by Stuart Woods
“Did you think he was alive?”
“Yessir, he was. I felt his pulse in his neck.”
“What did you do then?”
“I went to the phone there,” he pointed to a table, “and called nine-one-one and asked for the police and an ambulance quick.”
“What next?”
“The maid, Isabel, came into the hall from the kitchen; I told her to go and see if Mrs. Calder was all right, and she went toward the master suite, there, through the living room, and through that door.”
“How much time elapsed between the time you heard the shot and the time you found Mr. Calder?”
“I didn’t go right away; I kept listening and wondering if I had heard what I heard. I expect it may have been two or three minutes.”
“Which—two or three?”
“Closer to three, I guess. I wasn’t running.”
“Were those doors open?” Stone asked, pointing to the French doors that led to the pool, guesthouse, and gardens.
“One of them was,” Manolo said. “It was wide open, in a way it wouldn’t ordinarily be. Normally, it would either be closed, or both doors would be latched open.”
“What happened next?”
“Mrs. Calder came running into the hall with the maid; she was wearing a robe and dripping water.”
“What did she do or say?”
“She yelled out, ‘Vance!’ and then she got closer and saw the wound, and she backed away from him. She was making this noise, sort of like a scream, but not as loud, and she said, ‘No, no!’ a couple of times. I told Isabel to take her into the bedroom, that I would see to Mr. Calder and that an ambulance was on the way.”
“Manolo, when Mrs. Calder came in, did you smell anything?”
“Well, yessir, I guess she smelled real sweet, having just got out of the tub.”
Stone looked at the Saltillo tiles that formed the floor and saw a dark stain on the grout between the tiles.
“I couldn’t get that out,” Manolo said. “I tried, but I couldn’t.”
“What happened next, Manolo?”
“Two uniformed police officers arrived—they rang the bell, and I let them in the gate. They looked at Mr. Calder and felt his pulse, but they didn’t move him. One of them talked to somebody on a walkie-talkie. Not long after that, another police car arrived, this time, plainclothesmen. They went and talked to Mrs. Calder, and I followed them, but she wasn’t making any sense; she was hysterical and didn’t seem to know where she was or what had happened.”
“Show me where the master suite is, please.”
Manolo led him through the living room and through a set of double doors, then through a small foyer and into a large bedroom, which contained a king-size bed, a fireplace, and a sofa and chairs in front of a hearth. “Mrs. Calder’s dressing room and bath are through here,” he said, leading the way through a door to one side of the bed. There was another foyer, and to the left, a very large room, filled with hanging clothes, cubicles for sweaters and blouses, shoe racks, and a three-way mirror. To the right was a large bathroom with a big tub and a dressing table. On top of the dressing table was a large perfume bottle, emblazoned with the name “Chanel,” and next to that a bottle of bath oil with the same brand name. Stone smelled them both.
“Now, can I see Mr. Calder’s dressing room?” Stone asked.
“Right this way, sir.”
They walked back into the bedroom, around the bed, and through another door. The arrangement was the same but both the dressing room and bath were smaller and decorated in a more masculine style.
“Where is Mr. Calder’s safe?” Stone asked.
Manolo went to a mirror over a chest of drawers, pressed it, and it swung open to reveal a steel safe door, approximately fifteen by twenty inches, a size that would fit between the structural studs. An electronic keypad, not a combination lock, was imbedded in the door.
“Do you know the combination?” Stone asked.
“Yessir, it’s one-five-three-eight. You press the star key first, then the numbers, then the pound key, then turn that knob.”
Stone opened the safe, which was empty. “What did Mr. Calder keep in here?” he asked.
“He kept his jewelry box and a gun,” Manolo said.
“Do you know what kind of gun it was?”
“I don’t know the brand of it, but it was an automatic pistol. There was a box of ammunition, too, that said nine millimeter, but the police took that.”
“What was in the jewelry box?”
“Watches and other jewelry. Mr. Calder liked watches, and he had six or seven. There were some cuff links and studs, too; a nice selection.”
“What did the box look like?”
“It was about a foot long by, I guess, eight inches wide, and maybe three or four inches deep. Deep enough to have the watches on mounts that displayed them when you opened the box. It was made out of brown alligator skin.”
“The safe is pretty shallow,” Stone said.
“The box would just fit into it, lying flat on the shelf, there. The pistol was at the bottom, along with the box of bullets.”
Stone took one more look around. “Thank you, Manolo, that’s all I need. Where is Mr. Calder’s study? I’d like to make some phone calls.”
“The main door is off the living room,” Manolo said, “but you can get there this way, too.” He walked to a double rack of suits, took hold of the wooden frame, and pulled. The rack swung outward. Then he pressed on the wall, and a door swung open, offering entry to the study.
Stone followed the butler into the study, then watched as he swung the door shut. Closed, it was a bookcase like the others in the room.
“Mr. Calder liked little secret things like that,” Manolo said, smiling. “What time would you like dinner, Mr. Barrington?”
“Seven o’clock would be fine.”
“And how do you like your beef cooked?”
“Medium, please.”
“Would you like it served in the dining room or in the guesthouse?”
“In the guesthouse, I think.”
“We’ll see you at seven, then,” Manolo said, and left the room.
Stone turned to examine Vance Calder’s study.
Eleven
THREE ACADEMY AWARDS GAZED AT STONE FROM THE mantel of the small fireplace in the room. Stone knew that Vance had been nominated seven times and had won three. The room was paneled in antique pine that radiated a soft glow where the light struck it; there were some good pictures and many books. The room was extremely neat, as if it were about to be photographed for Architectural Digest.
Stone sat down at Calder’s desk, and as he did, the phone rang. He checked the line buttons and saw that it was the third line, the most secret number. He picked it up. “Hello?”
There was a brief silence. “Who is this?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Who’s calling?”
“Stone?”
“Dolce?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you; the Bel-Air said you had checked out.”
“I did, an hour ago. I’m staying in the Calders’ guesthouse.”
“With Arrington?”
“In the guesthouse. Arrington is in a hospital.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t think I should go into that on the phone; the press, as you can imagine, is taking an intense interest in all this. I wouldn’t put it past some of the yellower journals to tap the phones.”
“So you can’t give me any information?”
“Not about Vance and Arrington, but I’m fine; I’m sure you wanted to know that.”
“I don’t like any of this, Stone.”
“Neither do I; I’d much rather be in Venice with you.”
“Sicily.”
“What?”
“I was going to take you to Sicily, to show you where my family came from. I’m there now, on our honeymoon.”
“I’m sorry to miss it; can I have a raincheck?”
> “We’ll see,” she said, and there was petulance in her voice.
“Dolce, in Venice, you encouraged me to come here and help; that’s what I’m doing.”
“I had Papa and the cardinal to deal with. And exactly how are you helping?”
“I can’t go into that, for the reasons I’ve just explained. Perhaps I can call you tomorrow from another number.”
“Yes, do that.” She gave him her number and the dialing codes for Sicily.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Randy, actually. There’s a rather interesting-looking goatherd on the property; I was thinking of inviting him in for a drink.”
“I can sympathize with your feelings,” he replied. “I’d rather not be sleeping alone, myself.”
“Then don’t,” she said. “I don’t plan to.”
“I meant that I’d rather be sleeping with you.”
“You’d be my first choice, too,” she said, “but you’re not here, are you?”
Stone hardly knew what to say to that. Dolce had been mildly difficult, at times, but she had never behaved like this. He was shocked.
“No answer?”
“What can I say?”
“Say good night,” she said, then hung up.
“Well,” Stone said aloud, “that was very peculiar.” He turned his attention back to the desk and began opening drawers. The contents were pretty much the same as in his own desk, but they were much more neatly arranged. He had never seen anything quite like it, in fact; it was as if a servant had come in and arranged the contents of the desk every day. He looked around for filing cabinets, but there were none. Apparently, all business was done from Vance’s studio office.
Stone opened the center drawer, and, to his surprise, it pulled right out of the desk, into his lap. The drawer was lacking at least eight inches in what he had expected to be its depth. But why? He examined the bottom and sides of the drawer, which seemed perfectly normal, then he looked at the back. At the bottom of the rear of the drawer were two small brass hooks. Then he noticed that the drawer was slightly shallower than it might have been expected to be. He set the drawer on the desktop and looked at it for a minute. There was no apparent reason for the drawer to have hooks at its back. Unless . . . He took hold of the two drawer pulls and twisted, first to the left, then to the right. They moved clockwise for, perhaps, thirty degrees. He looked at the hooks on the back of the drawer; instead of lying flat, they were now positioned vertically.
He turned the knobs counterclockwise, and the hooks returned to their horizontal position. He reinserted the drawer all the way into the desk, turned the drawer pulls clockwise again, then opened the drawer all the way. The hooks had engaged another, smaller drawer that accounted for the missing depth, and in that drawer were some sealed envelopes, which he began opening.
The envelopes contained a copy of Vance’s will, a note to Arrington with instructions in the event of his death, and two insurance policies, with a value of five million dollars each, payable to Vance’s estate.
He placed the will on the desk and read it. There was a long list of bequests, most of them for a hundred thousand dollars or more. Two, to universities, were for a million dollars, for the establishment of chairs in the theatrical arts, and one was personal, in the same amount, to his secretary, Betty Southard. Arrington and Lou Regenstein had been appointed executors. The will was dated less than a month before. If everything else in Vance’s estate was as well organized as his will, Stone reflected, then his affairs were as neatly arranged as his desk drawers. Stone made a note of the law firm that had drawn the will, then he replaced the documents in the secret compartment, closed the drawer, turned the pulls counterclockwise, and opened it again, just to check. Everything was as before.
Stone then went to the bedroom and searched it thoroughly; he assumed that the police had done the same thing and that the maid had tidied the place after them. Maybe that was why Vance’s desk drawers were so neat. He found nothing but the ordinary detritus of wealthy married couples’ lives—keys, address books, family photographs, bedside books, remote controls. Stone realized that the room did not appear to have a television set. He pressed the power button, and the lid of an old trunk at the foot of the bed opened, and a very large TV set rose from its depths and switched on.
The local news was on, and it was about Vance. A handsome young woman gazed into the teleprompter and read: “Vance Calder’s widow has still not been questioned by the police. Greg Harrow has this report.”
The scene shifted to the Calders’ front gate, where a young man in an Italian suit spoke gravely. “Amanda, police department sources tell us that, as yet, there are no suspects in the murder of Vance Calder, and that his widow is still hospitalized, with no sign of emerging to speak. The investigating detectives want very much to talk to her, but her doctor refuses to allow her to be interviewed. Some of my colleagues in the media have been to every private hospital in the L.A./Beverly Hills area, without finding out where she is a patient. It had been suggested that she may have been taken to the Calder Palm Springs home, or to their Malibu beach house, but both those residences are dark, and during the past twenty-four hours, only one vehicle, a taxicab, has arrived here at the Calder Bel-Air home, and the driver refused to talk to the media. There was one man in the taxi, and he, apparently, remained at the house. Centurion Studios has issued a press release expressing the sorrow of everyone there at the news of Calder’s death and asking that the media leave Arrington Calder alone and allow her to rebuild her shattered life. The Calders’ only child, Peter, may still be at the Bel-Air house, cared for by the servants, but he has not been spotted here. All we have seen here is security, and plenty of it. A private service has the house and grounds completely sealed off, and no one, except the taxi, has arrived or departed today. We’ll keep you posted as details come in.”
Stone switched off the TV set, pleased with the news. He could hardly have written it better himself, but he knew the lid could not be kept on for much longer. He picked up the phone and called Rick Grant’s home number.
“Hi, Stone, how’s it going?”
“As well as can be expected,” Stone said. “Let me give you a number where you, and only you, can reach me.” He dictated the number. “You can also reach me at Vance Calder’s offices at Centurion, as of tomorrow. I’m going to work out of there.”
“Anything new?”
“Not much. Arrington is still under a doctor’s care.”
“How much longer?”
“You can tell your people that I’ll make her available at the earliest possible moment.”
“Tell them yourself,” he said. “That would be better. The lead detectives on the investigation are Sam Durkee and Ted Bryant, out of Brentwood.” He gave Stone the number.
“I’ll call them tomorrow morning.”
“These are decent guys, Stone, and Durkee, in particular, is a very good detective, but unless they start getting cooperation from Arrington, they’re going to begin leaking stuff to the media, and that would not be good for her.”
“We’re not hiding anything; Arrington really hasn’t been up to questioning, but she’s getting better.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Anything else I can do for you?”
“Not a thing, Rick; I’ll call Durkee tomorrow.”
“Good night, then; Barbara sends her best.”
“My best to her, too.” Stone hung up and felt a hunger pang. He walked back out to the guesthouse, where he found Manolo setting a small table and the maid hanging his clothes in the closet, having pressed them.
He sat down to his steak and half a bottle of good Cabernet and tried to forget both Arrington and Dolce as he watched a movie on television. He was unable to forget either of them.
Twelve
IT WAS A PERFECT SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA MORNING, cool and sunny. Stone swam a few laps in the pool, then put on a guest’s terrycloth robe and breakfasted by the pool, looking over the Los Angel
es Times and The New York Times, which had arrived with his breakfast. The Vance Calder story had been relegated to the inside pages of the New York newspaper, and was struggling to cling to the front page of the L.A. journal, but it wasn’t going to go away, he knew. The moment a fragment of new information surfaced, there would be headlines again.
He showered, shaved, dressed, and walked into the house, carrying his briefcase. He retrieved the documents from the secret compartment of Vance’s desk and put them into his briefcase, then he rang for Manolo. “I’d like to use one of the Calders’ cars,” he told the butler.
“Of course, Mr. Barrington, right this way.” He led Stone to a door that opened into the garage, which had enough room for six cars, but held only four: a Bentley Arnage; two Mercedes SL600s, one black and one white; and a Mercedes station wagon. “The nanny and I use the station wagon for household errands, unless you’d like it,” Manolo said.
The Bentley was too much, Stone thought. “No, I’ll take one of the other Mercedes—the black one, I suppose. That was Mr. Calder’s, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. The white one is Mrs. Calder’s. You’ll find the keys in the car.”
Stone had used the black convertible once before, when in L.A., and he recalled that it did not have vanity plates, so it would not be immediately recognized by the media. In fact, he reckoned, a black Mercedes convertible would, in Beverly Hills and Bel-Air, be a practically anonymous car. He backed out of the garage, drove around the house and, using his remote, let himself out of the utility gate and onto the street beyond. He checked to be sure that he was not followed, then drove to Centurion Studios.
The guard was momentarily confused to see Vance Calder’s car arrive with a different driver, but when Stone gave his name, he was immediately issued with a studio pass.
“The one on the windshield will get this car in,” the guard said. “Use the other pass, if you drive a different car.”
“Can you direct me to Mr. Calder’s bungalow, please?” The guard gave him directions, and five minutes later, he had parked in Vance’s reserved parking spot. The bungalow was just that; it looked like one of the older, smaller Beverly Hills houses below Wilshire. Stone walked through the front door into a living room.
