Son of Stone (Stone Barrington 21)

“All right, all right,” he said. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.” He wandered down to the library, past the string quartet, who appeared to be rehearsing, or perhaps just playing for their own amusement.

He poured himself a small Knob Creek and took a chair by the fire, happy to have a moment to himself before the bash, with the music lending atmosphere.

48

A rrington walked into the library at the stroke of five forty-five and poured herself a Knob Creek.

“You’re a bourbon drinker? I’m still learning about my new wife.”

“I’m looking for a more instant buzz than champagne will give me,” she said. “I can’t face all these people sober.” She sank into the chair opposite him.

“I’ve never seen you look more beautiful,” he said. “We have to get a picture taken, since we’ll never be this young again.”

“What a nice way to put it!” she laughed. “Don’t worry, there’ll be a photographer; in fact, he’s already arrived and is stationed outside, to get people as they enter.”

A car door slammed outside.

“Oh, oh,” she said, tossing off the rest of her bourbon, “here they come. Why is someone always early? Haven’t they ever heard of fashionably late?”

“Fortunately, they are your friends,” he said, “so I cannot be blamed for their swinish conduct.”

“I’ll blame you if I want to,” she said, getting up. “Come on, time to play host.”

Stone made his bourbon vanish and followed her into the main hall. The quartet started up, on cue, with “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.”

Somes opened the door, and the first half dozen of their guests entered. Introductions were made, while a maid made their coats disappear, and Stone heard spoken, for the first time in his life, the words “And this is my husband.”

The seventh person through the door was a tall, slender man with a head full of graying hair and a supercilious expression.

“Stone, this is our architect, Timothy Rutledge. Tim, this is my husband, Stone Barrington.” Those unfamiliar words again.

Stone extended his hand, and Rutledge gripped it lightly by the fingers, as if he were warding off a bone-crushing handshake. “How do you do?” he said, as if he didn’t care how Stone or anyone else did.

“Good to meet you,” Stone lied. “You’ve done a very fine job on the house.” That was the truth.

One corner of Rutledge’s mouth turned up slightly. “You’re very kind to say so,” he replied, as if kindness were a curse.

Arrington forestalled any more conversation between them by taking Rutledge by the arm and introducing him to someone else.

Once the flood of arrivals subsided from a river to a trickle, Stone grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing silver tray and circulated, mustering all the charm at his disposal. He was greeted, in most cases, by some warmth, and in others, by a trace of sleet. He would have to ask Arrington later what caused the dividing line. The eyes of the women invariably darted from console to chandelier to carpet, while the men, mostly, looked for a waiter bearing booze, and they didn’t seem to care what kind.

A bit after seven, when Arrington judged that enough lubrication had been passed among her guests, she nodded at Somes, who produced a silver bell and walked around the house, singing, “Dinner is served. Dinner is served in the dining room!”

The string quartet sawed away on some Vivaldi while the guests rushed the dining room and the buffet on the groaning board. Half an hour later they were distributed around the ground floor on furniture, the stairs, and on the floor, scarfing up filet of beef or wild salmon and allowing Somes to repeatedly refill their flutes.

Stone shared a small sofa in the living room with a plump, beautifully coiffed Virginia matron named Vilia.

“A beautiful name,” he said. “I’ve always loved the Lehar song.”

“From my mother’s favorite operetta,” she said, smiling broadly at his recognition.

“I once saw a production of The Merry Widow, due to circumstances beyond my control, entirely in Finnish.”

“And how did that come about?” she asked.

“Well, I was in Helsinki at the time, and I was one of at least two Americans in the audience. I know, because they sold us both the same seat. We compared tickets, and he wandered off somewhere.” He looked up to see a woman passing the piano who appeared distinctly of New York and not Virginia. She was tall, slender, and wore a tight, low-cut black dress with a slit up her leg nearly to the illegal limit. She looked vaguely familiar, but out of context. He thought about it and couldn’t place her. As he watched, she set down her flute and produced, from God knew where, an iPhone, and began snapping pictures of the room, in a manner more befitting a backyard barbecue than a haut monde Albemarle County soiree. She was joined by a lanky young man who reminded Stone of Rutledge, the icy architect, and who, apparently, told her to put away the electronics. She reclaimed her champagne and trailed him from the room, teetering on six-inch heels.

Kelli Keane was having the time of her life. She had been to some good parties, but never anything quite like this. There were men dressed in red hunting jackets, for Christ’s sake, over their black ties, and women in ball gowns! Kelli had a very good memory, and she digested as many names as she could, for matching later with her photos. David was being a prick about the pictures, but she had snapped shots in every room before he stopped her. A change in the music turned her head.