Stone Barrington 06-11

house last night?”
    “There was a TV truck there, but they paid little attention to me.”
    “So they think she’s still there, and that you spent the night together.”
    “I suppose they could draw that conclusion.”
    “All right, I’m going to have to hold a press conference and try to contain this.”
    “I suppose that’s the right thing to do.”
    “The upside is, you were fully clothed and were seen to leave after kissing her, while she remained on the deck. The photograph is a little ambiguous, too; I can claim that you were simply consoling her. The Inquisitor hasn’t figured out who you are, yet; I’ll describe you as a family friend who drove her home from the clinic.”
    “All right.”
    “They’re going to put all this together sooner or later, probably sooner, so be prepared for some attention. Tell me, does Vance’s bungalow at Centurion have a bedroom?”
    “Yes, it does.”
    “I want you to move out of the Malibu house and into the bungalow this morning.”
    “All right. I’m very sorry about this, Marc. It was all very innocent.”
    “Don’t worry about it; damage control is part of what I do. I’d just like there to be as little damage as possible to have to control.”
    “I understand.”
    “Now, listen: I don’t want you to leave by the Colony gate.”
    “I’m afraid that’s the only way out, Marc.”
    “Here’s what you do. Pack your bags into the car and leave it in front of the house, with the key in the ignition. Then walk south along the beach about a mile, and you’ll come to a restaurant. Walk through the building and be in the parking lot at, say, eleven o’clock. One of my people will pick up the car at the house and drive it to the restaurant.”
    “All right.”
    “Now, for God’s sake, don’t wear a business suit for your walk down the beach. Blend in.”
    “Will do.”
    “What kind of car is it?”
    “A black Mercedes SL600 convertible.”
    “Be there at eleven. I’ll call you around noon at the studio.” Blumberg hung up.
    Stone made himself some breakfast, then packed his bags, put them into the car, then showered and dressed in a guest bathing suit. He grabbed a towel and left the house by the front door. He walked down a couple of houses and cut through a yard and onto the beach.
    It was a beautiful California morning, and Stone enjoyed the walk. He was passed by other people in bathing suits, joggers, and people walking their dogs. He got to the restaurant a little early, had a cup of coffee, then walked out into the parking lot. An attractive young woman was standing beside the Mercedes, waiting.
    “Good morning, I’m Stone Barrington,” he said, offering his hand.
    “Hi, I’m Liz Raymond, one of Marc’s associates,” she replied.
    “Can I drop you anywhere?”
    “I’ll be picked up here,” the woman said. “Nice swimsuit.”
    “Thanks, it’s borrowed.”
    “See you later,” she said, as a car pulled up. She got into it and was driven away.
    Stone drove to Centurion, gave the guard at the gate a wave, and drove to the bungalow. He walked inside with his bags to be greeted by an astonished Betty Southard.
    “Well, now,” she said, “you’ve just topped Vance. He never walked in here in a bathing suit.”
    “It’s a long story,” Stone said.
    “I’ll bet, and I’ve got all day,” she replied.

Twenty-one

    S TONE EXPLAINED HIS APPEARANCE. THEN HE POINTED at three large canvas bags on the floor near Betty’s office door. “What are those?” he asked.
    “Arrington’s mail,” she said.
    “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
    “After Vance’s death, his fans kept writing. I’ve got two girls in the back room sorting it now. Those are the bags we haven’t gotten to yet.”
    “I don’t believe it.”
    “Well, believe this: Right now, opinion is running about sixty-forty in favor of Arrington being a murderess.”
    “ ‘Murderess.’ That has a quaint Victorian ring to it.”
    “I guess I’m just a quaint, Victorian girl,” she replied.
    Stone picked up his bags. “Where’s the bedroom?” he asked. “Marc Blumberg wants me to move in here.”
    “Somewhere the Inquisitor can’t find you?”
    “I was just hugging her,” he lied.
    “Come on, I’ll show you.” She led the way down a hall and into a comfortably furnished bedroom with an adjacent bath and dressing room. “Want me to unpack for you?” she asked.
    “Thanks, I can manage,” he replied, laughing. “Go back to your mail; I