Stone Barrington 06-11

reached Sunset, the car phone rang.
    “Hello?”
    “Stone,” Arrington said, “I’m on my way back to Bel-Air.”
    “Why and how?” Stone asked.
    “I caught sight of a photographer on the beach with a great big lens, and I guess it just creeped me out. Manolo came and got me; he had to smuggle me past the gate in the trunk.”
    “All right, I’ll meet you at the house. Tell Manolo to use the utility entrance.” He said good-bye and hung up. How long, he wondered, had that photographer been on the beach?

Twenty

    S TONE GOT TO THE HOUSE FIRST. HE PARKED THE CAR, went into the house and out to the guesthouse, where he started packing his clothes. He had his bags in Vance’s Mercedes by the time Arrington arrived.
    She came in through the front door, took a few steps, and froze, staring down the central hallway. “That’s where he was, isn’t it?” she asked Stone, nodding toward the spot.
    “You remember?” Stone asked.
    She nodded again.
    He turned to the butler. “Manolo, will you fix us some dinner, please? Anything will do.”
    “Of course, Mr. Barrington,” the butler said, and disappeared into the kitchen.
    Stone took Arrington’s hand and walked her to the bedroom. He sat her on the bed and sat down beside her. “What else do you remember?” he asked. “This is important.”
    Arrington wrinkled her brow. “Just Vance lying there, bleeding.”
    “Do you remember anything immediately before that?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Do you remember hearing the shot?”
    She shook her head. “No. Just Vance lying there.”
    “Do you remember the police and the paramedics arriving?”
    “No. Nothing until I woke up in the clinic.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “When is this going to be over, Stone?”
    “Not for a while,” Stone replied. “We’ve still got the funeral on Friday, and on Saturday, we have to take you to the district attorney’s office.”
    “Will they put me in jail?”
    “I hope not; Marc Blumberg’s working on that.”
    “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. She put her hand on his cheek and drew him closer, kissing him.
    Stone pulled back. “Listen to me carefully,” he said. “You and I cannot be seen by anybody being … affectionate with each other.”
    “Only Manolo and Maria are here.”
    “And they’d both be shocked, if they walked in here and found us kissing. If they were called to testify in court, they’d have to tell the truth. Your husband has been dead for less than a week; you have to be seen to be the grieving widow for some time to come; I cannot tell you how important that is to your future.”
    She nodded. “I understand.” She took his hand. “But it’s important for you to know that I still love you. I never stopped.”
    Stone squeezed her hand but could not bring himself to respond. “Go freshen up for dinner,” he said.

    They dined in the smaller of the two dining rooms, on pasta and a bottle of California Chardonnay. They chatted about old times in New York, but as dinner wore on, Arrington seemed increasingly tired.
    “I think you’re going to have to put me to bed,” she said finally.
    Stone rang for Manolo. “We’ll get Isabel; she’ll put you to bed.”
    Arrington nodded sleepily. “I wish you were coming to bed with me.”
    “Shhh,” Stone said. He turned her over to Isabel, got the keys and the alarm code for the Colony house from Manolo, then drove back to Malibu. He chose the guest room nearest the kitchen, unpacked, soaked in a tub for a while, and fell asleep.

    He was awakened by the telephone. Nine-thirty, he saw by the bedside clock. He had slept like a stone.
    “Hello?”
    “Stone?”
    “Yes.”
    “It’s Marc Blumberg.”
    “Good morning, Marc.”
    “No, it’s not.”
    “What’s the problem?”
    “The problem is, there is a very nice color photograph of you and Arrington in each other’s arms, on the cover of the National Inquisitor. She’s wearing a very tiny bikini.”
    “Oh, God,” Stone groaned.
    “Did the two of you spend the night together?”
    “No, we didn’t. I had to go into L.A., and while I was gone, Arrington spotted the photographer on the beach. Her butler came and drove her to the Bel-Air house. I met them there, we had dinner, then I moved out of the guesthouse and out here.”
    “Did the media outside the gates figure out that Arrington left?”
    “No, I don’t think so; she left in the trunk of the car.”
    “Did any media see you return to the