Scandalous Behavior

18

Stone woke to find an outstanding review of Hell’s Bells in the New York Times. He checked his watch: it was midday in England, and Peter hadn’t called yet. He was relieved when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Dad. We made it in good order. Is this too early to call?”

“It’s perfect. Want to hear something nice?”

“Sure.”

Stone read him a few paragraphs of the review. “I’ll fax you the whole thing when I get downstairs.”

“Thanks, it’s too early to hear from L.A., and it’s Saturday. I’ll check with them later. Dad, this house is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and it’s in perfect condition.”

“That’s because it’s just gone through a year-long renovation, top to bottom, all Susan’s work.”

“She’s an incredible designer.”

“Does it work for your idea for a film?”

“It certainly does.”

“Is it a period piece?”

“Between the world wars. The phones and the TVs are all we’d have to change.”

“The TVs are concealed at the press of a button, but you’re right about the phones.”

“Do you think Susan would like to be our production designer?”

“I’ll ask her. By the way, the previous owner, Sir Charles Bourne, is still living on the place, in the largest of the cottages. He’s in Paris on his honeymoon, but he should be back soon. I’ve let him know that you’re there, so when you see him introduce yourselves. Also, there are horses, if you feel like riding. Just tell the butler, Geoffrey, and he’ll speak to the stable hands.”

“I think we’re going to be very happy here.”

“Well, get to it, then, and give me a call if you have any questions, or see Major Bugg, who runs the place from his basement office. I’ve got two cars there, too. Use them.” Stone hung up and Susan brought breakfast from the dumbwaiter.

“I wish I’d thought of a dumbwaiter for Windward Hall,” she said. “It’s such a good idea.”

“Make a note of that for our next renovation, in about forty years. By the way, Peter loves the house. He told me to tell you, and to ask you if you’d consider being the production designer for the film he wants to shoot there.”

Susan laughed. “Tell him I’ll consider it.”

He finished breakfast and went back to the Times. There was a good-sized piece on the entertainment page about the explosions in Santa Monica and Coeur d’Alene, and Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun was interviewed. “I don’t know why anyone would think we would be involved in such a thing,” he said, “even if the movie is a scurrilous piece of trash, full of lies and distortions.”

Stone went downstairs and faxed Peter the Times review. The phone rang.

“Hi, it’s Eggers. It’s Saturday, would you and Susan like to drive up to Connecticut with me? I’ve got all the closing documents, so we can take care of that.”

“Why don’t we meet you there? We can have lunch at the Mayflower Inn.”

“Fine, I’ll book us in. Shall we meet there at one o’clock?”

“Sounds good.” He hung up and went to find Susan. She was sitting at her dressing table working on her laptop.

“I’m looking at the beta version of my design program,” she said.

“Would you like to try it out today on a charming New England house?”

“That sounds like fun.”

“We’ll leave here at eleven then, and bring an overnight bag, in case we decide to stay the night.”

His phone rang. “Stone Barrington.”

“Mr. Barrington, this is Dick Myers of the Associated Press. May I speak to your son, Peter?”

“I’m sorry, but Peter is on vacation, and he won’t be available for interviews until he returns. Where are you calling from?”

“Chicago. May I know where he is? I just need to check a couple of facts, before we run our piece.”

Stone looked at the caller ID; it was from an L.A. number, and he jotted it down. “I’m afraid that’s classified. He’s at a very secluded resort.”

“Out West, is he?”

“I didn’t say that. Out of the country would be more accurate. Goodbye.”

“Mr. Barrington, it really is very important — to him as well as to me — to get in touch with him. I promise I won’t invade his privacy.”

“You want to invade his privacy to tell him you won’t invade his privacy?”

“It’s just fact-checking, really.”

“Try him at his office in a couple of months.” The man was still talking when he hung up. “Yeah, sure, you’re from the AP,” he said aloud.

At eleven, Stone put their bags into the Blaise, the French sports car that his friend Marcel duBois manufactured near Paris.

“I’ve read about these,” Susan said, “and I’ve seen a couple in London, but I’ve never ridden in one.”

“Then fasten your seat belt,” Stone said before he pulled out of the garage and headed for the West Side Highway and the Sawmill River Parkway beyond. The sun was out and the trees were just starting to bud. They listened to classical music on the satellite radio and chatted.

Then, for the second or third time, Stone noticed a black SUV a couple of cars back that kept pulling into the left lane, as if to get a look at him.

“Something wrong?” Susan asked. “You keep checking your rearview mirror.”

“Not a thing,” Stone said, and picked up the pace. The SUV stuck with him.

They arrived at the Mayflower Inn and went in for lunch. “Excuse me a moment,” he said to Susan. He went to the front desk.

“Hello, Mr. Barrington,” the clerk said.

“Good afternoon. My son, Peter, isn’t staying here, but I’d like to know if anyone inquires for him.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be in the restaurant. If someone asks for him, don’t tell the person he isn’t registered, but please send someone to get me.”

“As you wish.”

Stone rejoined Susan, and they went into the dining room, where Bill and Margo Eggers were waiting for them. Bill’s wives kept getting younger, he thought. Introductions were made and lunch ordered.

They were between courses when a young man came to the table. “Excuse me, Mr. Barrington,” he said, “but there’s a man at the front desk asking for Peter Barrington.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. He excused himself and left the dining room. A beefy man of about forty was waiting at the desk. “Good afternoon. My name is Barrington. Come with me,” Stone said, leading the way, “and we’ll find some privacy.” He led the man into the little library off the main lobby. “Now,” he said, “who are you?”

“Uh...” the man began, then stopped. “Never you mind who I am.”

“Let’s see some ID.”

“I don’t have to show you nothing.”

Stone took the man’s wrist, spun him around, shoved it behind his back between the shoulder blades, and bent him over the back of a sofa.

“Let me go, you son of a bitch!”

Stone found a wallet in his hip pocket and flipped it over.

“Ah, Mr. William Givers of Los Angeles,” he said. “I thought you might be from the Associated Press. Now tell me, what do you want from Peter Barrington?”

“I don’t want anything from him.”

Stone pushed the hand up farther and got a groan of pain from him. He continued to flip through the wallet with his free hand until he found a card. “What a surprise,” he said. “You’re the director of public relations, New York, for the Chosen Few, and you told me only this morning that you were from the AP.”

“You’re going to be sorry you did this,” the man said.

Stone reached around the man, feeling his waist, and found a handgun in a holster. He extracted it. “Is this a common tool for a director of public relations?” he asked.

“None of your fucking business.”

“Funny, looking through your wallet, I didn’t find a Connecticut carry permit. If you have one, show it to me.” He let go of the man’s arm and stepped back, while popping out the magazine and clearing the breech.

The man backed away from him. “Stay away from me.”

“You’ve got it all backwards,” Stone said. “You stay away from me. As it happens, I have both a Connecticut and a New York carry permit, so maybe I should keep the gun for you.” He picked up the magazine and thumbed the cartridges until it was empty, then slapped it back into the pistol.

The man turned and ran from the library. Stone picked up the cartridges and dropped them into his pocket, then he walked quickly through the lobby, slipping the gun also into his pocket, and out onto the front porch, just in time to see a black SUV departing. It had a New York plate, and he jotted down the number, then he went back into the dining room. “Sorry about that,” he said, sitting down to his main course.

“Anything wrong?” Eggers asked.

“Not anymore,” Stone replied.