25
STONE ARRIVED AT Rita’s apartment fifteen minutes early. The elevator opened directly onto the foyer, and Mitzi met him at the door with an affectionate kiss on the lips. “Please come in,” she said.
Stone followed her into the living room and stopped to have a look around. It was a large room with a seating area that would accommodate a dozen people around the fireplace, another seating area at the west end, and a seven-foot Steinway grand piano at the east end, which wasn’t in the least crowded.
“What do you think?” Mitzi asked. “Do I have good taste?”
“Well, Ralph Lauren does,” Stone said. He nodded toward the painting over the fireplace. “Love the Hockney.”
“Isn’t it something?”
“I wish I could afford his work,” Stone said.
“There were some very nice New York scenes on your bedroom wall,” she said.
“My mother’s work.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“She thanks you.”
“Can I get anybody a drink before I disappear?”
Stone turned to see Rita entering the room. She gave him the same sort of kiss that Mitzi had, one that caused a stirring.
“Sure,” Stone said.
Rita poured the drinks from a wet bar concealed behind some paneling.
“It’s a beautiful apartment,” Stone said, “but you’d better get rid of the photographs on the piano, the ones of you and your parents.”
“Oh, God, I forgot about those,” Rita said. She scooped them up and put them in a drawer.
Mitzi ran out of the room and came back with an armful of silver frames. “I brought these from home,” she said, arranging them on the piano. “My family.”
“Good work,” Stone said. The phone rang, and Mitzi picked it up. “Yes? Send them up, please.” She hung up. “We’re on.”
“I’ll be in my room,” Rita said. “I hope I don’t hear any shooting.” She left the living room.
“Which lamps did dear old Ralph, the family friend, bring over?” Stone asked.
“The pair at each end of the sofa.”
“They’re not Lauren’s—they’re antiques,” Stone said.
“Ralph has a wonderful eye for antiques,” Mitzi replied. “And I called him yesterday and squared things.”
“What was his reaction?”
“He was delighted to hear from me, and amused by my situation and happy to help.”
The doorbell rang, and Mitzi went to answer it. She came back with Derek Sharpe and Hildy Parsons and another couple, whom Sharpe introduced as Sig and Patti Larsen. Sig looked Swedish; Patti didn’t. Drinks were offered and accepted, and a uniformed maid appeared with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
They arranged themselves before the fireplace.
“Sig is my financial manager,” Sharpe said, “and he’s very good. Mitzi, I thought you might need some New York help in that line.”
Here was an interesting move, Stone thought. If Mitzi bit, then Sharpe would, in no time, have a complete picture of what he could steal from her.
“I’m very well taken care of in that respect,” Mitzi said. “My father has three people in his office who do nothing but handle our family’s money.”
“Perhaps I could meet with them sometime,” Sig said.
“They’re in Charleston, and they hate New York,” Mitzi said.
“You know, I’m going to be in Savannah early next week,” Sig said. “Perhaps I could pop up to Charleston and see them.”
“I’ll ask Daddy,” Mitzi said.
“I’m at your disposal,” Sig said.
“Where are we dining?” Mitzi asked.
“I’ve booked us at Sette Mezzo,” Sharpe replied. “In half an hour.”
This was interesting, Stone thought. Sette Mezzo didn’t take credit cards, only cash, unless one had a house account.
Mitzi picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Please be downstairs in twenty minutes,” she said into the instrument.
“I love your Hockney,” Hildy said, speaking for the first time. “I saw it at my father’s gallery, of course.”
“Yes, I’m very pleased with it,” Mitzi said.
“Oh, by the way,” Hildy said, “I ran into Ralph Lauren this morning; he sends his regards.”
“That’s sweet of him,” Mitzi said. “Do you like the lamps?”
“Very much,” Hildy said, and Sharpe murmured an assent.
“Ralph found them at one of the Paris flea markets,” Mitzi said.
“Wonderful places,” Patti Larsen interjected.
“Aren’t they?” Mitzi said.
Conversation continued along these lines until they finally made their way downstairs. Stone and Mitzi got into the Bentley, and the other two couples boarded their own black Town Car.
“How did drinks go?” Tom asked from the front seat of the Bentley.
“Just as you’d expect,” Mitzi said. “We’re all squared away on the Hockney and Ralph Lauren.”
“Lexington and Seventy-sixth, please, Tom,” Stone said.
SETTE MEZZO WAS, as always, crowded with the voluble, so Stone reckoned their conversation would be subdued at a table for six, since they wouldn’t be able to hear each other. They were shown to a corner table, which helped. Sharpe revealed himself as never having been to the restaurant by ordering martinis for everyone. If he had been there before, Stone thought, he would have known that the restaurant served only wine, except for secret bottles of Scotch and vodka kept for more demanding guests. Stone now knew that he would be buying dinner.
Mitzi was seated between Sharpe and Sig Larsen, and Stone between Patti Larsen and Hildy Parsons. This meant that Stone would have difficulty, in the noisy restaurant, understanding what Sharpe and Larsen were saying to Mitzi, not that she would have any difficulty handling them.
“So, Stone,” Patti Larsen said, “what do you do?” Her hand crept onto his knee.
“I’m an attorney,” Stone replied. “I sue people.”
She removed her hand. “How nice for you.”
“Usually,” Stone replied.
“Where is your office?”
“I’m of counsel to Woodman & Weld, but I work from offices in my home.”
“That’s cozy,” she said. Her knee was now rubbing against his.
Stone turned to Hildy and made conversation.
WHEN THE CHECK came, Stone picked it up and signed it, avoiding a scene where Sharpe and Larsen would be short of cash. What the hell, he thought, Bill Eggers would be getting the bill anyway.
BACK IN the Bentley, Stone asked Mitzi how it had gone at dinner.
“They were pressing me about Sig giving me financial advice,” Mitzi said.
“Was that true about the financial people in your father’s office?”
“Yes, but there’s only one; I made up the other two.”
“Why don’t you call him and ask him to make up a fictitious financial statement and stock portfolio?” Stone suggested. “Something that will water Sharpe’s mouth?”
“What a good idea,” she said. “I’ll do it first thing Monday morning. That should thicken the plot.”
“I think that, after they see your statement, you should broach the subject of drugs. I’d advise you to tell them the stuff is for friends, not for you. You don’t want to get into a situation where you’re pressed to actually use something around witnesses. That could blow your case.”
“I’m way ahead of you,” Mitzi said.
“Believe her,” Tom added.
Stone did.
