“I do believe you, really I do,” he whispered. “It’s going to be all right, don’t worry.” He hoped that was the truth, because he was very, very worried himself.
Chapter
35
Having placated Allison, Stone returned to the Shipwright’s Arms to continue working on his opening statement for the trial. As he entered, Thomas beckoned.
“Bob Cantor called you,” he said.
“I’ll call him from my room,” Stone said, then ran up the stairs, let himself in, and dialed the number.
“Cantor.”
“Bob, it’s Stone.”
“Thanks for calling; I’ve got some stuff on Elizabeth Manning, but I didn’t think you’d want me to fax it.”
“What is it?”
“A guy I know is on the Palm Beach force, and he did a little moonlighting for me. Elizabeth Manning is, rather was, something of a gadfly in the town—a hanger-on, sponger, whatever you want to call it. She writes this column for a newspaper—an advertising sheet, really—and she practically lives on the food she gets at parties.”
“Any family?”
“A mother.”
“Did your man find out anything about her?”
“She’s a widow in her early seventies; name is Marla Peters, a former actress, ill much of the last ten years with MS. She lives on Social Security and what she earns playing the piano in a hotel lobby at tea time for tips, plus what her daughter brought in. The two of them shared an apartment.”
“Nobody else at all? A brother or sister?”
“Nobody. My guy is sure of that; he talked with the mother.”
“He didn’t tell her anything about the crash?”
“Nope; I didn’t tell him. He told her he needed some information about some society type from her daughter, asked her to have Elizabeth call him when she got home.”
Stone sat, thinking about the woman, imagining her taking requests from other old ladies for dollar tips in some faded Palm Beach hotel, scraping by on Social Security.
“Stone, you still there?”
“Yeah, Bob; I’m sorry, I was lost in thought there for a moment.”
“Anything else you need?”
“No, not at the moment; I’ll call you if I do.”
“Sure; see you later.”
Stone hung up, depressed. Before he could move, the phone rang again. “Hello?”
It was Thomas. “Stone, there’s somebody named Harley Potter on the phone; says he’s a lawyer, wants to talk to you.”
Now what? “Okay, put him through.”
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington; my name is Harley Potter of the law firm of Potter and Potter, of Palm Beach, Florida.” The voice was elderly, courtly.