Worst Fears Realized (22 page)

She laughed. “For a moment, you had me believing
you.” She sipped her champagne again, leaned toward him, and kissed him. “I believe you are in my debt,” she said.

“I suppose I am, at that,” he replied.

“I am not accustomed to waiting to be paid; and I always insist on interest.”

“That seems only fair.”

She stood up, reached behind her, and unzipped her dress. It fell at her feet, and she stepped out of it. She was wearing no bra, only stockings and a garter belt, with panties over them. She shucked off the panties and walked toward him.

He began to get up, but she pushed him back into a sitting position and straddled him. She pulled his head forward, and her scent filled his nostrils.

“First installment,” she said huskily.

Stone paid up. For a moment, he wondered what he was getting himself into. Then he stopped worrying about it.

37

T
HE ROOM-SERVICE WAITER SET UP THE
table, opened the two bottles of wine, and left. “Dinner’s ready,” Stone called toward the bathroom, where Dolce was repairing her makeup.

She came out of the bathroom, still having not dressed, and sat down at the table.

Stone tasted the wine, then poured it. “I believe,” he said, “this is the first time I’ve ever dined with a woman who was wearing only stockings, a garter belt, and high heels.”

She raised her glass to him. “To the first of many new experiences to come.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Stone replied, raising his glass. They began their dinner with a first course of pasta with a lobster sauce. “You are an extraordinarily beautiful woman,” he said.

“I know,” she replied. “I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but I’ve been told that often enough to know that
it’s true. Perhaps it won’ always be, but…”

“Yes, it will,” Stone said. “When you finally get around to aging, many years from now, you will do it well.”

“Why don’t you take off the robe?” she asked. “I enjoy seeing you naked.”

“I’m afraid I’ll spill the pasta sauce,” he said. “It’s hot.”

“Coward.”

“Absolutely, where hot food and tender areas are concerned.”

“I suppose you’re right; I wouldn’t want you wounded.”

“Why do you want me any way at all?” he asked. “I’m not fishing for compliments; I’m just curious.”

“To begin with,” she said, “you are as beautiful as I am, in your way. Beautiful men are not exactly scarce, but beautiful, interesting men are. Why did you want me?”

“I didn’t know I had a choice.”

She laughed, a pleasant sound. “I suppose you didn’t. Are you put off by my assertiveness?”

“Did I seem put off?”

She laughed again. “No, not in the
least
. To continue, I liked what I’ve heard about you from Mary Ann over the years. Dino wouldn’t talk much, and he definitely wouldn’t introduce us.”

“I think Dino wanted to avoid complications.”

“It is un-Italian to avoid complications,” she said. “No, he just likes to keep his life, and his friends, as far from my father and me as possible. He disapproves of us.”

“A difference in philosophies, as your father put it.”

“Papa liked you,” she said.

“He made me believe he did. I liked him, too.”

“It is impossible not to like Papa, if he wants you to.”

“A family trait.”

“What are your ethnic origins?” she asked.

“English on both sides, if you can call that ethnic.”

“Ah, yes, Barrington sounds very English.” She cocked her head. “I find it difficult to believe that you were ever a cop.”

“The NYPD found it difficult to believe, too. I didn’t exactly fit in. Dino once told me that the NYPD was a fraternal lodge, and I never joined.”

“Tell me about your family history.”

“Both sides of my family, the Barringtons and the Stones, came from English Midlands to Massachusetts in the early eighteenth century and established themselves in the weaving trade. In the nineteenth century, that grew into the textiles business. They were quite prosperous. My father had no wish to enter the family business; he loved woodworking, and it was all he wanted to do. His father, however, insisted that he go to Yale. My mother was sent to Mount Holyoke, to study art. When the stock market crash came, in twenty-nine, both families pretty well crashed with it. My father left Yale and moved to New York, where he met my mother, who was living in Greenwich Village, painting.

“They had known each other as children, and when they met again, they fell in love. My father
began going house to house with his tools, looking for handyman’s work. Eventually, he was able to open a small woodworking shop, and over the years he established a reputation as a maker of fine furniture. They had many left-wing friends, and my father actually joined the Communist Party during the Depression.”

“I’m doing the math; they must have been quite late in life when you were born.”

“Yes; I came as something of a surprise.”

“Whatever happened to the family in Massachusetts?”

“It petered out, I suppose. My father was disowned for being a Communist; my mother was disowned for marrying my father. The only family member I ever had any real contact with was a great-aunt, on my mother’s side, who, when she died, was kind enough to leave me her house in Turtle Bay.”

“This is an honorable background,” she said, “except for that business about Communism. But many good people were hoodwinked into joining in the thirties, I suppose.”

“He never regretted holding Communist views. He regretted what the Party turned out to be.” Stone looked at her narrowly. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m being interviewed for some position?”

“Perhaps you are, but not the one you are thinking of. I am a Catholic, and my father is a
devout
Catholic; I’m allowed only one husband.”

“Somehow, I can’t imagine you with a husband,”

“Neither could my husband, after we’d been married a while.”

“So what position am I being interviewed for?”

“I haven’t decided,” she said. “Why haven’t you asked me any questions about my family?”

“I told you, I’m psychic; I already know what I need to.”

“You mustn’t joke about such things with an Italian girl; we take them seriously.”

“I will always know more about you than you will want me to know,” Stone said, and he hoped she would believe it, even if it weren’t true. He thought he saw a tiny flicker of fear in her eyes.

“Please,” she said.

They finished their first course, and Stone took their entrée, a crown roast of lamb, from the hot box under the table. Stone tasted the red wine and poured it.

“It’s not Italian,” she said, sniffing her glass.

“It’s a California wine, perhaps made by Italians; it’s called Far Niente.”

“
Dolce far niente
,” she said. “Sweet nothings.” She sipped it. “It’s delicious, and it’s not even Italian.”

“Does everything have to be Italian?”

“Not everything, but Papa believes that Italy is the most important country in the world, even though we have been here for four generations. He tends to think of anything not Italian as slight, of little weight.”

“Do you feel the same way?”

“I am more American, but I understand his feelings.”

“There is nothing Italian about me; what does your father think about that?”

“You are not wine or food or art or architecture.”

“I’m not Catholic, either.”

“He is not so concerned about that. In a strange way, he feels the family is protected by my divorce.”

“Widowhood would free you, would it not?”

She smiled a little. “You are clever. The only reason my former husband is still alive is that my father does not want me to be free to marry again.”

“I see.”

“Why did you telephone today?”

“Your father gave me the number, in case I needed his help.”

“And now you do?”

“Yes.”

“Does Dino know?”

“Dino doesn’t want to know.”

“Your call was precipitated by the incident of last evening?”

“Yes.”

“And where is the beautiful painter?”

“She has returned to her native England. She will not be back.”

“Are you sad?”

“Less so than I was this morning.”

“What help do you want from my father?”

“You know that this Mitteldorfer has disappeared?”

She nodded. “Papa has told me what he knows.”

“Dino had a little flap with the captain of the guard at Sing Sing; because of that, I am unable to get any information from the prison that might help me find him. That, and the fact that Mitteldorfer managed the financial assets of the captain and the
warden, and they are, shall we say, kindly disposed toward him.”

“You want information from the prison?”

“Yes. There must have been prisoners who were close to Mitteldorfer; he was there for twelve years. Perhaps one or more of them might know something about his plans after he left prison.”

“This can be done,” she said. “It will take a few days, perhaps a week. Do you think you can stay alive that long?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“We seem to have finished our business and our dinner,” she said. “Can we go back to bed, now?”

“We haven’t had dessert.”

“I’ll give you dessert,” she said.

38

S
TONE WOKE AROUND SEVEN, HAVING NOT
had much sleep, and found Dolce gone. There was a note on the dresser: “Thank you for an interesting evening. Let me know when you need more information, or another interesting evening. Dolce.” Her phone numbers, office and home, were below.

Stone ordered some breakfast and read the
Times
. Again, he saw the theatrical advertisement by Judson Palmer. He cut it out and put it in his money clip. He checked out of the hotel at nine and ordered his car from the garage, checking the glove compartment to be sure the pistol was there, before relocking it. He consulted the theatrical ad; Palmer’s theater was on West Forty-fourth Street, west of Sixth Avenue. He parked in the Hippodrome Garage at Forty-fourth and Sixth and walked to the theater. A janitor was sweeping out the lobby.

“Good morning,” Stone said.” Can you tell me
where to find Judson Palmer? Where his offices are?”

“They’re right up there,” the janitor said, pointing upward. He indicated a door. “Through there and up the stairs one flight.”

Stone walked upstairs and emerged into a shabby waiting room, where a young woman was sitting at a desk, eating a Danish and drinking coffee. “Good morning,” he said.

She had to swallow before she could speak. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Palmer.”

“Are you an actor? We’re already cast; we open this weekend.”

“No, it’s a matter of personal business.”

“Does he owe you money?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Stone heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and he turned to see a man in his fifties wearing a bush jacket walk into the room, carrying a brown bag. He was overweight and looked hungover. “Mr. Palmer?” he said.

“We’re already cast,” Palmer said, opening the door to his office. “Leave your picture and r/ésumé with the girl; I’ll consider you for the next show.”

“I’m not an actor,” Stone said. “My name is Stone Barrington.”

“Sounds like an actor,” Palmer said, pausing in the doorway. “What do you want?”

“It’s in connection with a man named Mitteldorfer.”

Palmer winced. “Are you a reporter?”

“No, and I think you should hear what I have to tell you.”

“All right, come on in,” Palmer said.

Stone followed him into the room, which was decorated with posters from Palmer’s previous shows. The place had a temporary look; Stone thought that Palmer must move his office from theater to theater, with his shows.

Palmer indicated a chair, then he took coffee and a bagel from his brown bag. “That’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time,” he said. “What’s that guy got to do with me?”

Stone sat down. “I’m aware that you had an affair with his wife some years back, and that, as a result, Mitteldorfer murdered her.”

“I won’t confirm or deny that,” Palmer said. “Are you a lawyer?”

“Yes, but I’m not here in a legal capacity. I used to be a police officer; I arrested Herbert Mitteldorfer for his wife’s murder. At the time, we didn’t know with whom she’d been having an affair, so we didn’t talk to you.”

“Why now? Mitteldorfer’s in prison, isn’t he?”

“No.”

Palmer stopped chewing the bagel. “Then he must be dead.”

“No. He was released from prison recently.”

“Jesus Christ,” Palmer said. “I thought he went away for fife.”

“At the time, life didn’t necessarily mean life; there was no life sentence without the possibility of parole.”

Palmer put down the bagel and sipped his coffee; he looked worried.

“Tell me, Mr. Palmer, did Herbert Mitteldorfer know with whom his wife was having the affair?”

Palmer swallowed hard. “I don’t know, for sure,” he said. “Arlene thought he was onto us, though. She didn’t know if he knew who I was. I was a client of the firm where he worked; I met her when she came into the office one day. It was the only time he saw us together, that I know of, and that was very casual. In fact, Herbie introduced us. Something passed between Arlene and me, though, and I waited outside for her. When she came down, I asked her out for a drink.”

“How long did it go on?”

“Four or five months, I guess; right up until she…died.”

“Did you ever write her any letters?”

“No.”

“Might she have had your business card?”

“No. If you’re screwing somebody else’s wife, you don’t give her things like that; you’re more careful.”

“Just how careful were you?”

“Very. I never went to her place, and she never came to mine. I had an office in the Schubert Building at the time, and she used to come up there. I had a little bedroom and a shower; I was living in Scarsdale, married, and I’d stay in town two or three nights a week.”

“Were you in love with her?”