno movies, because he had both the equipment and the endurance for the work. It’s much more likely that Arrington would have complained of
too much
sex, rather than not enough.”

“How do you know about all this?”

“Because I know
everything
about Vance Calder. I worked for him for fifteen years, and I got the job while in bed with him. I was a script girl on one of his pictures, and we were fucking each other for most of the shoot. Toward the end of the picture, he offered me the job. He told me, quite frankly, that our little affair was going to end with the wrap, and I knew he was telling the truth. I took the job, because it was better than the one I had, and we didn’t make love again. But he never kept secrets from me. Maybe that’s why he left me the million dollars—because he knew I could make that much writing a tell-all book. I could, too.”

“I’ll bet you could.”

“So, now you know what you want to know?”

“I do.”

“Now you tell me something,” she said.

“Anything.”

“The last time you were in L.A., you and I had a rather delicious time together.”

“We certainly did.”

“Why do I get the feeling that isn’t going to happen this time?”

“Things have changed,” Stone said. He told her about Dolce and why he had been in Venice.

Betty nodded. “I understand,” she said. “I don’t like it much, but I understand.”

“Thank you for not liking it,” Stone replied.

Sixteen

S
TONE SLIPPED INTO THE ESTATE THROUGH THE UTILITY entrance, parked his car in back and walked to the guesthouse. He got out of yesterday’s clothes, slipped into a robe, called Manolo, and ordered breakfast. As soon as he set down the phone, it rang.

“Hello?”

“Stone?” It was Arrington, and she sounded agitated. “I’ve been trying to reach you since last night—where have you been?”

“Right here,” he lied. “I was tired, so I unhooked the phone. I just plugged it in again so I could order breakfast. How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling very well, thank you. The doctor says I can leave this morning. He wants to check me over once more, but I should be ready to go by ten. Will you come and get me, please?”

“Of course. I’ll be there at ten sharp.”

“Oh, good. Will you bring me some clothes? Ask Isabel, the maid, to put together an outfit—slacks and a blouse, shoes, stockings, and underwear. They brought me here practically naked, and I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Sure. I’ll call Isabel, and I’ll see you there at ten.” He started to tell her he was moving out of the house, but he thought it might be best to wait until he saw her.

“See you then, darling,” she said and hung up.

Stone called the maid and asked her to put the clothing into his car; then, as he promised he would, he called Sam Durkee at the Brentwood station.

“Durkee.”

“Morning, Sam. It’s Stone Barrington.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You asked me to let you know when Mrs. Calder was leaving the clinic; it’s this morning.” He paused for a moment, native caution coming into play. “At ten-thirty.”

“Hey, Ted,” Durkee called out, “Vance Calder’s widow is getting out at ten-thirty.” His voice returned to the receiver. “Thanks for letting us know,” he said.

“Do you need to speak with her again?” Stone asked.

“Not at the moment.”

“If you do, call me at Centurion Studios, and I’ll arrange it. The operator there will find me.”

“Sure thing.”

“Good-bye.” Stone hung up, wishing he hadn’t called Durkee; he had a funny feeling about this.

At nine-fifteen, as Stone was finishing breakfast, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Stone? It’s Jim Judson, at the clinic.”

“Morning, Jim; is Arrington still going to be ready to leave at ten?”

“I’m not sure if you’ll want her to,” Judson replied. “As we speak, the press is gathering outside. There are three television vans with satellite dishes, and at least a dozen reporters.”

“Ah,” Stone said, once again regretting his call to Durkee. “I think this calls for a change in plans.”

“I thought you might think so.”

“Is there another way out of the building besides the front door?”

“We have a small parking lot for staff at the west end of the building. You enter it from near the front door, but the exit is around the corner. From my office, I can see media people staking that out, too, but only a handful of them.”

Stone had a look at his street map of Beverly Hills. “All right, here’s what we do,” Stone said. “Can you find a nurse’s uniform that will fit Arrington?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Get her dressed in the uniform, cap and all, and borrow a car—the older and more modest, the better—from one of your staff. Have Arrington walk out to the parking lot, get into the car, and leave by the side-street exit. Have her turn left, then take her first right. I’ll be waiting there. She’ll leave the borrowed car there for you to pick up.”

“All right. When do you want her to leave the building?”

Stone looked at his watch. “Half an hour?”

“Fine.”

“How is she this morning?”

“She’s all right, but you might still find her a little fragile. She still hasn’t remembered anything between her hair appointment the day before the murder and waking up here the day after.”

“Thanks, Jim; I’ll speak to you later, if I have any questions.” Stone hung up, then checked his map again. He’d have to pass a corner near the clinic to position himself where he wanted to be; he hoped his car would be anonymous enough. He called Manolo. “I’d like to take the station wagon today,” he said.

“Of course, Mr. Barrington; I’ll have Isabel put the clothes in that car. The keys are in it.”

Stone drove out the utility exit and made his way toward the Judson Clinic. He had to stop at a traffic light on the corner half a block from the clinic, and as he waited, Sam Durkee and Ted Bryant drove past him on the cross street, toward the clinic. “You sons of bitches,” Stone muttered. The light changed and he drove straight ahead, past the exit from the employees’ parking lot, which a small group of reporters had staked out. He turned right at the next corner and pulled over, leaving the engine running.

Ten minutes passed, and, right on time, Arrington appeared, driving an elderly Honda. She parked the car, ran over to the Mercedes station wagon, and got in. “Thank you for getting me out of there, Stone,” she said, planting a kiss on his cheek.

Stone pulled out of his parking space. “Your clothes are in the backseat. Did anybody recognize you?”

“Nope; they hardly gave me a glance. I wasn’t what they were expecting, I guess.” She began undressing.

Stone tried to keep his eyes straight ahead and failed. “I don’t think we should go to the Bel-Air house,” he said.

“Shall we just check into a motel, then?” she suggested.

“How about the Malibu house?”

“I don’t have a key with me.”

“Betty gave me one; I was going to move out there today.”

“All right, let’s go to Malibu; I have clothes and everything I need out there, except maybe some groceries.”

Stone made his way to the freeway, then got off at Santa Monica Boulevard and drove toward the ocean. Soon, they were on the Pacific Coast Highway.

“God!” Arrington exclaimed. “It feels so good to be out of that place.”

“Seemed like a very nice place,” Stone said.

“Oh, it is, and they were wonderful to me, but I still felt like a prisoner. Now I feel free again!” She turned to him. “Why were you going to move to the Malibu house? Weren’t you comfortable in Bel-Air?”

“Oh, yes, and Manolo was taking very good care of me. But, at the moment, it’s important that you and I not be living under the same roof.”

“Why not?”

“You’re going to be under a lot of scrutiny for a while, and having an old boyfriend living at your house would give the press just a little too much to write about.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “God, but I hate living under a microscope. How long is this going to go on?”

“Weeks, maybe months. If the police find Vance’s killer, that will help it go away. How is Peter?”

“He’s wonderful. We talked this morning, and he’s having a great time in Virginia. Mother keeps horses, and she has a pony for him. I want him to stay there until this is over.”

“That’s a good idea, I think.”

“Drive straight through the town,” she said. “The house is in the Malibu Colony, just past the little business district.”

Stone followed her instructions, and turned through a gate, where they were stopped by a security guard.

“It’s me, Steve,” she said to the man.

“Welcome back, Mrs. Calder,” he replied.

“If anybody asks, I’m not here,” she said. “This is Mr. Barrington; he’ll be coming and going.”

“I’ll put his name on the list.”

Stone followed Arrington’s directions to the house, a large stone and cedar contemporary on the beach. He gave her the key, and she opened the door and punched in the security code. He made a note of the code.

Stone went to the phone and called Betty.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I’ve taken Arrington to the Malibu house; there was a mob of press at the clinic.”

“The police have called here twice.”

“Guy named Durkee?”

“That’s right.”

“If he calls again, tell him you haven’t heard from me today.”

“All right; are you coming in at all?”

“Maybe later.” He gave her his cell phone number. “You can reach me there in an emergency. If you call here, let it ring once, hang up, and call again.”