Shoot Him If He Runs (Stone Barrington 14)

“Certainly not; your conduct was professional at all times, at least when you were wearing the robes and wig. Though it seems we were right about the lovely Allison, after all.”

“Well, you weren’t right about her murdering her husband, but I must admit you were a better judge of her character than I. She had me fooled, but not you.”

Sir Winston beamed.

“May I introduce my friends? Mr. Bacchetti, Ms. James, Ms. Heller.”

Sir Winston shook their hands. “We welcome all of you to St. Marks and wish you a most pleasant stay. Now, if you will excuse us.” He returned to his wife at their table.

“He was very cordial,” said Thomas, who had walked up behind the bar.

“Surprisingly so,” Stone said.

“You notice he has adopted the regal first person plural, instead of the more democratic first person singular?”

“I did notice that,” Stone said. “I would have thought that more appropriate for a king than for a prime minister.”

“Quite so,” Thomas replied, “but Winston tends to blur the line between the two. Your table is ready; will you follow me?” He stepped from behind the bar and led them to a table in a sort of gazebo in one corner of the dining room, with a fine view of the sea in the medium distance. “Will you allow me to order for you?” Thomas asked.

“Thank you, Thomas; we’d like that,” Stone replied.

Another round of gimlets arrived.

“I have a feeling,” Genevieve said, “that by the time we leave here I will be thoroughly pickled in vodka gimlets.”

“Just think of them as a preservative,” Dino said.

The steel band was replaced by a pianist and a bass player, who played soft jazz and ballads through the evening.

A first course of conch chowder arrived, followed by an enormous paella, made from local seafood. After dessert, Thomas brought them a pot of espresso and a bottle of good cognac and they invited him to pull up a chair. Dino and Genevieve repaired to the dance floor, and Thomas poured them all a brandy.

“All right,” he said, after they had raised their glasses, “what’s going on here?”

Stone and Holly exchanged a glance.

“Holly, I know who you are. I shot pistols against your father in the nationals some years ago, and you were there; I think we even were introduced. As I recall, you were just out of the army and serving as police chief in some little Florida burg.”

“Well, yes,” Holly said.

“I’ll admit that I wouldn’t have immediately recognized you had Stone not blurted out your name. Why are you here under an assumed name?”

“I think I’d better bring Thomas up to date,” Stone said to Holly.

“If you think it’s a good idea,” she replied.

“I think it’s a good idea, because we’re going to need Thomas’s help.”

“And that means you have to tell me everything,” Thomas said. “I don’t want Sir Winston’s police breathing down my neck.”

“It’s nothing illegal, Thomas,” Stone said. “We’re looking for a man named Teddy Fay.”

Thomas blinked. “I read in the New York Times that that gentleman was killed in some sort of airplane incident.”

“He certainly was not killed in that incident,” Stone said, “and he may still be alive.”

“And you think he’s alive here?”

“Possibly. Do you know a woman, an American, named Irene Foster? Fiftyish, attractive?”