Cold Paradise 07

by Stuart Woods

  “Thank you. I’m here, on Thad Shames’s behalf, to inquire about a Mr. Paul Bartlett, of Minneapolis. You know him, I believe.”

  “Yes, of course,” Wilkes replied. “For several years.”

  “May I ask just how many years?”

  “Well, let’s see: He had a design business in Minneapolis, and he and his partner made a presentation to us, oh, a little over two years ago. That’s when we first met. We hired them to redesign all our paper products—plates, sandwich cartons, the hats for the counter people, that sort of thing. Why do you want to know about Paul? Is he in some sort of difficulties?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that. It’s just that he bears a resemblance to someone I used to know and that Thad is interested in. We only want to know that he’s who he says he is.”

  “I see,” Wilkes said. Clearly, he did not. “Who did you think he might be?”

  “Did you meet Mrs. Winston Harding at Thad Shames’s party?”

  “No.”

  “Mrs. Harding is a close friend of Thad’s. The man we’re interested in was someone she knew in the past, who dropped out of sight a few years ago. No one knows what happened to him, but there are indications that he might be in Palm Beach. Someone noticed that Mr. Bartlett resembled this man, whose name is Paul Manning.”

  “Well, why don’t you ask Paul about this?”

  “I did, last night, but he pretty much denied being Manning.”

  “But you’re not convinced?”

  “Thad has asked me to investigate the possibility that Bartlett and Manning are the same man.”

  “Then why don’t you arrange for Paul and Mrs. Harding to meet? Surely that would answer the question.”

  “I had hoped to do that, but Mrs. Harding doesn’t wish to see him. Also, Mr. Bartlett checked out of his hotel this morning.”

  “That’s news to me,” Wilkes said.

  “I just wondered if you had any knowledge of Bartlett’s background before you first met him.”

  “I saw a résumé at the time,” Wilkes said. “He had a broad background in advertising and graphics design, worked for several places in New York, as I recall.”

  “Did you check with any of his former employers for a reference?”

  “No. We would ordinarily do that with a prospective employee, but we dealt with Paul as an outside contractor, and frankly, we were more interested in the presentation he prepared for us than in what he had done in the past. We were very enthusiastic about the work, and that was all that mattered.”

  “Do you know anyone who has known Paul Bartlett much longer than you have?”

  Wilkes thought about that for a moment. “No, I don’t believe I do.”

  “Did you know Mr. Bartlett’s wife?”

  Margaret Wilkes spoke up. “Oh, yes. In fact, we introduced them. Such a shame about Frances.”

  “I understand she’s deceased?”

  “Yes, in an accident last year. Terrible thing.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “She and Paul were out driving on a Sunday afternoon, and they swerved to miss hitting a deer. Frances was thrown through the windshield and killed instantly.”

  “Who was driving?”

  “Paul was, but he was wearing a seat belt.”

  “There was no passenger-side air bag,” Wilkes said, “and apparently the buckle on Frances’s seat belt failed or was defective. I urged Paul to sue the car company, but he didn’t have the heart. He just wanted to put it behind him. That’s why he sold his company.”

  “Do you know if he made a lot of money on the sale?”

  “I shouldn’t think so; they were a fairly new company. I think the people who bought them wanted the talent they employed and me for a client more than anything else. Of course, Paul would be quite well fixed, though.”

  “How is that?” Stone asked.

  “Well, Frances was very wealthy. She’d lost her husband a few months before she and Paul met, and he’d left a considerable fortune.”

  “I see,” Stone said.

  “Mr. Barrington,” Margaret Wilkes said, “you’re beginning to frighten me. Are you thinking that Paul might somehow have caused Frances’s death?”

  “At this moment, I have no real reason to think so, Mrs. Wilkes. I’m simply concerned with learning whether he is, or once was, Paul Manning.”

  “This Manning,” Wilkes said, “what was his relationship to Mrs. Harding?”

  “He was her first husband.”

  “And what sort of man is he?”

  “Not a very nice one, I’m afraid.”

  “Was this just some domestic dispute?”

  “More than that,” Stone said. “Manning murdered three people.”

  “Good God!” Wilkes said. “He’s dangerous, then?”

  “Manning certainly is, but please remember, I have no evidence yet that Manning and Bartlett are the same man.”

  “Well, I hope to God you’ll find out!” Wilkes said.

  “I know this is upsetting to you and Mrs. Wilkes,” Stone said, “and I apologize for that.”

  “No, no, if Paul is this Manning, then we certainly want to know. I assume you’ll have him arrested.”

  “We’ll take whatever measures are appropriate,” Stone said.

  “I’ll hardly know what to say to Paul when we see him,” Mrs. Wilkes said.

  “Do you expect to see him anytime soon?”

  “Why, yes. He’s coming to dinner tonight.”

  “Here, in this house?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Wilkes spoke up. “Perhaps you’d better come, too,” he said.

  22

  THE THREE OF THEM STOOD ON THE AFTERDECK, STONE in black tie, Callie in a silk dress and Liz in a terry robe.

  “I wish you’d come with us,” Stone said to Liz.

  Liz shook her head. “I don’t want to see him,” she said.

  Callie patted her small purse. “I’ve got a camera in here,” she said. “I’ll get his picture.”

  “All right, let’s go,” Stone said. “I’ve no idea what time we’ll be back, but I’ve asked Juanito to keep an eye on you.”

  “Thank you, Stone,” Liz said.

  Stone and Callie walked to the car and drove north.

  “What do you think is going to happen?” Callie said.

  “I don’t think anything will happen. I’ll contrive to stand next to Bartlett, and you’ll take our photograph, come hell or high water.”

  “Have you alerted the police?”

  “No. If he is Manning, he’s not charged with anything. I just want an opportunity to get him alone and to put an offer to him.”

  “What sort of offer?”

  “Liz is willing to pay him to go away.”

  “Oh. And you think that will work?”

  “I can only hope so.”

  “What if he still denies being Manning?”

  “I’ve got a friend in New York working on Bartlett’s background. Maybe we’ll be able to present him with some evidence that he’s not who he says he is.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Probably not that soon, although my friend has my cell phone number.”

  “This is kind of exciting,” Callie said, giggling.

  “All in a day’s work,” Stone said drily.

  The gates of the Wilkes house were open, and a valet took their car. Stone and Callie walked into the house and were greeted by Frank and Margaret Wilkes in the foyer.

  “Stone, Callie, welcome,” Mrs. Wilkes said.

  “Thank you for asking us, Margaret,” Stone replied. “Is he here yet?”

  “No. In fact, he called and said he couldn’t make it in time for drinks, but he’d be here for dinner.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No. Why don’t you two go on out to the terrace and have a drink. Frank and I will be along as soon as all our guests have arrived.”

  “Thank you, we will.” Stone led Callie through the house and out to the same ter
race where they had sat earlier that day. A dozen couples had already arrived and were drinking and talking to the tune of a light jazz trio, which was set up beside the pool.

  Callie saw some people she knew and introduced Stone. A waiter brought them drinks, and they chatted with the other guests. Soon the crowd had swelled to around fifty, and the Wilkeses joined their guests on the terrace.

  Margaret Wilkes tugged at Stone’s sleeve and whispered, “I’ve arranged the place cards so that you and Paul are at the same table.”

  “Thank you,” Stone said.

  Conversation continued for another half hour, then they were called to dinner. The very large dining hall had been set up with tables of eight, and Stone and Callie found their place cards and Paul Bartlett’s. Callie was seated next to Bartlett, and Stone was two places away. They had barely introduced themselves to their dinner partners and sat down, when Paul Bartlett entered the dining room, stopped to kiss his hostess on the cheek, then made his way to his place.

  He looked surprised to find Stone and Callie there. They shook hands. “I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon, Stone,” he said. “How did you come to be here?”

  “Callie is a friend of the Wilkeses,” Stone said. “They were kind enough to ask us.”

  “Oh,” he replied, but he didn’t seem satisfied with the answer.

  The first course was served, and Stone and Callie exchanged a glance and a shrug. No opportunity to get a photograph at dinner. It would have to be later.

  The woman on Stone’s right was deep in conversation with Bartlett, to the exclusion of Stone, who had to occupy himself with the dinner companion on his left, a handsome woman in her seventies.

  “And who are you?” she asked him, with a touch of imperiousness.

  “My name is Stone Barrington.”

  “And how do you know the Wilkeses?” There was suspicion in the question.

  “My companion for the evening is a friend of theirs,” Stone said, nodding in Callie’s direction.

  “Goodness,” the woman said, taking in Callie. “One wouldn’t think she would need a walker.”

  “A walker?” Stone asked.

  “Isn’t that what you are?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you do, darling. My name is Lila Baldwin. Perhaps you could give me your card, for the future?” She nodded toward her own date, a sleekly handsome man in his thirties, who sat next to Callie. “I’m afraid I’ve had about all of Carlton that I can bear for one season.”

  Stone gave the woman his card, then the penny dropped. The woman thought he was for hire as an escort, maybe more. “If you should ever need an attorney, please call me,” he said.

  “Attorney?” She looked at the card, holding it at arm’s length. She apparently didn’t want to be seen in her glasses.

  “Woodman and Weld, in New York,” Stone said.

  She looked at him more closely, squinting. “Your firm did my estate planning,” she said. “A lovely man named William Eggers.”

  “I know him well,” Stone said.

  “You don’t look like an estate planner,” she said, accusingly.

  “No, that’s a little out of my line,” he replied. “I’m more of a generalist.”

  “And what sort of problem would I hire you for?” she asked.

  “Oh, nothing specific. If you should have a problem of any sort, call Bill Eggers, and he’ll know if I’m your man.”

  “Oh, I think you could be my man, no matter what my problem was,” she said.

  Stone was trying to come up with an answer to that when his tiny cell phone, clipped to his waistband, began to vibrate silently. “Would you excuse me for just a moment?” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He stood up and walked toward the dining room door, fishing out the phone and opening it, but keeping it concealed in his hand until he was out in the hall.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” Bob Berman said.

  “Have you got something?”

  “This guy’s an amateur,” Bob said. “His identity is paper thin. There’s nothing in his credit report going back more than two and a half years. His driver’s license is green as grass, and he’s only got one credit card, one of those that’s guaranteed by a savings account. No mortgage or bank loans on the record, only a car loan, from a high-interest loan company.”

  “His design company must have done business with a bank.”

  “Probably, but I’ll bet his partner did all the financial stuff. Bartlett would never survive even the most minimal credit check for any substantial business. There’s not even a history of other bank accounts, nothing in the New York credit bureaus, either.”

  “Anything on who he really is?”

  “If you can get a fingerprint on a bar glass or something, I could run that. Otherwise, I’ll need a lot more time to nail him down.”

  “I’ll have a shot at it,” Stone said. “Call me if you come up with anything else.”

  “Will do.”

  Stone returned to his table, stopping to whisper in Callie’s ear. “It’s looking good. When dinner’s over, try to slip a glass or something with his fingerprints on it into your purse.”

  “Love to,” she said.

  Stone returned to his seat and the attentions of Lila Baldwin, glancing at Paul Bartlett, who seemed to be having a good time. Stone wanted to end his good time.

  23

  THE WOMAN SITTING BETWEEN STONE AND PAUL Bartlett got up between courses and went to the powder room, and Stone took the opportunity.

  “Paul, I was out at the airport this morning. Did I see you leave in a BMW?”

  Bartlett looked at him as if Stone had seriously invaded his privacy. “Were you following me?” he demanded.

  “Of course not,” Stone said. “I was at the airport, and I saw you. that’s all. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Bartlett waved a hand. “Sorry. I guess I’m being paranoid.”

  Stone wondered what he had to be paranoid about.

  “I took my rental car back to Hertz. I bought a car this morning, and the salesman picked me up and drove me to the dealership.”

  “Oh, what did you buy?”

  “A Bentley.”

  “Very nice.”

  “Were you considering one?”

  “No, the Bentley is out of my league. If you’re making that sort of investment, you must have decided to stay on in Palm Beach.”

  “Well, I am looking for a house.”

  Callie was on her feet, digging into her purse. “Let me get a shot of you two,” she said. “Stone, move over a seat.”

  Bartlett waved her away. “No, please. I don’t enjoy being photographed.” When Callie seemed to persist, he nearly barked at her. “Sit down,” he said. “Please. I take a Muslim view of photography: It steals one’s soul.”

  “If one has a soul,” Stone said.

  Bartlett shot a glance at Stone, picked up a liqueur glass, downed the contents and stood up. “Excuse me,” he said.

  “You’re not leaving,” Callie said.

  “Terrible headache,” Bartlett replied.

  “Still at the Chesterfield?” Stone asked.

  “Sure, call me anytime. Good night.” He strode toward his hostess’s table, spoke to her for a moment, kissed her on the cheek and left the room.

  Callie reached over, picked up the small liqueur glass, wrapped it in a tissue from her purse and dropped it into her bag. “Better than a photograph,” she said.

  Stone looked up to see Frank Wilkes coming toward them. He sat down in Bartlett’s chair. “Paul has abandoned us, I see.”

  “Yes, he seemed uncomfortable.”

  “Stone, after speaking with him, do you think he may be the man you’re looking for?”

  “I think he may be,” Stone said, “but even if he’s not, he’s not the man he says he is.”

  “Then who is he?”

  “I hope to know more about that soon, Frank. I’ll let you
know when I find out.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Margaret and I introduced him to Frances, his wife, and the thought that he might have had something to do with her death is, naturally, very disturbing to us.”

  “I can understand that. Can you tell me everything you remember about the accident?”

  “It was on a Sunday afternoon, I remember. Paul and I had a golf date, and Frances picked him up at the clubhouse when we had finished—must have been around six. They were on the way home when …” He stopped. “No, they weren’t on the way home. We played at the Manitou Ridge Golf Club, in the Minneapolis suburbs, and their house—Frances’s house—is west of there. The accident happened along the shore of White Bear Lake, which is east—no, northeast of the club. After the funeral, I remember asking Paul what they were doing out in that direction. He said Frances had wanted to go for a drive along the lake. I didn’t say anything at the time, but that seemed odd to me. I can’t explain why, exactly, but it seemed out of character for Frances to want to do something as idle as go for a drive. She was the sort of person who would never take the long way home, if there was a shorter route.”

  “And what do you remember about the accident itself?”

  “The papers said that they were coming around a curve when a deer jumped out of the brush, and in trying to avoid it, Paul went off the road and smashed into a tree. Frances went through the windshield and hit the tree, killing her instantly.”

  “You said earlier today there was something wrong with the seat belt?”

  “Yes, I remember reading that. I told Paul he should sue, but he wanted no part of that.”

  “Do you remember anything else about the accident or its aftermath that struck you as odd?”

  Wilkes thought about it. “A few weeks later I was playing golf with a friend of mine, Arthur Welch, who was Frances’s lawyer. He mentioned that Paul had sold Frances’s house, and that surprised me.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I knew that when Frances and Paul married, she insisted on a prenuptial agreement that severely limited any inheritance for him in the event of her death. The bulk of her estate was to go to a local art museum. When Arthur told me Paul had sold the house, I mentioned the prenup, and he told me that Frances had rescinded the prenup and had made a new will.”

  “When?”

  “Less than a month before her death.”