Dead In The Water

CHAPTER 46

Stone strode across the lawn toward the Shipwright's Arms, thinking hard about Arrington. He thought of writing to her, maybe even calling her; then he remembered that she was at Vance Calder's Palm Springs house. He didn't have any of Calder's addresses or numbers, so there was no way to get in touch with her until she got in touch with him.

He was almost to the bar when he stopped in his tracks. A man in a seersucker suit was sitting at the bar, drinking something and talking to Thomas. He was big, over six feet, and better than two hundred fifty pounds; that was obvious even when he was seated. Stone had seen only one photograph of Paul Manning, but the man seemed to look very like him, except for the absence of a beard, and he had no idea what Manning would look like without the beard. Stone suddenly had the strange feeling that the whole business was some sort of dreadful error, that Paul Manning had simply fallen overboard near the Canaries and had swum ashore, and now he had shown up in St.Marks to save Allison's life. He approached the bar with some trepidation and sat down. "Thomas, could I have a beer?"

Thomas set a Heineken on the bar, and the big man turned and looked at him. "You must be Stone Barrington," he said.

"That's right," Stone replied.

The man stuck out a hand. "I'm Frank Stendahl."

Stone shook the hand. "How do you do?"

"Very well, thanks. Been seeing a lot about you on television the past week."

"I expect so. Where have you come from, Mr.Stendahl?"

"I'm a New Englander," he said. "The Boston area."

"And what brings you to St.Marks?"

"Vacation," the man said. "I seem to be about the only tourist around here."

"Well, first there was the blizzard in the Northeast, then we were pretty choked up with press, and then, I guess, the bad press made St.Marks an unpopular destination."

"Funny, the publicity somehow made it more attractive to me. I understand you've got a trial starting soon."

"That's right."

"I wonder if I could attend? Could you arrange it for me?"

"I'm afraid not; I'm out of my own bailiwick here, you see."

Thomas chimed in. "It's open to the public," he said. "I expect if you were there an hour before the trial you'd get a seat."

"Thanks, Thomas," Stendahl said. "Well, Stone-if I may call you that-what's your that strategy going to be?"

"I don't think I can discuss that," Stone replied, sipping his beer.

"Of course not; that was silly of me. The lady seems to be innocent, though; you going to get her off?"

"I'll do my best."

"Well, how will…"

Stone cut him off. "I said, I can't discuss it."

Stendahl held his hands up before him. "Hey, my fault; didn't mean to dig."

"That's all right."

"Well, now that I've cooled off, I think I'll get up to my room and change into something more tropical," Stendahl said. The man got down off his stool and lumbered toward the stairs.

"What's his story?" Stone asked Thomas.

Thomas shrugged. "He used a credit card with the right name on it, but…"

"But what?"

"There was a moment when I thought he might be a cop," Thomas said, "but after I talked with him a while, I didn't think so anymore."

"What did he want to talk about?"

"Allison, the trial, the press, anything he could find out. He was really pumping me."

"And you still don't think he could be a cop."

"A cop would have done it differently," Thomas said. "More subtly. This guy just charged straight ahead."

"You think he's just an interested tourist?"

"He doesn't feel like a tourist, either."

"What does he feel like?"

"I think he's got an agenda, but I'm damned if I know what it is. Besides, what would an American cop be doing down here?"

"I don't think I ever saw a cop wear a seersucker suit," Stone said.

"Me neither."

"What sort of luggage did he have?"

"Hartmann leather, a suitcase and a briefcase, matching."

"That doesn't sound like a cop, either; too expensive. That's a businessman's luggage."

"I would have thought so."

Stone shrugged. "Well, I guess businessmen take vacations."

"Usually with their wives; he's alone."

"Bachelor? Divorced?"

"I guess he could be."

Frank Stendahl reappeared, wearing casual clothes, exposing pasty white arms. "Think I'll walk down to the marina and have a look at the boats," he said to no one in particular. Stone and Thomas watched him as he strolled across the lawn and came to a stop at the marina gate, confronted by the two police officers on guard there. He chatted with them for a minute or so, then turned and walked back toward the inn. Halfway, he changed his mind and walked back toward the water at an angle chosen to take him to the harbor's edge beyond the marina. A moment later, he disappeared around a point of land.

"Where will that walk take him?" Stone asked.

"To the mouth of the harbor, eventually," Thomas replied.

"I've got some work to do upstairs," Stone said. "If he comes back, see what you can find out about him, will you?"

"Sure, glad to. You think he's up to no good, Stone?"

"Right now, all I think is that he's a tourist, like he says; maybe the sort of guy who turned up at the O. J. Simpson trial. I can't think of any other reason for him to be here, can you?"

Thomas shrugged.

"See you later." Stone hopped off his barstool and headed upstairs. After what he'd been through with the press, Stendahl didn't seem to be much of a threat.