Santa Fe Dead by Stuart Woods Page B

groan, then pulled the sheet up to his chin. She walked outside, sat down and used her cell phone to call Jimmy Long.
    "Hello?”
    “It’s Barbara.”
    “Eleanor! How are you? Your car arrived a few days ago. What was that all about?”
    “I flew off to San Francisco with a gentleman,” she said.
    “That was fast work.”
    “You heard I was acquitted, that I’m a free woman?”
    “I did.”
    “I’m sticking with the Eleanor Wright identity, though. Will you go see our friend in Venice and tell him I need a certified copy of my birth certificate? I want to get a real passport and driver’s license.”
    “Sure, babe.”
    “I’ll reimburse you, of course.”
    “Don’t worry about it. I just turned my new film over to the studio and got a very nice check. What do you want me to do with your stuff?”
    “Get rid of it all. Sell the car and keep the money. That will make us more than even. Give the clothes to the Salvation Army or something; I already have a new wardrobe.”
    “You never cease to amaze me.”
    “Are you sitting down? Stand by to be further amazed: I was married in San Francisco the day before yesterday.”
    “Holy shit! Are you kidding me?”
    “I kid you not. I am, at the moment, on my honeymoon at a beautiful hotel in the Napa Valley.”
    “Who’s the lucky guy?”
    “His name is Walter Keeler.”
    “Hang on. I know that name, don’t I? From the Wall Street Journal, maybe?”
    “You have a good memory, my dear. He sold his company— Keeler Avionics—a while back?”
    “God, yes, I remember. He walked away with a bundle of money, didn’t he?”
    “He walked away with a busload of money.”
    “Man, you are something else!”
    “We have a new apartment in San Francisco; got a pencil?” She gave him the address and phone number. “I’ll let you know when I get a new cell phone.”
    “Well, baby, I hope this doesn’t mean we can’t fuck each other from time to time.”
    “From time to time,” she said, laughing. “I won’t forget you.”
    “I’ll send you the pink slip for the car to sign, so I can sell it.”
    “You can mail me the birth certificate, too, and as soon as possible, please. I have to run now, sweetie, but I’ll be in touch.”
    “I’ll send you the birth certificate pronto. Take care!”
    She hung up and sighed. Soon she would be legally documented again, and there would be no stopping her.
    A DAY AFTER Joe Wilen’s call, Eagle received another.
    “Hello, Joe.”
    “Ed, I found a place, and it’s just perfect. I talked it over with my wife, and she’s all for it, so I want to proceed to closing. The house is empty, and it’s all cash, so I guess all I need is a title search.”
    “Give me the details, and I’ll get that taken care of immediately. When do you want to close?”
    “Do you think we can do it tomorrow? I want to get it done before my wife has second thoughts.”
    “Tell Ashley to set it up at my office late tomorrow afternoon, and you’ll be home in that King Air by bedtime.”
    “Will do.”
    Eagle noted the details of the property, gave Wilen his account number for wiring closing funds and said good-bye. He called the title company and got the search started; they would do it quickly for him.
    THE FOLLOWING DAY, Ellie and Walter were having lunch at Galiano Vineyards with the owner, Emilio Galiano, an old friend of Walter’s. He made some of the best wines in Napa, wines that people lined up to buy well in advance of their general release.
    “I must say, Walt,” Emilio said, “you have outstanding taste in wives.”
    “You bet your ass I do,” Walter replied.
    “You’re sweet, Emilio,” Barbara said. “Walt, what would you think of buying a little vineyard in Napa? Wouldn’t that be fun?”
    “Fun?” Galiano asked. “It’s bloody hard work, is what it is.”
    “I’ve been trying for years to get Emilio to sell to me,” Walter said, “but he enjoys teasing me too much about how willing he is to