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“And you should know that your new acquaintance, Mr. Anthony Cecchini, is the grandson of one Onofrio Cecchini-also known, improbably, as Irish Mike-who has probably been responsible for more sudden deaths than you have pubic hairs, if indeed you do, in this age of the Brazilian. I don’t understand why a woman would endure that kind of pain just so her boyfriend won’t get hairs in his teeth.”
Kelli laughed.
“But I digress,” Wheaton said. “If Cecchini petit-fils heard you mention Eduardo Bianchi, and if he knows what you do for a living, then Mr. Bianchi or someone who feels beholden to him knows, too.”
“I just asked him if he knew who somebody was named Eduardo Bianchi. He immediately moved away from me at the bar, and he left as soon as he finished his drink.”
“Could he have asked the bartender about you?”
“I didn’t see them have any conversation.”
“Good. If I were you, from this moment on, I would not let Mr. Bianchi’s name pass my lips, nor would I utter the mayor’s name in conjunction with his.”
“Well, there goes my item,” Kelli said sadly.
“If you were contemplating something along the lines of ‘The mayor wedded Stone Barrington to the widow of Vance Calder at the home of Eduardo Bianchi,’ then certainly your item is gone-or you are. Take your pick.”
Kelli nodded. “I get it.”
“Now, it would not be off-limits for you to connect the studly Mr. Barrington to the Calder widow and her fortune if, indeed, you can substantiate that such nuptials actually took place. Page Six thrives on that sort of thing.” Wheaton picked up her phone and leafed through a fat Rolodex. “Go to the powder room, take your time, then come back.”
Kelli set down her coffe
e cup and left Wheaton’s office. She visited the ladies’, did her business, touched up her makeup, then returned. Wheaton was just hanging up.
“Good timing,” she said, pointing at the visitors’ chair. “I just spoke to an old friend of mine, Rick Barron. Does that name mean anything to you?”
Kelli shook her head.
“Of course not; you are hardly contemporaries. Rick was, for many decades, a macher at Centurion. He put Vance Calder under contract when he was nineteen, at the suggestion of his wife, Glenna Gleason.” She raised her eyebrows questioningly.
Kelli shook her head again.
“Major singer and movie star from the late thirties up to the sixties. They’ve been married for at least sixty years. So, here’s the dope. Vance Calder was visiting New York around fifteen years ago when he met a young woman named Arrington Carter.”
“Then Arrington is the “A” in Christine A. Carter.”
“Correct. Arrington had been seriously seeing Stone Barrington for a while, living with him for much of the time, but when she did the profile on Vance, he swept her off her feet, took her back to L.A., and married her. Almost exactly nine months later, she produced a son, Peter. They lived happily ever after, until someone deposited a bullet in Vance’s carcass.
“When that happened, she was a suspect, being the spouse, and she apparently called on Stone B. For help. He went out there and helped straighten out things for her. Again, last year, when the corporate raider made a run on Centurion, she called on Stone, and he was very helpful. About that time she fired her attorney and hired Stone to represent her in all things, among them, dealing with her very large interest in Centurion by serving on its board. Bringing her in as a client probably resulted in Stone’s being made a partner at Woodman amp; Weld. Rick knows Stone and was not terribly surprised to hear that he and Arrington have married. By the way, Arrington has lived for a number of years in the environs of Charlottesville, Virginia, where she is currently building a house.”
“And you got all that from one phone call?”
“You can do that, if you call the right person,” Wheaton said, stroking her Rolodex like a puppy.
“Tell me, Prunie, did your contact address the issue of the father of the nine-month baby?”
Wheaton’s eyebrows went up. And she smiled broadly, revealing perfect dental implants. “No, my dear,” she said, “but I think you have a future in the gossip business.”
29
W hen Stone arrived at his desk Joan handed him a slip of paper. “Mike Freeman would like you to have lunch with him and a friend at the Four Seasons, at one o’clock,” she said.
Stone looked at the paper. “Who’s his friend?”
“He didn’t say, even when I asked him, but there’s nothing else on your calendar, so I accepted for you.”
“All right,” Stone said.
