“There were a couple of rigging knives; we kept one by the main hatch and one strapped to the mast, for deck work. Paul wore another one in a scabbard, along with a marlin spike.”

“Did you take the knife from his belt and stab him with it?”

“No! I never harmed him.”

“So you just gave him a shove when he was pissing overboard, huh?”

“I did not!”

“Was he wearing the scabbard with the knife and marlin spike when you rolled his body overboard?”

“No, I removed the belt first.”

“So, you did roll him overboard!”

“Yes, I did; some hours after his death.”

“Did you search his pockets, Mrs. Manning, for money or spare change? Was there anything you wouldn’t take from him?”

She locked her eyes onto Stone’s, and when she spoke she was begging him to believe her. “Please, I never, ever harmed Paul. He was dead when I buried his body at sea.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Stone went and took her in his arms. “All right,” he said. “That’s my girl; that’s my star witness; that’s my innocent victim of perverted justice.”

She looked up at him and laughed. “Gotcha, didn’t I?”

Stone buried his face in his hands.

Chapter
46

Stone strode across the lawn toward the Shipwright’s Arms, thinking hard about Arrington. He thought of writing to her, maybe even calling her; then he remembered that she was at Vance Calder’s Palm Springs house. He didn’t have any of Calder’s addresses or numbers, so there was no way to get in touch with her until she got in touch with him.

He was almost to the bar when he stopped in his tracks. A man in a seersucker suit was sitting at the bar, drinking something and talking to Thomas. He was big, over six feet, and better than two hundred fifty pounds; that was obvious even when he was seated. Stone had seen only one photograph of Paul Manning, but the man seemed to look very like him, except for the absence of a beard, and he had no idea what Manning would look like without the beard. Stone suddenly had the strange feeling that the whole business was some sort of dreadful error, that Paul Manning had simply fallen overboard near the Canaries and had swum ashore, and now he had shown up in St. Marks to save Allison’s life. He approached the bar with some trepidation and sat down. “Thomas, could I have a beer?”

Thomas set a Heineken on the bar, and the big man turned and looked at him. “You must be Stone Barrington,” he said.

“That’s right,” Stone replied.

The man stuck out a hand. “I’m Frank Stendahl.”

Stone shook the hand. “How do you do?”

“Very well, thanks. Been seeing a lot about you on television the past week.”

“I expect so. Where have you come from, Mr. Stendahl?”