“He was at that wedding at what’s-his-name’s house on Christmas Day, wasn’t he?”
“Kelli, don’t start that again.”
“It was Barrington who got married that day.”
“You don’t know that. You know only that he got a license earlier.”
“It makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is who his wife is.”
“It was on the marriage license, wasn’t it?”
“Yes: Christine A. Carter. She’s a blank on Google for fifteen years. Wrote magazine pieces, did a profile of Vance Calder for the New Yorker. I think she may have married him.” She grabbed his wrist and squeezed. “I was right; here they come.”
Barrington, Bacchetti, a beautiful blonde, and two late-teen boys came into the restaurant together. The adults were seated up front, but the boys were given their own table farther back, a couple of tables from where Kelli and Bruce were seated.
“I think Mrs. Barrington was married to Vance Calder,” Kelli said.
“That’s quite a leap, given what you’ve got,” Bruce replied. “Anyway, she’s too young to have been married to Calder. He was in his seventies when he died, and that was years ago. I mean, look at her.”
“Wouldn’t be the first May-September romance in Hollywood,” Kelli said.
“Why are you obsessed with this?” Bruce asked.
“I’m thinking of doing a biography of Vance Calder,” she said.
“Good God, why?”
“Because there hasn’t been one for more than twenty years, and a lot happened to him late in life, like getting married, having a kid, and getting murdered. Did you know his wife was a suspect?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“From Prunella Wheaton.”
“How do you know her?”
“We work at the same paper, on the same floor,” she pointed out. “I just introduced myself, and we had a conversation about Vance Calder. She told me she fucked him, and that he was the best lay she ever had. She used exactly those words.”
“And she looks like such a lady.”
“She’s a tough old bird,” Kelli said.
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Excuse me for a moment,” Kelli said. She got up and walked over to where the two boys sat, drinking Cokes. “Hi, fellas,” she said. “My name’s Kelli. What’s yours?” To her surprise, both boys stood up.
“Hi, I’m Ben,” one of them said. “This is-”
“Joe,” the other said quickly.
“Glad to meet you both. Tell me, guys-”
Then Frank, one of the headwaiters, was positioning his large frame between Kelli and the table. “No, Kelli,” he said. “You don’t bother the customers.”
“Take it easy, Frank,” she replied, returning reluctantly to her own table.
“You’re lucky Elaine isn’t here yet,” Frank said, then walked away and positioned himself near the boys’ table.
“What was that all about?” Bruce asked.
“That was about me doing my job,” she replied.
“Well, stop doing your job,” Bruce said. “I don’t want to get thrown out of here and eighty-sixed.”
Two tables down, Ben said, “How come you told her your name is Joe?”
“She’s press,” Peter said. “I could have spotted her when I was six. Don’t ever talk to her.”
“Gee, I’d like to jump her,” Ben said.
“And she’d probably let you, for a story,” Peter replied. “But you’d regret it.”
“I don’t think so,” Ben said, sneaking another peek at her legs.
“Ben, you’re going to have to learn how that game is played,” Peter said. “You’re going to see a lot of it when we’re in the film business.”
“If you say so,” Ben replied.
“Didn’t you see what Frank just did? He rescued you from making an ass of yourself. You watch Gianni and Frank; they know who’s who around here.”
Frank came over. “I’m sorry about that,” he said.
“Who is she?” Ben asked.
“Kelli Keane. She works on Page Six at the Post. ”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Peter said.
“What did she ask you?” Frank asked.
“She wanted our names,” Peter said. “I lied to her.”
“You’re a smart boy,” Frank said, then went to meet some customers.
Ben sighed. “You were right,” he said, “but I’d still like to jump her.”
28
K elli left Elaine’s pissed off, and her anger kept her awake that night. The following morning she went back to see Prunella Wheaton.
“Good morning, Kelli,” Wheaton said. “Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
“Thank you, Prunie, yes,” Kelli replied, taking a chair.
“So, how are things?”
“I’m having trouble on my story,” she said, “and I want to ask your advice.”
Wheaton handed her coffee on a small tray, with milk and sweeteners and a cookie. “Frankly, I get bored around here. I do my work on the phone, more often than not, so I’m glad to have some company.”
“I asked you before about Vance Calder,” Kelli said.
“I remember.”
“Let me go back to the beginning.” She told Wheaton about the wedding at the Bianchi house, the mayor and Stone Barrington and Christine Carter. “I think she may be the woman Calder married, but I just can’t get any confirmation. In the business reports about Centurion last year, she was always referred to as Mrs. Vance Calder. Now, if Carter turns out to be Mrs. Calder, there’s a juicy little story in all this, particularly if she’s as rich as you say she is. There might even be a book in it-a new bio of Calder.”
“Do you know who Eduardo Bianchi is?” Wheaton asked.
“No, except that he’s on a lot of boards. Nobody will talk about him, not even a guy I met in a bar.”
“Who did you meet?”
“Somebody named Anthony Cecchini.”
“I see,” Wheaton said. “The buzz for decades on Bianchi is that he was once a very powerful mover in the Mafia, although entirely behind the scenes. Early on, he saw a better way ahead by becoming a respectable financier and a big philanthropist, though he was said to keep a hand in with his Italian friends.”
“If he’s so respectable now, then why is everybody afraid of him?”
“Sweetie, there are people out there in this life that you never want to mess with.”
“Like Rupert Murdoch.”
“If you work at this paper, sure. Bianchi has so many good friends and contacts in this town that if you spoke ill of him or invaded his privacy, he wouldn’t have to lift a finger to make life difficult for you; his friends would do it for him. A phone call would be made by someone, or a few words exchanged at some club, and next thing you knew, you’d be out of work and never even know why.”
“That’s scary,” Kelli said.
“And you should know that your new acquaintance, Mr. Anthony Cecchini, is the grandson of one Onofrio Cecchini-also known, improbably, as Irish Mike-who has probably been responsible for more sudden deaths than you
