14
AS HE ENTERED HIS HOUSE through the office door, Joan waved a message at him. “Carrie Cox called,” she said. “She wants you to call while she’s on her lunch break.”
Stone went into his office, buzzed his housekeeper, Helene, in the kitchen, and asked for a sandwich. Then he sat down at his desk and returned Carrie’s call.
“Hello?” she said, and by the sound of her voice she seemed to be eating something.
“Hi, it’s Stone.”
“Oh, hi.”
“How are your rehearsals going?”
“Just great!”
“That sounds delicious.”
“It’s something called a falafel,” she said. “Exotic New York food, not bad. Are we doing something this evening?”
“I have to go to an opening for a painter,” Stone replied. “Would you like to come?”
“No, I called to beg off whatever you had in mind; I have to learn the second act. Who’s the painter?”
“Someone called Squire. I’ve never heard of him.”
“I have,” she said. “He’s very good.”
“That’s what the gallery owner says.”
“Who is he?”
“Philip Parsons.”
“He’s very big,” she said.
“How do you, being from Atlanta, know all this New York stuff?”
“I am conversant with most of the arts,” she said. “And besides, I read magazines.”
“Aha. Tell me, do you own a straight razor?”
“Aha, yourself. You’ve been researching me.”
“Do you?”
“No, but Max does. We were having an argument in the bathroom once, while he was shaving, and I threw a bar of soap at him. He ducked, and in the process nearly cut his throat. I had to call the doctor.”
“Oh.”
“I suppose you’ve somehow heard Max’s version of that story, in which I attacked him with the razor and murderous intentions.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, believe me, it’s a lie.”
“I believe you,” Stone said, and he meant it. “Things uttered in divorce court sometimes take on too much color.”
“You’re very right,” she replied.