Bill Golding attacked the slab of meat that was before him. “Vanessa continues to show signs of recovery,” he said. “Her mother is with her, and I’m glad I’m here.”
“Who’s treating her?” Stone asked.
“We’ve got a poison team, and they’re on it, but they’ve never seen anything like this—a poison that takes twenty-four to seventy-two hours to act. That’s what the literature, such as it is, says.”
“Let’s count backward,” Dino said. “Stone, you found her dead, sort of, at what time?”
“Around seven-forty AM.”
“Did you see her the evening before?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And the big dinner was the night before that?”
“Right, and she was at another dinner the night before that.”
“Then,” Golding said, “the big dinner two nights ago looks good. Forty-eight hours, or so, have passed since then, and it was twelve hours ago that you discovered her unconscious in your bathroom. She had vomited, as I recall.”
“That’s right.”
“That may have saved her life by getting rid of some of the poison.”
“I sat between Vanessa and her mother,” Stone said, “and she ate what we all ate.”
“How did you happen to be seated in that position?” Dino asked.
“I sat where my place card was. Vanessa told me she had moved hers next to mine.”
“Then where did she move it from?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you all have for dinner?” Golding asked.
“Breast of chicken in a cream sauce and flavored with brandy, potatoes au gratin, haricots verts.”
“Starter?”
“A slab of seared foie gras,” Stone said.
“Dessert?”
“Crème brûlée.”
“And what were you all drinking?”
“A French burgundy. There were two bottles on the table.”
“Dessert wine?”
“A sauterne. I don’t know which one.”
“Coffee?”
“Later, in the living room. Vanessa and her mother didn’t stay for coffee. I saw them leave.”
“Do you know if she had a drink before dinner?” Golding asked.
Stone thought about it. “When I got to the party, I saw a Russian of my acquaintance standing with her, and they both had drinks in their hands. The Russian’s was clear—vodka, I guess. Hers was whiskey-colored.”
“Very good.”
“He didn’t mention that the Russian was ex-KGB,” Dino pointed out, “and has an unsavory reputation.”
“Right,” Stone said. “He would know people who could arrange a poisoning.”
“Who was in the kitchen?” Golding asked.
“A caterer, I guess. I never went into the kitchen.”
“How many people at this party?”
“Forty, maybe.”
“My money’s on the Russian,” Dino said.
“Mine, too,” Stone replied. “I can’t prove it. Can you?”
“Not yet.”
Golding put down his steak knife and polished off his drink. “I’ve got to go home before my wife divorces me,” he said. “Can I contribute to dinner?”
“You already have,” Dino said “Good luck at the hospital and with your wife.”
Golding shook their hands and departed.
“Well, we have a clearer picture of events now,” Dino said.
“I’m glad you do,” Stone replied. “I don’t have a fucking clue.”
“We need a motive,” Dino said.
“We certainly do. Again, I’m clueless.”
“Why would someone like Chekhov poison somebody at a big dinner party?”
“Cover,” Stone said. “Lots of other suspects.”
“In Paris, you said this Peter Grant guy kowtows to Chekhov, right?”
“Right.”
“Does he kowtow enough to commit murder on Chekhov’s instructions?”
“One more thing I don’t know,” Stone said.
“Check with Lance, will you?”
“First thing tomorrow,” Stone said.
Stone was having breakfast the following morning when his iPhone rang. “I’ll scramble,” he said. “Done.”
“What’s this I hear about a poisoning?” Lance asked.
“Somebody was poisoned,” Stone said.
“In your bathroom?”
“Twenty-four to forty-eight hours before my bathroom,” Stone replied. “That’s what her doctor reckons, anyway.”
“Was Chekhov present?”
“In my bathroom?”
“At the dinner where she ingested the poison.”
“Yes.”
“Then he’s your principal suspect.”
“Funny, that’s what Dino and I thought.”
“Why hasn’t Dino arrested him?”
“Dino needs evidence for an arrest. He’s funny that way. Anyway, Chekhov’s likely got a diplomatic passport. If he does, Dino can’t even question him without the Russian ambassador’s permission.”
“Which will not be forthcoming, of course.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Chekhov has already left the country,” Stone said.
“For where?”
“Anywhere he likes, I should think.”
“Do you know how he was transported to New York?”
“Private airplane. He had one in Paris.”
“I’ll have a look taken at private flights. How’s the girl doing?”
“Last night, her eyelids were fluttering. I’ve had no reports today.”
“She’s lucky to be alive.”
“She may not be, for all I know.”
“Call somebody and find out the latest,” Lance said.
“As soon as everybody has time to get to work.”
“I’m at work,” Lance replied.
“Great, then you call somebody, Lance. I’m still having breakfast.” Stone hung up.