Unintended Consequences

I didn’t see you again.”
    “Question: who served me the drink?”
    She looked at him oddly. “A stewardess, I guess. Excuse me, flight attendant. I don’t know why they’d rather be called that.”
    “Neither do I. Did the, ah, flight attendant pay special attention to me?”
    “You’re an attractive man, Stone, what do you think?”
    “Was there anything about her that caught your attention?”
    “Like what?”
    “Like anything unusual?”
    She cocked her head and gazed at him. “Are you asking me if she put something in your glass besides bourbon?”
    “I suppose I am.” He returned her level gaze. “The second choice seems to be you.”
    Her mouth fell open. “Do you really think you were drugged?”
    “I’m certain of it.”
    “And you think
I
drugged you?”
    “From your own account, it had to be the attendant or you. Or was there another alternative?”
    She furrowed her brow. “There was that woman.”
    “What woman?”
    “She came down the aisle, looking a little drunk, a glass in her hand. She seemed to spill her drink on your arm and apologized profusely. You were dabbing at your shirtsleeve with a handkerchief, and she was bending over you.”
    “Describe her.”
    Amanda closed her eyes. “Fiftyish, but she’d had work done, so she could have been sixty, fashionably dressed: Chanel pantsuit, hair so good it might have been a wig, bright red lipstick.” She opened her eyes. “That’s all I remember.”
    “That was very good,” Stone said. “I apologize, I don’t really think you drugged me.”
    “But somebody did?”
    “I have no recollection of even being on the airplane, I don’t know why I’m in Paris, and I don’t remember meeting you.”
    “Then why . . . ?”
    “Because I thought you might tell me something. And you have. I’m grateful to you.”
    “Then I’m no longer under suspicion?”
    “You’re off the hook.”
    She clinked her glass against his. “Then let’s start over.”

10
    B y the time they were on dessert, most of the previous tension between them had passed, and they were chatting amiably.
    “Tell me,” Stone said, “why did you buy the book?”
    “I’d read something about it on Page Six of the
Post
.”
She held up a hand as if to ward him off. “Yes, I confess, I’m a regular reader. I didn’t know I would be sitting across the aisle from one of the subjects, not until I opened the book and saw the photographs.”
    “There are photographs?”
    “Quite a few, including some taken at the Virginia house where . . .”
    “Where Arrington was murdered.”
    “Yes. It’s a very beautiful house. Do you still own it?”
    “No. After a feature about the house appeared in
Architectural Digest
, it began attracting interest. I accepted an offer on behalf of my son’s trust a few months later.”
    “Your son’s story was the one part of the book that wasn’t very clear.”
    “It’s best that way. I don’t want him bothered.”
    “Where is he now?”
    “At the Yale School of Drama. He’ll be graduating this winter.”
    “Winter?”
    “He’s on an accelerated course, ahead of most of his class. He and two friends are on a parallel track, and they’ll graduate with him.”
    “Is one of them his girlfriend, the pianist?”
    “Yes, she’s studying composition. The other is his friend Ben Bacchetti, who’s majoring in theater production and business.”
    “Do they all have plans together?”
    “They do. They want to make films together—Peter writing and directing, Ben producing, and Hattie scoring.”
    “Sounds like quite a team. Do you think they’ll get anything produced?”
    Stone smiled. “You’ll recall from the book that Peter’s stepfather was the actor Vance Calder. As a result, Peter’s trust is the largest stockholder in Centurion Studios.”
    She laughed. “Well, I guess they’ll get produced.”
    “Yes, and they’ll make their artistic home at Centurion.”
    Stone paid the bill and they left the restaurant. “Is it too cold out, or would you like to walk a bit?” he asked.
    “Let’s do that.”
    They wandered down the Avenue Franklin Delano Roosevelt, took a right, and strolled aimlessly into a neighborhood of small shops and houses.
    “Tell me,” Stone said, “is there anything mysterious about your life?”
    “Mysterious?”
    “Enigmatic, surreptitious, cloaked.”
    “That’s an odd question,” she said. “Why did you ask it?”
    “Why didn’t you answer it?”
    “I asked