L.A. Dead (8 page)

“Medium, please.”

“Would you like it served in the dining room or in the guesthouse?”

“In the guesthouse, I think.”

“We’ll see you at seven, then,” Manolo said, and left the room.

Stone turned to examine Vance Calder’s study.

Eleven

T
HREE ACADEMY AWARDS GAZED AT STONE FROM THE mantel of the small fireplace in the room. Stone knew that Vance had been nominated seven times and had won three. The room was paneled in antique pine that radiated a soft glow where the light struck it; there were some good pictures and many books. The room was extremely neat, as if it were about to be photographed for
Architectural Digest.

Stone sat down at Calder’s desk, and as he did, the phone rang. He checked the line buttons and saw that it was the third line, the most secret number. He picked it up. “Hello?”

There was a brief silence. “Who is this?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Who’s calling?”

“Stone?”

“Dolce?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you; the Bel-Air said you had checked out.”

“I did, an hour ago. I’m staying in the Calders’ guesthouse.”

“With Arrington?”

“In the guesthouse. Arrington is in a hospital.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t think I should go into that on the phone; the press, as you can imagine, is taking an intense interest in all this. I wouldn’t put it past some of the yellower journals to tap the phones.”

“So you can’t give me any information?”

“Not about Vance and Arrington, but
I’m
fine; I’m sure you wanted to know that.”

“I don’t like any of this, Stone.”

“Neither do I; I’d much rather be in Venice with you.”

“Sicily.”

“What?”

“I was going to take you to Sicily, to show you where my family came from. I’m there now, on our honeymoon.”

“I’m sorry to miss it; can I have a raincheck?”

“We’ll see,” she said, and there was petulance in her voice.

“Dolce, in Venice, you encouraged me to come here and help; that’s what I’m doing.”

“I had Papa and the cardinal to deal with. And exactly how are you helping?”

“I can’t go into that, for the reasons I’ve just explained. Perhaps I can call you tomorrow from another number.”

“Yes, do that.” She gave him her number and the dialing codes for Sicily.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Randy, actually. There’s a rather interesting-looking goatherd on the property; I was thinking of inviting him in for a drink.”

“I can sympathize with your feelings,” he replied. “I’d rather not be sleeping alone, myself.”

“Then don’t,” she said. “I don’t plan to.”

“I meant that I’d rather be sleeping with you.”

“You’d be my first choice, too,” she said, “but you’re not here, are you?”

Stone hardly knew what to say to that. Dolce had been mildly difficult, at times, but she had never behaved like this. He was shocked.

“No answer?”

“What can I say?”

“Say good night,” she said, then hung up.

“Well,” Stone said aloud, “that was very peculiar.” He turned his attention back to the desk and began opening drawers. The contents were pretty much the same as in his own desk, but they were much more neatly arranged. He had never seen anything quite like it, in fact; it was as if a servant had come in and arranged the contents of the desk every day. He looked around for filing cabinets, but there were none. Apparently, all business was done from Vance’s studio office.

Stone opened the center drawer, and, to his surprise, it pulled right out of the desk, into his lap. The drawer was lacking at least eight inches in what he had expected to be its depth. But why? He examined the bottom and sides of the drawer, which seemed perfectly normal, then he looked at the back. At the bottom of the rear of the drawer were two small brass hooks. Then he noticed that the drawer was slightly shallower than it might have been expected to be. He set the drawer on the desktop and looked at it for a minute. There was no apparent reason for the drawer to have hooks at its back. Unless … He took hold of the two drawer pulls and twisted, first to the left, then to the right. They moved clockwise for, perhaps, thirty degrees. He looked at the hooks on the back of the drawer; instead of lying flat, they were now positioned vertically.

He turned the knobs counterclockwise, and the hooks returned to their horizontal position. He reinserted the drawer all the way into the desk, turned the drawer pulls clockwise again, then opened the drawer all the way. The hooks had engaged another, smaller drawer that accounted for the missing depth, and in that drawer were some sealed envelopes, which he began opening.

The envelopes contained a copy of Vance’s will, a note to Arrington with instructions in the event of his death, and two insurance policies, with a value of five million dollars each, payable to Vance’s estate.

He placed the will on the desk and read it. There was a long list of bequests, most of them for a hundred thousand dollars or more. Two, to universities, were for a million dollars, for the establishment of chairs in the theatrical arts, and one was personal, in the same amount, to his secretary, Betty Southard. Arrington and Lou Regenstein had been appointed executors. The will was dated less than a month before. If everything else in Vance’s estate was as well organized as his will, Stone reflected, then his affairs were as neatly arranged as his desk drawers. Stone made a note of the law firm that had drawn the will, then he replaced the documents in the secret compartment, closed the drawer, turned the pulls counterclockwise, and opened it again, just to check. Everything was as before.

Stone then went to the bedroom and searched it thoroughly; he assumed that the police had done the same thing and that the maid had tidied the place after them. Maybe that was why Vance’s desk drawers were so neat. He found nothing but the ordinary detritus of wealthy married couples’ lives—keys, address books, family photographs, bedside books, remote controls. Stone realized that the room did not appear to have a television set. He pressed the power button, and the lid of an old trunk at the foot of the bed opened, and a very large TV set rose from its depths and switched on.

The local news was on, and it was about Vance. A handsome young woman gazed into the teleprompter and read: “Vance Calder’s widow has still not been questioned by the police. Greg Harrow has this report.”

The scene shifted to the Calders’ front gate, where a young man in an Italian suit spoke gravely. “Amanda, police department sources tell us that, as yet, there are no suspects in the murder of Vance Calder, and that his widow is still hospitalized, with no sign of emerging to speak. The investigating detectives want very much to talk to her, but her doctor refuses to allow her to be interviewed. Some of my colleagues in the media have been to every private hospital in the L.A./Beverly Hills area, without finding out where she is a patient. It had been suggested that she may have been taken to the Calder Palm Springs home, or to their Malibu beach house, but both those residences are dark, and during the past twenty-four hours, only one vehicle, a taxicab, has arrived here at the Calder Bel-Air home, and the driver refused to talk to the media. There was one man in the taxi, and he, apparently, remained at the house. Centurion Studios has issued a press release expressing the sorrow of everyone there at the news of Calder’s death and asking that the media leave Arrington Calder alone and allow her to rebuild her shattered life. The Calders’ only child, Peter, may still be at the Bel-Air house, cared for by the servants, but he has not been spotted here. All we have seen here is security, and plenty of it. A private service has the house and grounds completely sealed off, and no one, except the taxi, has arrived or departed today. We’ll keep you posted as details come in.”

Stone switched off the TV set, pleased with the news. He could hardly have written it better himself, but he knew the lid could not be kept on for much longer. He picked up the phone and called Rick Grant’s home number.

“Hi, Stone, how’s it going?”

“As well as can be expected,” Stone said. “Let me give you a number where you, and only you, can reach me.” He dictated the number. “You can also reach me at Vance Calder’s offices at Centurion, as of tomorrow. I’m going to work out of there.”

“Anything new?”

“Not much. Arrington is still under a doctor’s care.”

“How much longer?”

“You can tell your people that I’ll make her available at the earliest possible moment.”

“Tell them yourself,” he said. “That would be better. The lead detectives on the investigation are Sam Durkee and Ted Bryant, out of Brentwood.” He gave Stone the number.

“I’ll call them tomorrow morning.”

“These are decent guys, Stone, and Durkee, in particular, is a very good detective, but unless they start getting cooperation from Arrington, they’re going to begin leaking stuff to the media, and that would not be good for her.”

“We’re not hiding anything; Arrington really hasn’t been up to questioning, but she’s getting better.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Not a thing, Rick; I’ll call Durkee tomorrow.”

“Good night, then; Barbara sends her best.”

“My best to her, too.” Stone hung up and felt a hunger pang. He walked back out to the guesthouse, where he found Manolo setting a small table and the maid hanging his clothes in the closet, having pressed them.

He sat down to his steak and half a bottle of good Cabernet and tried to forget both Arrington and Dolce as he watched a movie on television. He was unable to forget either of them.

Twelve

I
T WAS A PERFECT SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA MORNING, cool and sunny. Stone swam a few laps in the pool, then put on a guest’s terrycloth robe and breakfasted by the pool, looking over the
Los Angeles Times
and
The New York Times
, which had arrived with his breakfast. The Vance Calder story had been relegated to the inside pages of the New York newspaper, and was struggling to cling to the front page of the L.A. journal, but it wasn’t going to go away, he knew. The moment a fragment of new information surfaced, there would be headlines again.

He showered, shaved, dressed, and walked into the house, carrying his briefcase. He retrieved the documents from the secret compartment of Vance’s desk and put them into his briefcase, then he rang for Manolo. “I’d like to use one of the Calders’ cars,” he told the butler.

“Of course, Mr. Barrington, right this way.” He led Stone to a door that opened into the garage, which had enough room for six cars, but held only four: a Bentley Arnage; two Mercedes SL600s, one black and one white; and a Mercedes station wagon. “The nanny and I use the station wagon for household errands, unless you’d like it,” Manolo said.

The Bentley was too much, Stone thought. “No, I’ll take one of the other Mercedes—the black one, I suppose. That was Mr. Calder’s, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. The white one is Mrs. Calder’s. You’ll find the keys in the car.”

Stone had used the black convertible once before, when in L.A., and he recalled that it did not have vanity plates, so it would not be immediately recognized by the media. In fact, he reckoned, a black Mercedes convertible would, in Beverly Hills and Bel-Air, be a practically anonymous car. He backed out of the garage, drove around the house and, using his remote, let himself out of the utility gate and onto the street beyond. He checked to be sure that he was not followed, then drove to Centurion Studios.

The guard was momentarily confused to see Vance Calder’s car arrive with a different driver, but when Stone gave his name, he was immediately issued with a studio pass.

“The one on the windshield will get this car in,” the guard said. “Use the other pass, if you drive a different car.”

“Can you direct me to Mr. Calder’s bungalow, please?” The guard gave him directions, and five minutes later, he had parked in Vance’s reserved parking spot. The bungalow was just that; it looked like one of the older, smaller Beverly Hills houses below Wilshire. Stone walked through the front door into a living room.

A panel in the wall slid open, and Betty Southard stuck her head through the opening. “I knew you’d turn up,” she said. She left her office, walked into the living room and gave him a big hug and a kiss. “I’m glad to see you again,” she said.

“I’m glad to see you, too; I’m going to need a lot of your help.”

“Lou Regenstein called and said you’d be using Vance’s office.” She waved him into a panelled study, much the same as the one at the house, but larger, with a conference table at one end. “Make yourself at home,” she said. “The phones are straightforward; you can make your own calls, or I’ll place them for you, depending on whether you want to impress somebody.”

“Thank you, Betty,” Stone said, placing his briefcase on the desk. “I have some personal news for you; have you seen Vance’s will?”

“Not the new one; he made that recently, and he hadn’t brought a copy to the office.”

“You’re a beneficiary,” Stone said. “He left you a million dollars.”

Betty’s jaw dropped, and a hand went to her mouth. “I think I’d better sit down,” she said, and she did, taking a chair by the desk. Stone sat down behind it. “You didn’t know?”

“I hadn’t a clue,” she said. “I mean, I suppose I would have expected something after fifteen years with him—I joined him at twelve, you know,” she said archly.

Stone laughed. “Now you’re a rich woman; what are you going to do?”

Betty sighed. “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” she said. “Lou has told me I could have my pick of jobs at the studio, but I don’t know. I might just retire. I’ve saved some money, and I’ve done well in the bull market, and there’s a studio pension, too; Vance got me fully vested in that last year, as a Christmas present.”