Shoot Him If He Runs (Stone Barrington 14)

e told me that she requests a pardon every year.”

Thomas looked amazed. “You had dinner with the president?”

“Along with about three hundred other people,” Stone said, “but I did get to chat with him for a couple of minutes.”

“You’re coming up in the world, Stone.”

“Not really; it was my first White House dinner, and I expect it will be my last.”

Thomas turned through a pair of large stone gateposts with a brass plaque bearing the legend “English Harbour Inn,” and below that another plaque identifying the inn as a Relais de Campagne hotel.

“You got in the Relais? You’re coming up in the world, too.” The Relais was an international organization of luxury hotels and country inns and restaurants.

“Well, at least I didn’t have to bribe anybody,” Thomas said. “I applied, they showed up and inspected the place, and I got that little plaque for my gate.”

“You didn’t even have a gate last time I was here.”

Thomas laughed and turned off the main drive onto a smaller road. A moment later he stopped the car beside a stone cottage with a roof of palm thatch. The sea lapped against a powdery white beach a few yards away. “Here we are,” he said.

A man wearing a white cotton jacket and a black bow tie materialized next to the car and opened the doors.

“This is Jacob Marlow, your butler,” Thomas said. He nodded at a plump woman in a white dress, standing in the doorway of the cottage. “And that is Hilda, his wife, who will help take care of you. I’ve booked a table for you in the restaurant at eight; I’ll see you then.” Thomas shook Stone’s hand, got in the car and drove away.

The cottage consisted of a large, comfortably furnished living room with a well-stocked bar in one corner and two bedrooms, en suite. There was also a small, book-lined study with a desk and a sofa. Ceiling fans kept the air moving, and air conditioning seemed unnecessary. A large flat-screen television set was built into a wall unit in the living room, and each bedroom had a smaller set.

“Mr. Barrington, would you and your guests like a drink before Hilda and I unpack for you?”

“Thank you, Jacob, you go ahead, and I’ll do the drinks.”

“Would you like something pressed?”

“The blue blazer and the white linen trousers,” Stone asked.

Jacob took similar instructions from the others, then dematerialized.

Stone went to the bar, made a batch of vodka gimlets and served them from a tray. Everyone relaxed.

“Well,” Genevieve said, “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m glad I came.” She gave Dino a kiss.

“I’ll drink to that,” Holly/Ginny said, raising her glass. “And here’s to Stone remembering my name.”

As they took their first sips of their gimlets two gunshots rang out, at a not very great distance. Holly started to get to her feet, but Stone stopped her.

“Holly, never run toward gunfire, unless you’re the police, and you are no longer the police.”

They continued to sip their drinks, but the mood had changed.

7

At seven-thirty they walked up to the main building and into the open-air restaurant. A long bar occupied one side of the room, and a steel band was playing at one end of it. Stone estimated there were about fifty tables in the restaurant, and three-quarters of them were already full.

They were having a drink at the bar when there was a stir in the room and Stone looked toward the door to see Sir Winston Sutherland, clad in his usual white linen suit, enter, accompanied by his wife. He was halfway to his table when he spotted Stone. He seated his wife, then walked back toward the bar, a small smile on his face. “Ah, Mr. Barrington,” he said, “welcome back to St. Marks.”

“Thank you, Sir Winston, or I should say, Prime Minister. Congratulations on your election.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barrington. We are glad to have the opportunity to apologize to you for the treatment you received at the airport this afternoon.”

“I confess I was surprised; I thought there might be hard feelings left over from our courtroom appearance together some years ago.”