Desperate Measures

13

The following late afternoon, Stone opened his briefcase, and one end of the handle came off in his hand. Upon examination, it was found to be missing a tiny screw, the sort of part that is available only at expensive luggage stores.

He checked on Joan and Faith, who were both working away like beavers, then emptied his briefcase, tucked it under his arm, and left the house, headed uptown, walking. He finished up at a fancy luggage shop at Park and Fifty-sixth Street, went inside, and had a brief conversation with their repair artist, who eventually admitted he could supply and fit the screw. Stone sat down and picked up a magazine from a table to while away the time. Shortly, a woman fell into his lap.

This was more than a metaphor. She was missing a shoe, the shoe was missing a heel, and when he stood her upright, she rested all her weight on the other foot.

“I’m so terribly sorry,” she said.

Stone was not so sorry. She was tall, slim, had auburn hair, was beautifully dressed in an Armani suit, and she had managed the fall without getting so much as a hair out of place. He sat her down in the chair and retrieved the shoe and the heel.

“I’m afraid you’re not walking anywhere on this,” he said, then looked at her foot, which was beginning to swell. “Nor on that,” he said, pointing at her ankle.

“Oh, swell,” she said.

A salesman appeared belatedly and made all the right noises, for which Stone was grateful.

“You sold me three cases, a matched set, last summer,” she said. “I need one more case, like that.” She pointed at a grouping on a high shelf. “The smaller one, second from the right.”

While the salesman looked for a ladder, Stone made haste. “May I ask where you’re headed?” he said.

“To the Carlyle Hotel,” she said.

“While you conclude your purchase, I’ll arrange some transport for you.”

“That would be very kind,” she said.

Stone got Fred on the phone and instructed him, then returned to her side. She was signing a credit card receipt, and the salesman took the case away to have it wrapped. “I’m afraid your ankle is taking on cantaloupe proportions,” he said. “Does it hurt?”

She thought about that. “Yes,” she said, “but not as much as it’s going to hurt when I try to walk on it. I think I’d better go to an emergency room.”

“That’s not going to be as much fun as it sounds,” Stone said. “You’ll be there until midnight waiting for everybody with chest pains to be looked at. Ankles are not high on the emergency list of a New York hospital.”

“What do you suggest?” she said.

Stone, from the corner of his eye, saw the Bentley glide to a halt outside. “Put this in your purse,” he said, handing her the broken shoe and heel. She tucked it into her Birkin bag, a commodious purse more expensive that many luxury cars. “Let’s get you back to the Carlyle. I know a doctor who makes house calls, and we’ll get him to look at that. My car is outside.”

He got her standing on her good foot, while she rested a hand on his shoulder and tried hopping. It didn’t work very well. “There’s always the fireman’s carry,” Stone said. “I learned that as a Boy Scout.”

“Not on Park Avenue,” she said. “Why don’t we try the old over-the-threshold carry, beloved of so many newlyweds. I won’t tell anybody we’re not married, if you won’t.”

“Good idea,” Stone said. He scooped her up into his arms and strode out of the shop and across the sidewalk, while the salesman tried to keep up with her package.

Fred saw them coming, got a rear door open, and assisted Stone with tucking her into the backseat, while the salesman put her case on the front passenger seat and handed Stone his briefcase. “No charge, Mr. Barrington,” he said.

Stone thanked him, then got into the other rear seat and handed Fred the briefcase. “The Carlyle, Fred.”

“‘Barrington’?” she asked. “Is that your name?”

“It is, first name is Stone.”

“I’m Cilla Scott,” she replied. “Priscilla, really, but I dropped the Pris at puberty.”

“One moment,” Stone said, whipping out his cell phone, calling the Carlyle, and asking for the concierge. “Good afternoon, George, this is Stone Barrington. Fine, thanks. I’m bringing you a wounded guest, and we need a wheelchair at the East Seventy-sixth Street entrance in five minutes. Thank you.”

“Good thinking,” she said.

“As dainty as you are, I don’t think I could carry you all the way to your room. Excuse me, one more call to make.” He pressed the button. “Kevin, Stone Barrington. I have a patient requiring a house call, and bring that portable X-ray thing of yours. Carlyle Hotel... ” He looked at her, and she gave him the room number. “Twenty-eighth floor. Name of Ms. Scott. Possible broken ankle. Bring painkillers.” He thanked the man and hung up. “Half an hour,” he said.

“Well,” Cilla said. “You are blindingly efficient. I don’t think you’ve forgotten a thing.”

They arrived at the side door to the Carlyle and were greeted by a doorman with a wheelchair. “Mr. Barrington? I’m Eddie. We’re all ready for Ms. Scott.” They got her into the wheelchair. Moments later, they were shooting skyward. She handed Stone her key — the Carlyle still used actual keys — and Stone let them into a large, south-facing suite with a spectacular skyline view. Stone gave Eddie a fifty and thanked him.

“There’s a bar over there,” she said. “Would you fix me some sort of whiskey on the rocks and make something for yourself?”

“That skill lies within my repertoire,” Stone said. He found half a bottle of Knob Creek and poured them each a drink. “Try that,” he said, handing it to her.

She took a swig. “Perfect,” she said, “what is it?”

“Knob Creek bourbon. Knob Creek is in Kentucky, where Abraham Lincoln once lived. You can’t get any more patriotic than that.”

“You’re making that up,” she said.

“I am reciting American history. Google it.”

She took another swig. “It seems to be finding its way to all the right places.”

“It will do that,” Stone replied. He looked at his watch. “Dr. Kevin should be here shortly, and we’ll soon know if he has to amputate.”

“Sit down,” she said, patting the chair beside her.

He dragged over an ottoman, placed her wounded foot on it, and then sat down.

“Tell me about yourself,” she said.

“I don’t give recitations, but I do answer questions,” Stone replied. So she began to question him.