"You really think that's a good idea?"
"Listen, the D.A.'s questioning is going to be nothing, compared with what I just put her through. I dragged her back and forth across the stones of her story for an hour, and she never budged from it. The woman is a rock, and the D.A. is not going to make a dent in her. She's a good actress, too."
"Actress?"
"She'll have a jury on her side from the moment she opens her mouth, and I don't have the slightest qualm about having her testify. O.J.'s team was smart to keep him off the stand-the prosecution would have gutted him, just as happened in the civil trial, but they won't lay a glove on Arrington, trust me."
"You think it'll go to trial?"
"Not unless they've got a lot more than I think they've got. We'll find out about that on Saturday morning. What did you think of the autopsy report?"
"Pretty straightforward. He sure had a lot of scars."
"I asked Arrington about that; he did most of his own stunt work. Over the years, it took its toll."
"That would explain it," Stone said. "God, I hope this doesn't go to trial."
"I wouldn't mind, if it did," Blumberg said with a small smile. "A trial would be a lot of fun."
Chapter 23
Stone got out of the Bentley and went around to the other side, where Manolo was holding the rear door open for Arrington and her son, Peter, and his grandmother, who had brought him back for the service, at the insistence of Marc Blumberg.
Stone took her left hand, tucked it under his arm while she held Peter's hand with her right, and led the little group through the open rear door of the sound stage, past a large truck with satellite dishes on top. The soft strains of a pipe organ wafted through the huge space. Schubert, he thought.
As he led them to a front pew, he took in the atmosphere, which was fragmented, and a little unreal. The cathedral set was not complete, being composed of only those parts necessary for the shooting of a scene. Everything at the rear-the choir loft, the organ and its pipes, the pulpit (or whatever it was called in a Catholic or Anglican church)-looked like the real thing, while other parts of the ceiling and stained glass windows were incomplete. A coffin of highly polished walnut rested in front of the pulpit. Stone wondered if Vance Calder's body was really inside, or if it was just a prop.
He deposited Arrington and Peter next to her mother on the front pew, then walked to the side of the seating area and stood. From there, he had an excellent view of the crowd. Perhaps twenty pews had been placed on the concrete floor, and they were packed with Hollywood aristocracy. Stone recognized several movie stars, and he was sure that the others were the creme de la creme of producers, writers, and directors. Two pews behind Arrington he was surprised to spot Charlene Joiner, the costar ofVance's last film, with whom he had, apparendy, been sleeping. At the other end of the pew sat Dolce, accompanied by her father. Dolce pointedly ignored him, but Eduardo gave him a grave glance, and they exchanged somber nods. Eduardo had not returned his phone call.
Behind the twenty pews was a sea of folding chairs, occupied by the working folk of Centurion Studios-directors, carpenters, grips, bit players, script ladies, and all the other people who made movies happen. Stone counted four large television cameras-the studio kind, not the handheld news models, and he realized that they must be feeding to the big truck outside. A boy's choir began to sing, and Stone turned to find that the youngsters had filed into the choir loft while he had been looking at the crowd. It took him a moment to realize that their moving lips were not in synch with the music: That was recorded, and the boys were, apparently, child actors. The o
rganist, too, was faking it; only the choir director seemed to truly understand the music. The whole scene was gorgeously lit.
As the strains of the choir died, and the boys stopped moving their lips, a richly costumed priest (or actor?) walked onto the set and began speaking in Latin. If he was an actor, Stone reflected, he certainly had his lines down pat. Stone was glad the coffin was not open, if indeed, Vance's body was inside, because this was the first funeral service he had ever attended where he was wearing the corpse's suit.
The clothes he had brought with him had been chosen for Venice, and Dolce had insisted on light colors. When he had confessed to Arrington that he had nothing suitable for a funeral, she had suggested he wear some of Vance's clothes, which had turned out to fit him very well indeed-so well, in fact, that Arrington was insisting that he have all of Vance's clothes, the thought of which made him uncomfortable.
"Look," she had said, "if you don't take all these perfecdy beautiful suits, jackets, and shirts, they'll end up being sold at some ghasdy celebrity auction. Please, Stone, you'd be doing me a great favor."
So now he stood staring at the coffin, wearing the deceased's dark blue Douglas Hayward chalk-stripe suit, his handmade, sweetly comfortable Lobb shoes, and his Turnbull amp; Asser silk shirt and neck-tie. The underwear and socks were, mercifully, his own.
The eulogies began, led by Lou Regenstein. They were kept short, and the speakers had, apparently, been chosen by ocupation: There was an actor, a director, a producer, and an entertainment lawyer. Each, of course, spoke of Vance's endearing personal qualities and gift for friendship, but his Oscars, New York Film Critics' Awards, and his business acumen were all covered at some length, as well.
When the service ended, the coffin was opened, and Vance's body was, indeed, inside. Those in the pews were directed past the coffin to Arrington, who stood alone, well to one side of the coffin, while those in the folding chairs to the rear were directed out the hangarlike doors at the front of the sound stage.
After speaking words of condolence, the mourners divided into two groups-some were directed toward the main doors, while the truly close friends and business associates were sent out the rear door, where their cars waited to take them to the cemetery.
Stone stood near the rear door and, shordy, Eduardo Bianchi drifted over, while Dolce remained in the line of mourners. Eduardo, dressed in a severly cut black silk suit, held out his hand and shook Stone's warmly. "Stone, I'm sorry not to have returned your call yesterday, but I was en route to Los Angeles and did not receive your message until this morning."
"That's quite all right, Eduardo," Stone replied. "It's good to see you."
"I expect that you called to tell me of yours and Dolce's… ah, difficulties. She had, of course, already told me."
"I'm sorry that I couldn't tell you, myself," Stone said. "This is not easy, of course, but I believe it is the best thing for Dolce. I'm not sure what it is for me."
"I understand that these things sometimes do not work out," Eduardo said. "People's lives are complicated, are they not?"
"They certainly are," Stone agreed.