Stuart Woods_Stone Barrington 21

the house.” That was the truth.
    One corner of Rutledge’s mouth turned up slightly. “You’re very kind to say so,” he replied, as if kindness were a curse.
    Arrington forestalled any more conversation between them by taking Rutledge by the arm and introducing him to someone else.
    Once the flood of arrivals subsided from a river to a trickle, Stone grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing silver tray and circulated, mustering all the charm at his disposal. He was greeted, in most cases, by some warmth, and in others, by a trace of sleet. He would have to ask Arrington later what caused the dividing line. The eyes of the women invariably darted from console to chandelier to carpet, while the men, mostly, looked for a waiter bearing booze, and they didn’t seem to care what kind.
    A bit after seven, when Arrington judged that enough lubrication had been passed among her guests, she nodded at Somes, who produced a silver bell and walked around the house, singing, “Dinner is served. Dinner is served in the dining room!”
    The string quartet sawed away on some Vivaldi while the guests rushed the dining room and the buffet on the groaning board. Half an hour later they were distributed around the ground floor on furniture, the stairs, and on the floor, scarfing up filet of beef or wild salmon and allowing Somes to repeatedly refill their flutes.
    Stone shared a small sofa in the living room with a plump, beautifully coiffed Virginia matron named Vilia.
    “A beautiful name,” he said. “I’ve always loved the Lehár song.”
    “From my mother’s favorite operetta,” she said, smiling broadly at his recognition.
    “I once saw a production of The Merry Widow , due to circumstances beyond my control, entirely in Finnish.”
    “And how did that come about?” she asked.
    “Well, I was in Helsinki at the time, and I was one of at least two Americans in the audience. I know, because they sold us both the same seat. We compared tickets, and he wandered off somewhere.” He looked up to see a woman passing the piano who appeared distinctly of New York and not Virginia. She was tall, slender, and wore a tight, low-cut black dress with a slit up her leg nearly to the illegal limit. She looked vaguely familiar, but out of context. He thought about it and couldn’t place her. As he watched, she set down her flute and produced, from God knew where, an iPhone, and began snapping pictures of the room, in a manner more befitting a backyard barbecue than a haut monde Albemarle County soiree. She was joined by a lanky young man who reminded Stone of Rutledge, the icy architect, and who, apparently, told her to put away the electronics. She reclaimed her champagne and trailed him from the room, teetering on six-inch heels.
     
     
    Kelli Keane was having the time of her life. She had been to some good parties, but never anything quite like this. There were men dressed in red hunting jackets, for Christ’s sake, over their black ties, and women in ball gowns! Kelli had a very good memory, and she digested as many names as she could, for matching later with her photos. David was being a prick about the pictures, but she had snapped shots in every room before he stopped her. A change in the music turned her head.
    Two members of the string quartet had exchanged a violin and a cello for a guitar and a banjo, and they were executing an enthusiastic reel. They finished to a big round of applause from the guests, then recovered their original instrumentation and began playing “Good-Night, Ladies,” apparently the signal for the gentry to put down their glasses and get the hell out. The butler and three maids appeared, carrying armloads of coats and, miraculously, found their owners. Twenty minutes later, Kelli and David were in their rental car, headed back to the inn.
    “You were naughty to take photographs,” David said.
    “Then I’ll make it up to you by being naughty when we get to the inn,” she said, stroking the inside of his thigh with her long nails.
     
     
    Stone said good night to some guests then turned and spotted Arrington, who had been backed into a corner by Tim Rutledge, and Stone did not like the desperate expression on her face. Stone walked over to them, shouldered Rutledge out of his way, and held his arm out to Arrington, who took it and walked away with him. As they passed Somes, Stone said to him, through a clenched smile, “Find Mr. Rutledge his coat, now .”
    They walked into the