Stone thanked the bandleader and made his way to the bar. Suddenly, Herbie Fisher was at his elbow, dressed in white tie and tails and towing his new wife.
“Hi, Stone,” Herbie shouted over the din. “This is my wife, Stephanie.”
“How do you do, Stephanie,” Stone said. “I wish you both every happiness.” Privately, Stone felt that little happiness was in store for the couple. Herbie’s last fiancée had taken a dive off the terrace of the Park Avenue penthouse Herbie had bought with his lottery winnings.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you from Herbie, Stone,” the young woman said. “I hope we’ll be good friends.”
Stone thought she sounded quite normal for someone who had just married Herbie Fisher. “May I have this dance, Mrs. Fisher?” he asked.
“I’d be delighted,” Stephanie replied.
Stone led her to the dance floor and they danced. Stephanie was brunette and small, around five-two, Stone thought, without the heels. “How did you and Herbie meet?” he asked her.
“At P.J. Clarke’s, at the bar,” she replied. “I had just come back from a year abroad after graduating from Smith.”
“Are you going to have a career?” he asked.
“I’m joining my father’s firm after the honeymoon,” Stephanie replied. “I’ll be working as a trader, to start.”
“Are you his heir apparent?”
“I am.”
“I hope you’ll take charge of Herbie’s money,” Stone said. “He can be rather impulsive in the way he spends it.”
“Oh, I already have,” she replied, laughing, “and just in time, too.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Herbie has such a good heart,” she said, “but no head for figures, unless they’re female. I’m going to make him a rich man.”
“I thought he was already rich,” Stone said.
“He’s down to his last ten million after the lottery win,” she said. “In my family, that’s not rich—that’s slightly well-off. I’ve put him on an allowance, and I’m redecorating the apartment with my own money and some family things.”
“I’m glad to hear that, too,” Stone said, remembering what the apartment had looked like on his only visit there.
“Oddly enough, Herbie has very good taste in art. We’ve already bought some pictures he chose. He’s not so good on furnishings and fabrics, though.”
“Herbie has very good taste in wives, too,” Stone said.
She laughed again. “Thank you, Stone. By the way, I’ve paired you with my aunt at dinner, my mother’s recently widowed sister, Adele. You’re at table number one, with us.”
“How delightful,” Stone said, trying not to clench his teeth.
Stone returned the bride to her new husband and got himself a glass of very good champagne. He sneaked a look at the bottle: Veuve Clicquot Grande Dame. If they were giving this to what looked like about seven hundred people in the ballroom, Jack Gunn had done very well indeed in business.
Stone wandered through the crowd, and they were a very presentable lot. Herbie had fallen into a pot of jam, he figured, and he wondered how long it would take before the boy screwed up.
The orchestra stopped, and a headwaiter took the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “dinner is served.”
Stone found his way to table number one, where he located his place card, between Stephanie and her widowed aunt Adele. The bride arrived with Herbie and introduced her father, Jack, and her mother, Christine, who turned out to be the much younger woman he had seen Gunn dancing with.
“Good to meet you, Stone,” Gunn said in a velvety bass-baritone voice.
“And you, Jack,” Stone replied. He held Stephanie’s chair for her. And turned to find a very beautiful blonde, wearing a gold lamé sheath, standing behind him. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties.
“Good evening,” she said. “I’m Adele Lansdown.” She offered her hand.
Stone took it. “How do you do? I’m Stone Barrington.” He held her chair for her, then sat down, unable to believe his good luck.
“You,” she said, “are apparently the most eligible man at this shindig; otherwise, Stephanie would not have seated you next to me. She’s been trying to fix me up ever since my husband died.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Stone said.
“Well,” Adele replied, “you’re about the only one who is.”
“Was he ill?”
“Only for about three seconds,” Adele replied. “He died of a gunshot wound.”
“Who shot him?” Stone asked.
“I did,” Adele replied.
Stone was taken aback for only a moment. “And yet you are a free woman. Or are you out on bail?”
She laughed. “I was not charged in his death,” she said.
“You must have had a good lawyer.”
“No, I had a black eye and a broken arm—the detectives in charge of the investigation deemed that sufficient evidence that I was defending myself.”
“I used to be a police detective,” Stone said, “and I would never have dreamed of arresting you.”
“Are you still?”
“No, I retired some years ago. I’m an attorney.”
“You went to law school after being a police officer?”
“Before,” Stone said. “I took the bar afterward.”
“At what firm are you?”
“I’m of counsel to Woodman & Weld.”
“A very fine firm,” she said. “I considered hiring them to deal with my husband’s estate.”
“I trust you found competent counsel.”
“I found them; whether they were competent is another matter. I wish I’d gone with your firm. What does ‘of counsel’ mean?”
“It means I’m not a partner, and I work from my own offices.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “Are you what they call a fixer?”
“I’ve been called worse,” Stone said, “but all attorneys are fixers, or at least they’d better be, if they want to hold on to their clients.”
“And what clients do you represent?” she asked.
“I range across the client list,” Stone replied, “but my principal responsibility is a company called Strategic Services.”
“Oh, I read an article in Vanity Fair about them last year,” she said. “Very interesting outfit.”
“They are, indeed.”
“I’m impressed, Mr. Barrington.”
“Stone.”
“And I’m Adele,” she said. “Perhaps we could talk later about Woodman & Weld handling my affairs.”
“I’d be happy to introduce you to the managing partner, Bill Eggers,” Stone said, “but I’m not sure I want a business relationship with you.”
“And why not?” she asked.
“I’d rather take you to dinner and discuss that,” Stone said.
She smiled for the first time. “What a good idea,” she replied.
FOUR
The party eventually waned, and Stone escorted Adele Lansdown down to street level to look for a cab.
“I’ve got my car,” Adele said. “I’ll give you a ride.”
They got into a white Mercedes sedan and were driven away. Stone gave the driver his address.
“Is that Turtle Bay?” Adele asked.
“Yes; I have a house there.”
“I’d like to see it,” she said. “I’ve always thought that an interesting neighborhood.”
The car parked out front, and they went inside, where Stone began turning on lights.
“This is very handsome,” Adele said, looking around the living room and dining room. “Beautiful woodwork.”
“My father did all the woodwork in the house,” Stone said. “In fact, this was his first big job, for my mother’s aunt. She left me the house some years ago, and I renovated it.”