“I’m sure you remember your wife,” Stone said.

The brunette looked up sharply at the man.

“My wife died last year,” he said.

“Oh, longer ago than that,” Stone said.

“I think I would remember when my wife died,” the man said quietly.

The brunette spoke up. “You didn’t tell me, Paul. I’m sorry.”

“I hadn’t had time, yet, but thank you,” he said to her. He offered his hand to Stone. “I’m Paul Bartlett, and this lovely lady is Charmaine Tallman,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

Stone nodded at the woman and shook the man’s hand. “Stone Barrington.”

“Do you live in Palm Beach, Stone?”

“No. How about you?”

“I arrived a couple of weeks ago.”

“How long do you plan to stay?” Stone asked.

“Actually, I’m house-hunting. I sold my business late last year, and I suppose I’m taking early retirement.”

“What sort of business?”

“Graphic design.”

“Where?”

“Minneapolis. I thought I’d try somewhere with a warmer winter. Florida seemed attractive. Where are you from, Stone?”

“New York,” Stone replied. The man displayed not a hint of nerves. Could he be mistaken?

“Did you think I was another Paul?”

“Does the name Paul Manning ring a bell?”

“Writer? I read some of his stuff a few years ago, but not recently.”

“How did you come to be at the Shames party?” Callie asked.

“I came with the Wilkeses,” he said. “We just stopped by for a drink on the way to another dinner.”

“How do you know the Wilkeses?”

“From Minneapolis. I used to do a lot of his company’s design work—product packaging, mostly.”

Callie nodded.

“Does the name Allison ring a bell?” Stone asked.

“I had a secretary named Allison, once.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Stone saw Detective Riley moving slowly past them. He stopped a few feet behind Paul Bartlett.

“I can’t get past the feeling that you think I’m someone else.”

“I can’t get past that, myself,” Stone replied. “What was the name of your firm?”

“Bartlett and Bishop,” he replied. “We were bought out by a New York-based firm. May I offer you a drink?”

“Thanks, but we have to be going,” Stone said. “Perhaps I’ll see you again. Where are you staying?”

“At the Chesterfield,” Bartlett replied. “Call me anytime.”

“Thanks. Ready, Callie?”

“Sure.”

Stone gave the couple a small wave and guided Callie out of the bar.

On the sidewalk, as they waited for their car to be brought around, the policeman approached them. “Mr. Barrington? I’m Dave Riley.”

Stone shook his hand. “Of course. Chief Griggs said you’d be here.”

“Was that your man?”

“I’m not sure,” Stone said. “He’s the right size and age, but I haven’t seen him for a few years, and I’m told he’s had his nose altered. Did you hear any of our conversation?”