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 generalize.”
“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.”