the original of my will and one copy. Isn’t word processing wonderful? We got the whole business taken care of in two hours.”
“I’ll put them in the safe,” Stone said, buzzing Joan.
Joan came in, and he handed her both envelopes. “This is the original and a copy of Arrington’s new will,” he said. He took off his signet ring and handed it to her. “Seal both with wax, write the date on the envelope, and put them in the safe. I don’t ever want to see them.”
“Will do, boss,” she said, then she handed him a sheaf of papers.
“Chase messengered over these documents and the new checks. You both need to sign them.”
Stone and Arrington signed at the places indicated.
“There,” Arrington said, kissing him. “Now we are truly one, blessed by the Chase Private Bank.”
25
K elli Keane got off the elevator and stopped at the day editor’s desk on the way to her own. “Do we have someone who can search public records for us?”
“Yes,” the editor replied, without looking up from his screen. “You.”
Kelli went to her desk and dropped her large handbag, then phoned her acquaintance at City Hall.
“Yes?”
“It’s Kelli.”
“Well, hi, there. We getting together this week?”
“You can buy me dinner tomorrow night at Elaine’s, eight-thirty. You book the table.”
“Done.”
“Do you have anything more on who got married at what’s-hisname’s house?”
“Not a word. I don’t think anybody here knows.”
“Were they friends of what’s-his-name or the mayor’s or both?”
“No idea.”
“I want more information tomorrow night,” she said, “and I want you to get me a copy of a recently issued marriage license, since you’re so conveniently located.”
He sighed. “All right, who?”
“Stone Barrington.”
“Is Stone the first or last name?”
“First. Barrington, Stone. E-mail it to me before lunch, will you?”
“You’re very bossy.”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” she breathed into the phone.
“Before lunch,” he said.
Kelli Googled Stone Barrington and found only a few dozen references, mostly dealing with legal cases he had worked on, and there was an announcement from a year ago that he had been made a partner of Woodman amp; Weld. She was surprised to learn that he had been involved in the investigation of the murder of the movie star Vance Calder, fifteen years before. Kelli, being in her twenties, knew of Calder only from his old films on various cable channels. She had never watched one. She looked up the actor on Wikipedia and was surprised at the length of his entry, his filmography of seventy-five and his five Oscars. There was little about his personal life, only that he had married in his late sixties and fathered a child.
She looked up from her screen and found the day editor staring down at her. “What?” she asked.
“What are you working on?”
“Something really interesting,” she said.
“How interesting?”
“Interesting enough for me to devote a few days to the story and not be pecked to death by lesser assignments.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You have a way of cutting me off at the knees whenever I come to you with interesting information, so I’m not going to tell you about this one until I have it fully sourced and sewn up.” He stared at her for a long moment, and she realized he was looking at her cleavage. “What else can I do for you?” she asked, leaning forward to give him a better view of her unfettered breasts. He turned around and walked back to his desk, and Kelli breathed a sigh of relief.
She checked her e-mail and found one from her contact in the mayor’s office. She opened it, then the attachment, printed it and saved it under a new file name, then she took the sheet of paper out of the printer and examined it.
Stone Malon Barrington had been granted a license, dated December 22, to marry Christine A. Carter. His address sounded like Turtle Bay, and hers was the same. She Googled Carter and learned that she was a freelance writer and had had many magazine articles published, including, some years before, a profile for the New Yorker of Vance Calder. There was no article newer than that and nothing newer in her Google search, either. So the only nexus of Carter and Barrington was Vance Calder, fifteen years before. Odd, she thought, since they were both New Yorkers and Calder had lived in Los Angeles.
She went back to her Google search of Calder and looked for a biography. Two had been written, both more than twenty years ago, so they were of no use. She called a young man in the Arts section, with whom she had had a dalliance.
“Jess.”
“Kelli, how you doing?”
“Okay. You’re a film buff, right?”
“Gee, how’d you guess? Could it be because I review them for the paper?”
“Tell me about Vance Calder.”
“Hollywood great, up there with Jimmy Stewart, Spencer Tracy, and Cary Grant; five Academy Awards, eighteen nominations, both records for an actor. What else do you need to know?”
“Personal stuff.”
“Bachelor for most of his life, lived quietly, didn’t give interviews-print or TV, except once for a New Yorker profile. The old-timers like Calder didn’t do the publicity thing much.”
“How come?”
“They didn’t need to. The studios handled publicity but kept the press off their backs. I mean, you never saw Clark Gable on The Tonight Show, did you?”
“Then why would Calder sit still for a New Yorker profile?”
“The most prestigious of all magazine pieces, and he was nearer the end of his career than the beginning. It made quite a splash at the time, as I recall.”
“Do you know anything about Christine Carter, who wrote the piece?”
“Was that her name? I forget.”
“She apparently hasn’t written anything since.”
“Maybe she got married and quit.”
“Not until Christmas Day of this year, I think.”
“Married or quit?”
“Married.”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard about this, Kelli, but people sometimes marry more than once.”
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Jess.” She hung up. Now, how the hell could she research somebody who fell off the map fifteen years ago? There was no resume attached to a marriage license.
Then she had a thought. She checked her makeup, then walked across the room and down a corridor where senior people had actual, enclosed offices, some of them with windows. She stopped before one; the name on the door was Prunella Wheaton. Prunella was an old-line gossip queen whose column had been running in the paper for something like fifty years. The door was open, nobody home.
“Can I help you?” a deep female voice said from behind her.
