Stone Barrington 06-11

anybody?”
    Stone nodded.
    “We’ve got bourbon,” she said, “or would you rather stick to the Laphroaig?”
    “I’ll stick with the Scotch, since I’ve started on it,” Stone replied.
    There was a banquette in the kitchen, and Erica made Stone and Lance sit down there, while she began to put some dinner together.
    “How about spaghetti Bolognese?” she asked.
    “Fine,” Stone and Lance said together.
    Erica put some ground steak on the stove to brown and a pot of water on to boil and began chopping an onion. After a few minutes she had all the ingredients in the pot; she covered it, poured herself a drink, and sat down next to Lance. “There,” she said, “we’ll let it simmer for a while; by the time the water has boiled and the pasta is done, it should be ready.”
    Nobody seemed to have anything to say. If Erica had had any questions to ask Lance about why they had so suddenly abandoned the house, and just as suddenly returned to it, she didn’t ask them now, and neither did Stone, though he was dying to know. In his experience, Lance did not answer questions to which Stone wanted answers.
    “What are you working on these days?” Stone asked Lance. Might as well try.
    “Oh, this and that; nothing startling.”
    “Would you care to be more specific?”
    Lance smiled a little smile. “Nope. What are you working on, Stone?”
    “Zip,” Stone replied. “This is now strictly vacation time.”
    “How long do you plan to stay in London?”
    “Oh, I don’t know, a few more days, to help Sarah get through James’s estate stuff.”
    “Doesn’t she have Julian Wainwright for that?” Lance asked.
    “Yes, but she seems to want my advice, too. Anyway, I’m cheaper—couple of weekends in the country, a few good dinners.”
    The water began to boil, and Erica got up and put the pasta into the pot. “Six minutes for al dente,” she said. She pointed to an empty wine rack. “Looks like a trip to the cellar is in order.”
    Stone gulped.
    Lance sighed, reached into his pocket for the keys, and put them on the table. “Stone, will you bring up a few bottles? I have to go to the john.”
    Stone was reluctant but tried not to show it. “Where is the cellar?”

    “The door is under the stairs. I’m sorry, but the bulb just inside is burned out, and we don’t have a spare; be careful going down the steps. The cellar light is just inside the door; you pull a string.”
    Stone got up and took the keys. “Anything special you want?”
    “There are two racks dead ahead. Those are my bottles; the rest belong to the house’s owner. Bring a few bottles of the Italian stuff.”
    Stone nodded and walked into the hallway, pretending to find his way. Lance walked past him into the hallway powder room and closed the door behind him.
    It was easier this time, with some light from the hallway, and Stone found his way to the bottom of the cellar stairs. He got the key into the lock and took a deep breath; this was going to require a performance; he would have to run back up the stairs, breathless, and report the presence of two corpses in the cellar. He got the door open and, in the dark, felt for the string to turn on the cellar lights. He found it, hesitated for a moment; should he yell out something, or just run back up the stairs to report the bodies? He pulled the string.
    The lights came on to reveal the wine cellar as he had first seen it. No bodies. No bloodstains. No sign that anyone had ever been there, let alone been murdered there. How long since he had left the cellar? An hour and a half? Two hours? He thought about it for a few moments, then did as he had been told: He went to the wine racks dead ahead, the ones covering the office door, and chose four bottles of wine. Then, with two tucked under an arm, he switched off the light, locked the cellar door, and went back upstairs.
    “Find everything all right?” asked Lance, who was back seated at the banquette.

    “Sure,” Stone replied, setting the bottles and the keys on the table. He sat down and resumed his drink.
    Lance got up, found a corkscrew, and uncorked a bottle of Chianti Classico, then put the other three bottles into the kitchen wine rack. He got three glasses from a cupboard and set them on the table, then tasted the wine. “That should do the trick,” he said, and sat down again.
    Erica tasted the sauce, then began setting the table. A moment later, she poured the pasta into a collander in the sink, then, while it