She started. 'Does anybody know about this?'
'Just you and me.'
She looked at her watch. 'I wonder if I can still make tomorrow's paper.'
'Oh, no you don't,' Stone said.
Kramer fell back into her chair. 'Oh, shit, I promised, didn't I?'
'You promised. Anyway, it's not your kind of story, is it?'
'No, but it would have been nice for the Chronicle column, which is the nearest thing the Times has to gossip, and nobody would have believed that I could get the beat on the story.'
'Leave the Calders in peace,' Stone said. 'They're holed up, hoping that somebody like you won't find them until they're ready to spring the news themselves.'
'Well, that's the last story I expected to get in St.Marks.' She looked up. 'Here comes Jim.' 'Don't mention Arrington to him.'
'Okay.'
Forrester ambled up and sat down, tossing a business card onto the table. 'Well, thanks a lot, Stone; you got me into a conversation with a life insurance salesman.'
Stone looked at the card. 'Frank R. Stendahl, Boston Mutual,' he read.
'I barely got away with my shirt You owe me a drink.'
Stone waved at Thomas and pointed at Forrester, then made a drinking motion. 'So, Jim, you think he's for real?'
'You want his whole story?'
'You bet.'
'He's divorced, with two teenage kids; he lives in Lynn, Massachusetts that's near Boston-his wife got house and nearly everything else, and he makes the million-dollar roundtable every year. I believe that, too: I told him I was getting a divorce, hoping that would him off the subject of insurance, and he had ten ready why a born-again bachelor would need coverage!'
'I owe you two drinks,' Stone said.
'You owe me dinner,' Forrester replied.
'Okay, okay; probably not tonight, but before we leave.'
'I want to debrief you after the trial anyway; maybe that over dinner.'
Kramer spoke up.'Only if I can be there, too.'
Forrester laughed. 'It's a good thing you and I aren't direct competitors.'
'Jim,' Stone said. 'Does Stendahl remind you of anybody?'
Forrester looked toward the bar. 'Remind me Of anybody?'
'Maybe of Paul Manning, a little?'
Forrester looked thoughtful. 'Well, they're about the same size and build, but apart from that they don't really look alike.'
'Even taking the absence of a beard into account?'
Forrester shook his head. 'Very different in manner and accent, and not at all the same face, even without the beard. What, did you think he might not be dead after all?'
'It crossed my mind for a fleeting moment. My life certainly be a lot simpler if Paul Manning walked in here and sat down at the bar.'
'Well, put your mind at rest, pal; I mean, maybe Manning's out there swimming around somewhere, but that ain't him at the bar.'
'And you're the only one here who knew him,' Stone said, sighing.
'Allison knew him; give her a look at Stendahl and see what she has to say.'
Stone shook his head. 'I wouldn't put her through that.'
Forrester looked sympathetic. 'That would solve a lot of problems for you, wouldn't it? I mean, if Stendahl were Manning.'
'It certainly would,' Stone agreed.
Kramer spoke up. 'It would get Allison off, but Stendahl would sure be in a lot of trouble.'
'Yes, he would,' Stone said. 'Although I'm not sure what they might charge him with in St. Marks.'
Forrester laughed. 'It would be funny, wouldn't it? Stendahl/Manning stands up in court and says, 'I am the deceased; let my wife go!' I can just see Sir Winston's face.'
They all had a good laugh.
CHAPTER 48
It was their last night before the trial. 'Want to go to dinner at the inn?' Stone asked.
She shook her head. 'I don't want to be on display. I would much rather cook dinner for you aboard.'
'Why don't I cook dinner for you instead?' he asked.
'No, that would have too much of the condemned's last meal about it.'
'Come on, I don't want you to worry about the trial.'
'I am serene,' she said, and she certainly seemed way. 'I'd just rather do something normal, like cooking. In fact, I've already thawed a chateaubriand in anticipation.'
'Sounds wonderful. Can I make a Caesar salad?'
'Oh, all right, but just the salad. There's some romaine lettuce in the supplies Thomas sent down.'
'And I need fresh eggs, olive oil, garlic, some Dijon mustard, and a can of anchovies.'
'All in the galley. I'll get the meat started and make some bearnaise sauce first. You can make me a martini.'
'Pfft! You're a martini!'
She groaned.
'One martini, coming up.' Stone mixed the drink, shook it, dropped an olive in, strained the crystal liquid into a large martini glass, and set it on the galley counter.
She sipped it. 'Mmmm. Just right.'
Stone mixed himself a rum and tonic and watched as she unwrapped the beef, the center of the tenderloin, pounded it to about an inch and a half of thickness with a meat mallet, dusted it liberally with salt and pepper, and laid it on the gas grill. Then she diced some shallots and sauteed them with some tarragon, vinegar, and white wine. While this mixture was reducing she separated half a dozen egg yolks, heated some butter, then put the yolks into the Cuisinart, turned it on, and poured hot butter into the chute. Moments later she had hollandaise, which, when mixed with the reduced shallots and tarragon, became bearnaise. She dipped a finger into the sauce and held it up for Stone to taste.
'Wow!' Stone said. 'You made that look easy.'
'It is easy,' she replied, turning over the beef. 'Now you can make your salad.
Stone rinsed the romaine leaves and left them to drain. He crushed a couple of garlic cloves and some anchovies into the wooden salad bowl, then separated two egg yolks and dropped them into the bowl as well. Then he whipped the mixture with a whisk while adding oil until the consistency was perfect. He added a of mustard and a little vinegar, some salt and gave her a fingerful to taste.
'Absolutely perfect,' she crowed, hoisting the meat a cutting board and slicing it deftly with a sharp knife.
Stone put the lettuce into the bowl with the dressing tossed it until each leaf was thinly coated, then set on the saloon table alongside the beef.
Allison dug out a bottle of red wine. 'You do the honors,' she said, holding it out with the corkscrew for him.
'Opus One,'89,' he said, reading the label. 'I'm impressed.'
'It's the best bottle on the boat.'
'And it will need decanting. You have a seat.' He the wine gently into a decanter, watching for the sediment to creep up the bottle's neck, stopping when it he sat down and poured them both some.
Allison raised her glass. 'To the best last meal a girl had,' she said.
