Son of Stone (Stone Barrington 21)

“I found out where Arrington Calder Barrington is.”

Kelli sat up straight. “Oh? Spa? Mental hospital?”

“Neither,” Wheaton said. “She’s in Virginia, where she has been living during the years since Vance’s death. She was born and raised in Albemarle County, and she’s just built a house there. She’s getting it ready for a housewarming next Saturday night.”

“How on earth did you learn that?” Kelli asked.

“I had dinner with a friend last night, and he works at Architectural Digest. They’re photographing it on Friday for the magazine, and my friend says it’s going to be really something. It seems that a little over a year ago, Arrington bought Champion Farms, a racehorse breeding establishment in the county. A house had existed on the property since the mid-eighteenth century, but it burned down early in the 1920s. Arrington unearthed the plans for the house in the University of Virginia Library, and an architecture professor there drew plans for a nearly identical new house on virtually the same footprint as the old one, but with all mod cons, of course. It’s going to be the showplace of the county.”

“Wow, that sounds marvelous. Now, how am I going to get an invitation to that housewarming?”

“I think that’s reaching a bit, my dear, but there is another way you can get a very good look at it.”

“Tell me,” Kelli said, eagerly.

“Well, first of all, you have a lunch date today with a handsome young man-in fact, the person I had dinner with last night. He’s the son of an old friend of mine, and you’re meeting him at twelve-thirty at the Harvard Club. Do you know where that is?”

“West Forty-fourth, next door to the New York Yacht Club.”

“That’s right,” Wheaton said. “His name is David Rutledge. Now go do yourself some good.”

Kelli walked into the Harvard Club and surveyed the scene: to her left was a reception desk, and the door ahead of her, through which she now walked, opened into a large lounge with a fireplace and a lot of comfortable furniture strew

n about. She looked around and saw a man coming toward her-tall, very slim, early thirties, dressed in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, a blue chambray shirt, and a brown knit tie. A thick mop of sandy hair fell across his forehead. He had his hand out.

“Kelli Keane?”

“And you’re David Rutledge,” she said, shaking his hand.

“Shall we go in for lunch?” He led her into the dining room, a gothic glory with an enormously high ceiling and a quiet buzz from the tables. A headwaiter seated them near the fireplace. “What would you like to drink?” he asked.

“Oh, just a glass of Chardonnay,” she said. “I do have to go back to work later.”

He ordered the wine and a martini for himself, and they clinked glasses. She was showing some cleavage, and he was noticing. “Prunie speaks highly of you,” he said.

“That’s sweet of her. She says your mother is her old and dear friend.”

“My grandmother, actually; they were classmates at Stanford. Tell me about you. Where did you spring from?”

“I sprang from West Chester, Pennsylvania, and I worked on the paper in Philadelphia right out of Bennington, then I came here last year. How about you?”

“Charlottesville, Virginia, Herald Academy in Jamestown, UVA School of Architecture, then an MBA at Harvard. I went to work at Architecture Magazine right out of school, then moved to Architectural Digest six years ago. I was promoted to executive art director right before Christmas.”

“Congratulations! That sounds like a wonderful job.”

They chatted on through lunch, played who-do-you-know (nobody), then over a second drink warmed to each other.

She waited for him to bring it up, and he didn’t, so finally she said, “Prunie tells me you’ve got an interesting shoot next weekend.”

“Yes, we do.” He told her about the history of the house. “The architect is a cousin of mine, Tim Rutledge. He teaches at UVA.”

She pretended not to know about it. “It sounds beautiful,” she said. “I just love that sort of thing. You don’t need an assistant for the trip, do you?” she asked, trying to sound facetious.

“Oh, something might be arranged, if you play your cards right,” he said, leering a little.

She leaned forward to give him a better view of her cleavage, an act, she had discovered, that tended to concentrate the minds of men. “I’m a pretty good card player,” she said. “And I’ll pay my own airfare. You can deal with the hotel arrangements.”

“You’re serious, then?”