Stone Barrington 06-11

“No,” he said, “but he took two or three bullets. An ambulance is on the way. Don’t go out into the hall.” He left the room and closed the door behind him, then he started down the stairs. Where the hell was Dino? Stone had been sure he was right behind him when he entered the house.
    He walked into the back garden and surveyed the damage. The members of the band had abandoned their bandstand, and a couple of instruments lay on the ground beside it. A large table used as a bar had been overturned, and the air smelled of spilled booze.
    He saw Arrington and her date come from behind a huge banyan tree, where they had apparently been hiding. Then he saw Dolce.

64
    S HE LOOKED VERY BEAUTIFUL, HE THOUGHT. SHE WAS wearing a short, tight dress of dark green silk. Her hair, nails and makeup were perfectly done, and she was smiling slightly, showing the tips of her perfect, white teeth. For a moment, he thought she had an evening bag in her hand, but on further examination it turned out to be a small semiautomatic pistol with a short silencer affixed to it. Where the hell did she get that? he wondered.
    She was not looking at Stone but at Arrington, and her smile became broader. Stone squeezed his left arm against his side, to be sure the pistol was still there. I could shoot her right now, and this would all be over, he thought. Instead, he managed the best smile he could, in the circumstances. “Hello, Dolce,” he said, trying to work some delight into his voice. He held out his arms and walked toward her. I’ll just hug her. Then I’ll take away the gun, he thought.
    She turned toward him, and her face lit up with a burst of recognition. “Stone!” she said. “It’s you!”
    Then, to Stone’s horror, she brought the pistol up before her and aimed it at him.
    “I could shoot you, and this would all be over,” she said.
    Where have I heard that before? Stone wondered. “I’m glad to see you,” he said. “Don’t shoot me.”
    “Why not?” she said. “I don’t want her to have you.” She nodded toward Arrington.
    “I don’t want him, Dolce!” Arrington cried.
    Stone looked at Arrington. Her handsome escort was edging away from her toward the banyan tree.
    “Of course you do, Arrington,” Dolce said. “You’ve always wanted him. You only married Vance because you thought I wanted him .”
    “That’s crazy, Dolce,” Arrington said, then realized her choice of words was poor. She pressed on, though. “I didn’t even know you knew Vance, when we were married. Come to think of it, I didn’t even know you .”
    Stone took the opportunity to edge closer to Arrington, his arms still outstretched.
    “That’s a gorgeous dress,” Arrington said. “Where did you get it?”
    Trust Arrington to bring up fashion at a time like this, Stone thought.
    “At a little place on Worth Avenue. The shopping is very good in this town,” Dolce replied conversationally.
    Stone edged closer.
    Without taking her eyes from Arrington, Dolce said, “Stone, if you come any closer, I’m going to have to make a decision.”
    Stone stopped moving, but he was afraid to lower his arms.
    “You really don’t want Stone, Arrington?” Dolce asked, wrinkling her brow.
    “I wouldn’t have him on a silver platter,” Arrington said with conviction. “I’m with Barry, here.” She turned to introduce her escort and discovered that he had vanished. “He must have had to go to the powder room,” she explained.
    Stone was beginning to wonder which of them was the crazier.
    “Did you get the shoes here, too?” Arrington asked.
    “Oh, yes,” Dolce replied. “At Ferragamo.”
    What’s going to happen when they run out of clothes to talk about? Stone wondered.
    “And those earrings are a knockout,” Arrington said.
    “I got those at Verdura,” Dolce said. “It’s down a little alley off Worth Avenue, and up a flight.”
    “Wonderful shop,” Arrington said. “I know them from New York.”
    “Dolce,” Stone said, “can we—”
    “Shut up, Stone,” she replied. “Arrington and I are discussing shopping. I’ll get to you in a minute.”
    “I’m so sorry,” Stone said.
    “Yes, you are, and we have to talk about that.” She turned back to Arrington. “I love your handbag.”
    “Oh, thank you,” Arrington said. “I got it at Bergdorf’s, at that little boutique just inside the Fifty-eighth Street door. I can’t think of the name at the moment.”
    Dolce pointed the pistol at her. “Think of