“Usually,” Stone said. “Just do it. Talk to you tomorrow.” He hung up and began to go through the mail on his desk.
25
STONE ARRIVED AT Rita’s apartment fifteen minutes early. The elevator opened directly onto the foyer, and Mitzi met him at the door with an affectionate kiss on the lips. “Please come in,” she said.
Stone followed her into the living room and stopped to have a look around. It was a large room with a seating area that would accommodate a dozen people around the fireplace, another seating area at the west end, and a seven-foot Steinway grand piano at the east end, which wasn’t in the least crowded.
“What do you think?” Mitzi asked. “Do I have good taste?”
“Well, Ralph Lauren does,” Stone said. He nodded toward the painting over the fireplace. “Love the Hockney.”
“Isn’t it something?”
“I wish I could afford his work,” Stone said.
“There were some very nice New York scenes on your bedroom wall,” she said.
“My mother’s work.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“She thanks you.”
“Can I get anybody a drink before I disappear?”
Stone turned to see Rita entering the room. She gave him the same sort of kiss that Mitzi had, one that caused a stirring.
“Sure,” Stone said.
Rita poured the drinks from a wet bar concealed behind some paneling.
“It’s a beautiful apartment,” Stone said, “but you’d better get rid of the photographs on the piano, the ones of you and your parents.”
“Oh, God, I forgot about those,” Rita said. She scooped them up and put them in a drawer.
Mitzi ran out of the room and came back with an armful of silver frames. “I brought these from home,” she said, arranging them on the piano. “My family.”
“Good work,” Stone said. The phone rang, and Mitzi picked it up. “Yes? Send them up, please.” She hung up. “We’re on.”
“I’ll be in my room,” Rita said. “I hope I don’t hear any shooting.” She left the living room.
“Which lamps did dear old Ralph, the family friend, bring over?” Stone asked.
“The pair at each end of the sofa.”
“They’re not Lauren’s-they’re antiques,” Stone said.
“Ralph has a wonderful eye for antiques,” Mitzi replied. “And I called him yesterday and squared things.”
“What was his reaction?”
“He was delighted to hear from me, and amused by my situation and happy to help.”
The doorbell rang, and Mitzi went to answer it. She came back with Derek Sharpe and Hildy Parsons and another couple, whom Sharpe introduced as Sig and Patti Larsen. Sig looked Swedish; Patti didn’t. Drinks were offered and accepted, and a uniformed maid appeared with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
They arranged themselves before the fireplace.
“Sig is my financial manager,” Sharpe said, “and he’s very good. Mitzi, I thought you might need some New York help in that line.”