Dead in the Water

spring the news themselves.”
    “Well, that’s the last story I expected to get in St. Marks.” She looked up. “Here comes Jim.”
    “Don’t mention Arrington to him.”
    “Okay.”
    Forrester ambled up and sat down, tossing a business card onto the table. “Well, thanks a lot, Stone; you got me into a conversation with a life insurance salesman.”
    Stone looked at the card. “Frank R. Stendahl, Boston Mutual,” he read.
    “I barely got away with my shirt. You owe me a drink.”
    Stone waved at Thomas and pointed at Forrester, then made a drinking motion. “So, Jim, you think he’s for real?”
    “You want his whole story?”
    “You bet.”
    “He’s divorced, with two teenage kids; he lives in Lynn, Massachusetts—that’s near Boston—his wife got the house and nearly everything else, and he makes the million-dollar round-table every year. I believe that, too: I told him I was getting a divorce, hoping that would keep him off the subject of insurance, and he had ten reasons ready why a born-again bachelor would need another million in coverage!”
    “I owe you two drinks,” Stone said.
    “You owe me dinner,” Forrester replied.
    “Okay, okay; probably not tonight, but before we leave.”
    “I want to debrief you after the trial anyway; maybe we can do that over dinner.”
    Kramer spoke up. “Only if I can be there, too.”
    Forrester laughed. “It’s a good thing you and I aren’t direct competitors.”
    “Jim,” Stone said. “Does Stendahl remind you of anybody?”
    Forrester looked toward the bar. “Remind me of anybody?”
    “Maybe of Paul Manning, a little?”
    Forrester looked thoughtful. “Well, they’re about the same size and build, but apart from that they don’t really look alike.”
    “Even taking the absence of a beard into account?”
    Forrester shook his head. “Very different in manner and accent, and not at all the same face, even without the beard. What, did you think he might not be dead after all?”
    “It crossed my mind for a fleeting moment. My life would certainly be a lot simpler if Paul Manning walked in here and sat down at the bar.”
    “Well, put your mind at rest, pal; I mean, maybe Manning’s out there swimming around somewhere, but that ain’t him at the bar.”
    “And you’re the only one here who knew him,” Stone said, sighing.
    “Allison knew him; give her a look at Stendahl and see what she has to say.”
    Stone shook his head. “I wouldn’t put her through that.”
    Forrester looked sympathetic. “That would solve a lot of problems for you, wouldn’t it? I mean, if Stendahl were Manning.”
    “It certainly would,” Stone agreed.
    Kramer spoke up. “It would get Allison off, but Stendahl would sure be in a lot of trouble.”
    “Yes, he would,” Stone said. “Although I’m not sure what they might charge him with in St. Marks.”
    Forrester laughed. “It would be funny, wouldn’t it? Stendahl/Manning stands up in court and says, ‘I am the deceased; let my wife go!’ I can just see Sir Winston’s face.”
    They all had a good laugh.

Chapter
48
    I t was their last night before the trial. “Want to go to dinner at the inn?” Stone asked.
    She shook her head. “I don’t want to be on display. I would much rather cook dinner for you aboard.”
    “Why don’t I cook dinner for you instead?” he asked.
    “No, that would have too much of the condemned’s last meal about it.”
    “Come on, I don’t want you to worry about the trial.”
    “I am serene,” she said, and she certainly seemed that way. “I’d just rather do something normal, like cooking. In fact, I’ve already thawed a chateaubriand in anticipation.”
    “Sounds wonderful. Can I make a Caesar salad?
    “Oh, all right, but just the salad. There’s some romaine lettuce in the supplies Thomas sent down.”
    “And I need fresh eggs, olive oil, garlic, some Dijon mustard, and a can of anchovies.”
    “All in the galley. I’ll get the meat started and make some béarnaise sauce first. You can make me a martini.”
    “Pffft! You’re a martini!”
    She groaned.
    “One martini, coming up.” Stone mixed the drink, shook it, dropped an olive in, strained the crystal liquid into a large martini glass, and set it on the galley counter.
    She sipped it. “Mmmm. Just right.”
    Stone mixed himself a rum and tonic and watched as she unwrapped the beef, the center of the tenderloin, pounded it to about an inch and a half of thickness with a meat mallet,