shaved off a beard and was unrecognizable, and he was there, in St. Marks, posing as a magazine writer covering the story.”
“And he didn’t stop the hanging?”
“No. What’s more, in order to cover up his new identity, he engineered a light airplane crash in which his ex- wife and two others died.”
“And he got away with it?”
“Fortunately, no. He turned up in New York a few weeks later, demanding his yacht.”
“What?”
“Didn’t I mention that Allison, by way of my fee, gave me the yacht?”
“No.”
“Well, she did.”
“And now Paul Manning wanted it back?”
“He did.”
“What did you do?”
“I’d been expecting him to show up, so I made a phone call, and the police came and took him away. He was extradited to St. Marks, where he was tried, then hanged for the three murders.”
“God, what a story. And what made you think of it tonight?”
“I thought of it because Allison Manning is sitting right over there by the windows.”
Callie’s head spun around.
Stone tapped her on the arm. “Don’t stare. I don’t want her to see me.”
“You’re sure?”
“She’s dyed her hair red, but that is Allison in the flesh, and very nice flesh it is.”
“How could she possibly be here if she was hanged in St. Marks?”
“I didn’t finish my story. Unbeknownst to me, Allison had, through the local barrister, arranged to deliver a cashier’s check for one million dollars into the prime minister’s hands. Accordingly, the execution was faked, and Allison departed the island in a fast yacht she had chartered for the purpose.”
“That didn’t make it into the
“It did not. And I may have violated attorney-client confidentiality by telling you.”
“Where did Allison get a million dollars?”
“Paul Manning had been insured for twelve million dollars, and the insurance company had already paid.”
“So she skipped St. Marks with all that money?”
“Much to the annoyance of her husband.”
“But he got his comeuppance.”
“He did.”
“And you got the yacht.”
“I did.”
“Do you still have it?”
“No. I sold it in Fort Lauderdale.”
“You said you’d never been anywhere in Florida except Miami.”
“I forgot about Lauderdale.”
“How much did you get for the yacht?”
“A million, six.”
“And what did you do with it?”
“I gave the IRS a large chunk, and the rest is in a sock, under my mattress.”
She threw back her head and laughed. When she had recovered herself, she asked, “Why do you suppose Allison Manning is in Palm Beach?”
“I have no idea.”
They got back to
“If you will forgive me,” she said, “I’m going to turn in. It was a long day, and I’ve had a lot to drink.”
“I’m hurt,” he replied, “but I’ll get over it.”
She leaned into him and kissed him, just long enough to be interesting; creamy lips, warm tongue. “Sleep well.”
“Now I won’t sleep at all,” Stone said.
“Oh, good,” she replied, then walked off toward her cabin.
7
Late the following morning, Stone borrowed Callie’s Jaguar, drove downtown and found a parking space on Worth Avenue. He arrived at Renato’s five minutes early and presented himself to the head-waiter. “I’m meeting a Mrs.Harding,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” the man replied. “We have you in the garden.” He led Stone to a table under overhanging bougainvillea and left a pair of menus. Stone sipped some mineral water and waited for Mrs.Winston Harding to appear. When she arrived, Stone choked on his mineral water. This, he had not been expecting.
She was only fashionably late, wearing blue slacks and a matching cashmere sweater, pearls at the neck, the very picture of the fashionable young matron. He tended to remember her in short shorts, with a shirt tied below her breasts, revealing an enticing midsection, and he tried to make the adjustment.
Stone stood to greet her. “Hello, Allison,” he said.
“Shhh,” she whispered, hugging him, her breasts pressing against him for an extra moment. “We don’t use that name here.”
He held her chair and ordered a cosmopolitan for her. “Brad,” she said to the headwaiter, “this is Stone Barrington. I’m sure you’ll be seeing more of him.”
The headwaiter shook Stone’s hand, then went to get her drink.
“So what is this Mrs.Winston Harding business?”
“That, my love, is my name these days. It’s good to see you.” She smiled, leaning forward to allow her breasts to be seen down the V-necked sweater.
“And you,” he said. “You disappeared over the horizon in that rented yacht, and I thought I’d never see you again. I’ve often wondered where you got to.”
“Oh, all over,” she said, smiling. “I’ve seen the world since last I saw you. I started with a cruise in the Pacific and the Far East, and I just kept going. A year later, I met Winston Harding in London, and a few weeks later we were married in Houston, his home. Winston was a property developer.”
“Was?”
“I’m a widow now.”
“My condolences. Was there insurance involved?”
She blushed a little. “That was an evil thing to say. He died of a heart attack. He was fifty-five.”
“My apologies.”
“But there was insurance involved, and a great deal else. Let’s order.”
She chose the poached salmon, and Stone the rigatoni with a sauce of wild boar sausage and cream. He ordered a bottle of Frascati.
“Well, Palm Beach must be the perfect spot for a wealthy widow,” Stone said.
“We bought the house the year after we were married,” she replied. “I hardly chose it for widowhood; it just worked out that way. Funny, it’s worth three times what Winston paid for it.”
“I’ve heard the market is hot.”
“And so am I,” she said. She stopped talking while their lunch was served. “In a manner of speaking,” she said, when the waiter had left.
“I should think you would have cooled off considerably,” Stone said. “After all, you’re dead.”
