“Then why isn’t she in prison?”
“Because Mr. Long would not bring charges against her and because he managed to keep the police out of it, even to the extent of having his personal physician come to his home and repair the damage from the razor, to the tune of more than a hundred stitches. Mr. Long required a transfusion, as well.”
“If that is true, one would think that Mr. Long would be giving Ms. Cox a wide berth, would one not?”
“Apparently,” Eggers said, “the man still loves her, and we know how that is. He gave her an inordinately generous divorce settlement without complaint, and if that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”
“Those things generally arise from necessity, not love,” Stone observed. “It’s my understanding that a judge allotted the marital assets. After all, they had been married for nine years.”
“It was less than three years,” Eggers said. “My friend’s view is that his client, besotted, spent a fortune on Ms. Cox’s training as an actress and dancer, not to mention her wardrobe and jewelry, before and during the marriage, and that she returned the favor by sleeping with her acting teacher, her dancing coach, and whoever else was handy. My friend described her as sexually wanton.”
“A trait I’ve always admired in a woman,” Stone said.
“Though not necessarily in a client,” Eggers pointed out.
“Bill, do you have some suggestion about my course of action in this case?”
“I do, though I know you are unlikely to accept any such suggestion.”
“I’ll try to be broad-minded,” Stone said.
“I suggest that you extricate yourself from this woman’s clutches as quickly as you can politely do so, because if my friend’s opinion is of any consequence, she will eventually turn on you, and she may still own that razor.”
“I must say that I hadn’t noticed that I was in her, as you put it, ‘clutches,’ ” Stone said.
“Perhaps ‘clenches’ would have been a better word,” Eggers said.
“Perhaps, but that is not a bad place to be.”
Eggers sighed. “All right, I suppose the only other thing I can do is to exhort you to be very, very careful in your dealings with her and to keep your physician’s number in your pocket.”
“All right, I’ll do that,” Stone said.
“That said, I have something for you.”
“Oh, good. Wayward wife? Wayward son?” A good deal of Stone’s work for Woodman Weld had involved one or the other.
“Wayward daughter,” Eggers said.
“Uh-oh.”
“Exactly.” Eggers wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to Stone. “Her name is Hildy Parsons, and this is her address and phone number.”
“What is her particular problem?” Stone asked.
“How much time do you have?”
“I’m at your disposal.”
“All right, it began in high school, when she had an affair with one of her teachers that resulted in his firing and her transferring to an institution operated by nuns. Her father managed to keep this business fairly quiet, and the girl is very bright, so she actually got into Harvard and earned her degree in the usual four years, though she formed a number of other inappropriate attachments along the way.”
“And what sort of inappropriate attachment has she now formed?” Stone asked.
“An artist,” Eggers said, “or so he styles himself. He has a studio downtown somewhere, from which he is alleged to be operating a dealership in drugs. Her father is concerned first that he might persuade her to partake and second that when the authorities finally nail him, she will be charged as an accessory—before, during, and/ or after the fact.”
“Is her father Philip Parsons, the art dealer on East Fifty-seventh Street?”
“He is, and I think it a good idea if you visit with him.” Eggers consulted the eighteenth-century clock in the corner behind his desk. “You won’t need an appointment; he’s expecting you in ten minutes.”
“And what, exactly, does Mr. Parsons expect me to do?”
“I’m sure that will emerge in your chat with him,” Eggers said.
Stone got to his feet. “You did tell him that I don’t do contract killings, didn’t you?”
Eggers shook his hand. “I don’t believe I mentioned that,” he said. “Good day, Stone, and please, please be careful.”
Stone left, still feeling unendangered.
13
STONE WALKED FROM EGGERS’ S OFFICE
in the Seagram Building, up Park Avenue, and took a left on East Fifty-seventh Street. On the way he pondered his friend’s information about Carrie and decided to discount ninety-five percent of it as the rant of a rejected husband, but he was not entirely sure of which five percent to believe.
His reverie was interrupted when he arrived at the Parsons Gallery, a wide building with a gorgeous Greek sculpture of a woman’s head spotlighted in the center of the window. Stone approached a very beautiful and impossibly thin young woman who was seated at a desk thumbing through a catalogue.
“Good morning. Can I help you?” she asked.
“My name is Stone Barrington. I believe Mr. Parsons is expecting me.”
She consulted a typed list of names on her desk. “Yes, Mr. Barrington,” she said. “Would you take the elevator to the fourth floor?” She pointed. “Someone will meet you.”
Because she was so beautiful, Stone thanked her and did as he was told. He was met on the fourth floor by an equally beautiful but less bony woman in her thirties, he judged.
“Mr. Barrington? I’m Rita Gammage. Good morning. Please come this way.”
Stone followed her down a hallway to an open door, where she left him. Inside the office a man who was talking on the telephone waved him to a chair on the other side of his desk.
Before sitting down, Stone made a slow, 360-degree swivel to look at the walls. He recognized a Bonnard, a Freud, a Modigliani, and two Picassos among the work hanging there. He sat down and turned his attention to the man on the phone.
He appeared to be in his early sixties and was handsome in a tweedy sort of way. He was wearing a cashmere cardigan over a Turnbull Asser shirt, and he needed a haircut, or, perhaps, he had had it cut in such a way as to seem to need a haircut.
The man hung up and stood, extending his hand. “I’m Philip Parsons,” he said. “I expect you’re Mr. Barrington.”
Stone stood and shook the hand, then sat down again. “It’s Stone, please.” He waved a hand. “I think this is the most extraordinary collection I’ve seen in someone’s office.”
“Thank you,” Parsons said, seeming pleased with the compliment.
“Are these part of your inventory or your own collection?”
“These are all mine,” Parsons said. “Occasionally, I tire of a piece and sell it, but most of these things I bought many years ago, when an ordinary person could still do that.”
Stone wondered how Parsons defined
ordinary
. “You’re fortunate to have them.”
“Yeesss,” Parsons drawled, but then went quiet.
“Bill Eggers suggested I come and see you,” Stone said unnecessarily, but somebody had to get to the point. “How may I help you?”
Parsons gazed out the window at the facade of the Four Seasons Hotel across the street and finally mustered some words. “I’m sorry if I seem halting,” he said, “but I find it difficult to speak about my daughter.”
“Tell me a little about her,” Stone said.
“She was a beautiful child, looked extraordinarily like her mother, who died when she was six. I’m afraid I may have relied too much on help to raise her.”
“I expect being a single father is difficult,” Stone said.
“Well, I was building this gallery, and it took nearly all of my waking hours traveling, searching for good work; cultivating artists and buyers; evenings spent at openings, my own and others. You seem to have a good eye. Do you know art?”
“My mother was a painter,” Stone said. “I spent a good deal of my youth in museums and galleries.”
“What is her name?”
“Matilda Stone.”
“My goodness, what a fine painter. She’s not still alive, is she?”
“No, she’s been gone for many years.”
“Twice I’ve had paintings of hers to sell, and they both went very quickly. I think I must have asked too little.” He turned and looked at Stone. “Do you have any of her work?”
“I have four oils—village scenes.”
“She was renowned for her Washington Square pieces.”
“Yes, we lived near the square.”
“I’d love to see them some time.”
“I’d be happy to show them to you,” Stone said. “You must come for a drink.”
“Where do you live?”
“I have a house in Turtle Bay.”
“I will make a point of it,” Parsons said, then turned to gaze at the hotel. “Hildy’s troubles began, I suppose, with the onset of puberty. I don’t know if all girls have such a hard time with the transition, but she certainly did. Her grandmother, who never really thought I should have been allowed to raise her, was scandalized, and she found that Catholic school to send her to. It was far too rigid an environment for a free spirit like Hildy, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
“How old is Hildy now?” Stone asked, hoping to bring him to the present.
“Twenty-four. She’ll be twenty-five in three months, and she will then have free access to her trust, which came to her from her grandmother through her mother. I fear that three months after that, it will all be gone if she continues to see this man.”
“What is his name?” Stone asked.
Parsons rummaged in a drawer and came up with a single sheet of paper. “Derek Sharpe, with an
e
,” Parsons said, “né Mervin Pyle, in some squalid border town in Texas, forty-six years ago. No education to speak of; four marriages, three of them wealthy, though not when they were divorced. One of society’s leeches, born to the task—trailer trash with a thin veneer of sophistication. I was appalled when I met him.” He shoved the paper across the desk to Stone.
Stone glanced at it. “May I have this?”
“Yes. It was put together by a fairly seedy private detective for only twelve thousand dollars.”
Stone scanned the document. “He got virtually all of it from the Internet; it cost him less than a hundred dollars. Is the man still on the case?”
“No, something about Mr. Derek Sharpe frightened him, I think. He took his money and ran.”
“You should know that I’m not a private investigator but an attorney,” Stone said. “However, I have access to good people who provide more and better value than this.” He held up the paper.
“Yes. Eggers told me that,” Parsons said.
“What would you like done?” Stone asked, and he steeled himself for the reply.”
“If I could hire you to shoot him in the head, I would,” Parsons said. “Forgive me, I know you’re not in that business, and I would probably shrink from the task, if I met someone who was.”
“Of course.”
“I suppose what I want is for him to go away,” Parsons said, “out of Hildy’s life, never to see her again. But I don’t know how to accomplish that. I’ve thought of trying to buy him off.”
“I think that effort might be fruitless,” Stone said, “unless you offered him a great deal—more than Hildy’s trust fund—and maybe not even then. Does he know about her impending wealth?”
“I’m sure he does,” Parsons said. “Hildy is not the sort to be closemouthed about anything.”
“Perhaps we could begin by my meeting Mr. Sharpe,” Stone said.
“Perhaps so,” Parsons replied. He pushed a card across his desk. “I have an opening this evening on the second floor for a painter named Squires, who is
very
good. Hildy will be there, and I’m certain Mr. Sharpe will be tagging along.”
Stone stood and put the invitation and the information on Sharpe into a pocket. “Then I’ll come,” he said, “and we’ll see where we go from there.”
The two men shook hands, and Stone departed the gallery. Why, he wondered as he walked home, had most of the women he knew been abused by men?
14
AS HE ENTERED HIS HOUSE
through the office door, Joan waved a message at him. “Carrie Cox called,” she said. “She wants you to call while she’s on her lunch break.”
Stone went into his office, buzzed his housekeeper, Helene, in the kitchen, and asked for a sandwich. Then he sat down at his desk and returned Carrie’s call.
“Hello?” she said, and by the sound of her voice she seemed to be eating something.
“Hi, it’s Stone.”
“Oh, hi.”
“How are your rehearsals going?”
“Just great!”
“That sounds delicious.”
“It’s something called a falafel,” she said. “Exotic New York food, not bad. Are we doing something this evening?”
“I have to go to an opening for a painter,” Stone replied. “Would you like to come?”
“No, I called to beg off whatever you had in mind; I have to learn the second act. Who’s the painter?”