started to tell her he was moving out of the house, but he thought it might be best to wait until he saw her.
“See you then, darling,” she said and hung up.
Stone called the maid and asked her to put the clothing into his car; then, as he promised he would, he called Sam Durkee at the Brentwood station.
“Durkee.”
“Morning, Sam. It’s Stone Barrington.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You asked me to let you know when Mrs. Calder was leaving the clinic; it’s this morning.” He paused for a moment, native caution coming into play. “At ten-thirty.”
“Hey, Ted,” Durkee called out, “Vance Calder’s widow is getting out at ten-thirty.” His voice returned to the receiver. “Thanks for letting us know,” he said.
“Do you need to speak with her again?” Stone asked.
“Not at the moment.”
“If you do, call me at Centurion Studios, and I’ll arrange it. The operator there will find me.”
“Sure thing.”
“Good-bye.” Stone hung up, wishing he hadn’t called Durkee; he had a funny feeling about this.
At nine-fifteen, as Stone was finishing breakfast, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Stone? It’s Jim Judson, at the clinic.”
“Morning, Jim; is Arrington still going to be ready to leave at ten?”
“I’m not sure if you’ll want her to,” Judson replied. “As we speak, the press is gathering outside. There are three television vans with satellite dishes, and at least a dozen reporters.”
“Ah,” Stone said, once again regretting his call to Durkee. “I think this calls for a change in plans.”
“I thought you might think so.”
“Is there another way out of the building besides the front door?”
“We have a small parking lot for staff at the west end of the building. You enter it from near the front door, but the exit is around the corner. From my office, I can see media people staking that out, too, but only a handful of them.”
Stone had a look at his street map of Beverly Hills. “All right, here’s what we do,” Stone said. “Can you find a nurse’s uniform that will fit Arrington?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Get her dressed in the uniform, cap and all, and borrow a car—the older and more modest, the better—from one of your staff. Have Arrington walk out to the parking lot, get into the car, and leave by the side-street exit. Have her turn left, then take her first right. I’ll be waiting there. She’ll leave the borrowed car there for you to pick up.”
“All right. When do you want her to leave the building?”
Stone looked at his watch. “Half an hour?”
“Fine.”
“How is she this morning?”
“She’s all right, but you might still find her a little fragile. She still hasn’t remembered anything between her hair appointment the day before the murder and waking up here the day after.”
“Thanks, Jim; I’ll speak to you later, if I have any questions.” Stone hung up, then checked his map again. He’d have to pass a corner near the clinic to position himself where he wanted to be; he hoped his car would be anonymous enough. He called Manolo. “I’d like to take the station wagon today,” he said.
“Of course, Mr. Barrington; I’ll have Isabel put the clothes in that car. The keys are in it.”
Stone drove out the utility exit and made his way toward the Judson Clinic. He had to stop at a traffic light on the corner half a block from the clinic, and as he waited, Sam Durkee and Ted Bryant drove past him on the cross street, toward the clinic. “You sons of bitches,” Stone muttered. The light changed and he drove straight ahead, past the exit from the employees’ parking lot, which a small group of reporters had staked out. He turned right at the next corner and pulled over, leaving the engine running.
Ten minutes passed, and, right on time, Arrington appeared, driving an elderly Honda. She parked the car, ran over to the Mercedes station wagon, and got in. “Thank you for getting me out of there, Stone,” she said,
“See you then, darling,” she said and hung up.
Stone called the maid and asked her to put the clothing into his car; then, as he promised he would, he called Sam Durkee at the Brentwood station.
“Durkee.”
“Morning, Sam. It’s Stone Barrington.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You asked me to let you know when Mrs. Calder was leaving the clinic; it’s this morning.” He paused for a moment, native caution coming into play. “At ten-thirty.”
“Hey, Ted,” Durkee called out, “Vance Calder’s widow is getting out at ten-thirty.” His voice returned to the receiver. “Thanks for letting us know,” he said.
“Do you need to speak with her again?” Stone asked.
“Not at the moment.”
“If you do, call me at Centurion Studios, and I’ll arrange it. The operator there will find me.”
“Sure thing.”
“Good-bye.” Stone hung up, wishing he hadn’t called Durkee; he had a funny feeling about this.
At nine-fifteen, as Stone was finishing breakfast, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Stone? It’s Jim Judson, at the clinic.”
“Morning, Jim; is Arrington still going to be ready to leave at ten?”
“I’m not sure if you’ll want her to,” Judson replied. “As we speak, the press is gathering outside. There are three television vans with satellite dishes, and at least a dozen reporters.”
“Ah,” Stone said, once again regretting his call to Durkee. “I think this calls for a change in plans.”
“I thought you might think so.”
“Is there another way out of the building besides the front door?”
“We have a small parking lot for staff at the west end of the building. You enter it from near the front door, but the exit is around the corner. From my office, I can see media people staking that out, too, but only a handful of them.”
Stone had a look at his street map of Beverly Hills. “All right, here’s what we do,” Stone said. “Can you find a nurse’s uniform that will fit Arrington?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Get her dressed in the uniform, cap and all, and borrow a car—the older and more modest, the better—from one of your staff. Have Arrington walk out to the parking lot, get into the car, and leave by the side-street exit. Have her turn left, then take her first right. I’ll be waiting there. She’ll leave the borrowed car there for you to pick up.”
“All right. When do you want her to leave the building?”
Stone looked at his watch. “Half an hour?”
“Fine.”
“How is she this morning?”
“She’s all right, but you might still find her a little fragile. She still hasn’t remembered anything between her hair appointment the day before the murder and waking up here the day after.”
“Thanks, Jim; I’ll speak to you later, if I have any questions.” Stone hung up, then checked his map again. He’d have to pass a corner near the clinic to position himself where he wanted to be; he hoped his car would be anonymous enough. He called Manolo. “I’d like to take the station wagon today,” he said.
“Of course, Mr. Barrington; I’ll have Isabel put the clothes in that car. The keys are in it.”
Stone drove out the utility exit and made his way toward the Judson Clinic. He had to stop at a traffic light on the corner half a block from the clinic, and as he waited, Sam Durkee and Ted Bryant drove past him on the cross street, toward the clinic. “You sons of bitches,” Stone muttered. The light changed and he drove straight ahead, past the exit from the employees’ parking lot, which a small group of reporters had staked out. He turned right at the next corner and pulled over, leaving the engine running.
Ten minutes passed, and, right on time, Arrington appeared, driving an elderly Honda. She parked the car, ran over to the Mercedes station wagon, and got in. “Thank you for getting me out of there, Stone,” she said,
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