"Dolce?"
"I've been trying to reach you; the Bel-Air said you had checked out."
"I did, an hour ago. I'm staying in the Calders' guest house."
"With Arrington?"
"In the guest house. Arrington is in a hospital."
"What's wrong with her?"
"I don't think I should go into that on the phone; the press, as you can imagine, is taking an intense interest in all this. I wouldn't put it past some of the yellower journals to tap the phones."
"So you can't give me any information?"
"Not about Vance and Arrington, but I'm fine; I'm sure you wanted to know that."
"I don't like any of this, Stone."
"Neither do I; I'd much rather be in Venice with you."
"Sicily."
"What?"
"I was going to take you to Sicily, to show you where my family came from. I'm there now, on our honeymoon."
"I'm sorry to miss it; can I have a rainchec
"We'll see," she said, and there was petulance in her voice.
"Dolce, in Venice, you encouraged me to come here and help; that's what I'm doing."
"I had Papa and the cardinal to deal with. And exactly how are you helping?"
"I can't go into that, for the reasons I've just explained. Perhaps I can call you tomorrow from another number."
"Yes, do that." She gave him her number and the dialing codes for Sicily.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Randy, actually. There's a rather interesting looking goatherd on the property; I was thinking of inviting him in for a drink."
"I can sympathize with your feelings," he replied. "I'd rather not be sleeping alone, myself."
"Then don't," she said. "I don't plan to."
"I meant that I'd rather be sleeping with you."
"You'd be my first choice, too," she said, "but you're not here, are you?"
Stone hardly knew what to say to that. Dolce had been mildly difficult, at times, but she had never behaved like this. He was shocked.
"No answer?"
"What can I say?"
"Say good night," she said, then hung up.