“Oh, yes, it is!” she shrieked. “It’s the funniest thing I ever heard in my life.” She began to get herself under control again. “It’s also very sweet,” she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks, “and I love you for it.” She moved closer to him and placed a hand on his face. “I know now, if I didn’t before, that I have the most legally and ethically proper attorney in the world.” She kissed him. “And you just cannot imagine how that turns me on.”

She continued to kiss him, then she showed him how turned on she was.

Later, when Allison was asleep, Stone walked back to the Shipwright’s Arms and called Bob Cantor.

“Hello.”

“It’s Stone. Thanks for the divorce decree.”

“No problem.”

“I’d like to dig up some more information on Elizabeth Allison Manning. It’s probably going to be best to find a reliable PI in Palm Beach and let him spend a day on it.”

“Okay; what, specifically, do you want to know?”

“Next of kin, other relatives.”

“Has Ms. Manning clutched her chest and turned blue?”

“Worse. Plane crash, this morning.”

“I see.”

“Don’t break the news to anybody you find; we’ll let the official channels do that.”

“Gotcha.”

Stone hung up, walked back to the marina, undressed, and crawled into bed with Allison, who was glad to see him.

Chapter
32

Stone sat in his rented room over the Shipwright’s Arms, staring at the screen of his computer, trying to write an opening statement for Allison’s trial, even though he knew that Leslie Hewitt intended to open himself. He felt that he had to be ready with something if Leslie should suddenly veer off into one of his lapses. He had nearly finished a draft when there was a knock on the door.

“Stone,” Thomas’s voice called from the hallway.

“Come in, Thomas.”

Thomas opened the door. “There’re two policemen downstairs wanting you; they wouldn’t tell me what it was about, but they took my guest registration forms for the past week.”

Stone saved his document and shut down the computer. “Let’s see what they want,” he said. He followed Thomas downstairs to the open-air bar where two starched and pressed black officers waited. “I’m Stone Barrington, gentlemen,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

The taller of the two nodded at an elderly Jaguar in the parking lot. “You must come with us, Mr. Barrington,” he said.

“Where are we going?” Stone asked.

“In the car, please.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Get in the car,” the man repeated.

Thomas spoke quietly. “Do it; I’ll find out where they take you.”