Unintended Consequences - By Stuart Woods

9





Stone arrived at Lasserre at eight sharp, was taken up in an elevator to the dining room and seated at a table for two. The other chair was empty. He looked around and admired the room, as he had on his earlier visit some years before.

It was essentially square with a sunken center, and the seating was arranged so that everyone could see everyone else. The decor was simply beautiful, and overhead was a frescoed ceiling. As he watched, it slid open to reveal a rose arbor and the night sky. That happened periodically, he recalled; it let out hot air and, in the old days, French cigarette smoke. A pianist played old tunes.

A waiter was taking his drink order when he looked up to see the maître d’ leading in an attractive woman. Stone stood to receive her. “Good evening, Amanda,” he said as the maître d’ seated her. “Would you like a drink?”

“Champagne fraise des bois, please,” she replied.

“Two,” Stone said, and they were left alone with the menus and each other. She was a slender, attractive woman with chestnut hair and beautiful skin. She wore an Armani dress—black, since that seemed to be about all Armani sold.

“How nice to see you again,” she said.

“Indeed. How have you occupied yourself since you arrived in Paris?”

“Museums and galleries, mostly.”

“Is art your business?”

“I have degrees in art history,” she said, “and I work as the curator for a couple of corporate collections in New York. I come to Paris to refresh my eye and to buy for my clients.”

“Sounds like interesting work.”

“I learned on the airplane that you are a lawyer, but then you passed out—and after only one drink. Does alcohol disagree with you?”

“Alcohol and I normally get along very nicely, thank you, and don’t take it personally—I assure you, it wasn’t the company. I suppose I must have been very tired.”

“What kind of law?”

“Over the years, a bit of everything. Currently, mostly corporate work.”

“Is it enough to keep the mind alive?”

“Quite enough.”

“Actually, I know a good deal about you,” she said.

“How?”

“I read the book.”

“Book?”

“Golden Couple,” she said, “by someone called Kelli Keane?”

Stone took a quick breath. “God, is that out?”

“Didn’t you know? I picked it up in the airport bookstore.”

“I knew it was coming—the pub date must have slipped my mind.” Now he had at least one reason for leaving New York for Paris: so no one could find him.

“My condolences on the death of your wife.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you duck out of town because of the book’s publication?”

“That may have had something to do with it.”

“It got a very good write-up in The New York Times Book Review, Wall Street Journal, too.”

“Well, that means that everybody I know has read or is reading it.”

“And a great many other people, too—looks like it’s going to be a bestseller.”

“Ah, fame.”

“Are you upset about this?”

“Not exactly—after all, I cooperated with the author. I wanted to be certain she had her facts straight.”

“If it matters, she treated you sympathetically.”

“I suppose that’s better than getting slammed.”

“At all times. Did you have a publicist representing you?”

“No.”

“How many times did you speak with her?”

“Four or five, I suppose, an hour or two at a time.”

“You were lucky to get out with your skin. One should always have representation in such situations.”

“Sounds like you’ve had some experience.”

“Not personally, I’ve seen friends go through it. They didn’t always fare as well as you, especially the ones without professional help.”

“I hope that by the time I get home people will have forgotten about it.”

“I wouldn’t count on that.”

They ordered, and Stone redirected the conversation away from him. “Give me your concise bio,” he said.

“All right. Born in a small town in Georgia called Delano—you’ve never heard of it.”

He had, but he let it pass.

“Moved to Atlanta as a child, did well in school, scholarship to Harvard, where I stretched the experience to three degrees. I loved it there. Got an entry-level job at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, left there for Sotheby’s, worked as a freelance adviser to people with a lot of money and no taste, got a corporate client, then another, and here I am.”

“Ever married?”

“Once, foolishly. The divorce was more fun.”

“Where do you live?”

“At Park and Sixty-third. I bought a little co-op with a big commission on an important sale. I do quite well, actually.”

“Congratulations.”

“Tell me, since your wife’s death have you been attracting flies?”

“Flies?” He was baffled.

“Young things with ambitions to marrying money without benefit of prenup.”

“Oh, those. No, not really.”

“Things will change in that regard because of the book.”

“I’ll have to get some bug spray.”

“Yes, you will.”

“What else did we talk about on the airplane before I dozed off?”

“Not all that much. You asked me to dinner and told me where you were staying. I was just across the aisle, and after you slipped into the land of nod, I read the book. I was first off the airplane, so I didn’t see you again.”

“Question: who served me the drink?”

She looked at him oddly. “A stewardess, I guess. Excuse me, flight attendant. I don’t know why they’d rather be called that.”

“Neither do I. Did the, ah, flight attendant pay special attention to me?”

“You’re an attractive man, Stone, what do you think?”

“Was there anything about her that caught your attention?”

“Like what?”

“Like anything unusual?”

She cocked her head and gazed at him. “Are you asking me if she put something in your glass besides bourbon?”

“I suppose I am.” He returned her level gaze. “The second choice seems to be you.”

Her mouth fell open. “Do you really think you were drugged?”

“I’m certain of it.”

“And you think I drugged you?”

“From your own account, it had to be the attendant or you. Or was there another alternative?”

She furrowed her brow. “There was that woman.”

“What woman?”

“She came down the aisle, looking a little drunk, a glass in her hand. She seemed to spill her drink on your arm and apologized profusely. You were dabbing at your shirtsleeve with a handkerchief, and she was bending over you.”

“Describe her.”

Amanda closed her eyes. “Fiftyish, but she’d had work done, so she could have been sixty, fashionably dressed: Chanel pantsuit, hair so good it might have been a wig, bright red lipstick.” She opened her eyes. “That’s all I remember.”

“That was very good,” Stone said. “I apologize, I don’t really think you drugged me.”

“But somebody did?”

“I have no recollection of even being on the airplane, I don’t know why I’m in Paris, and I don’t remember meeting you.”

“Then why . . . ?”

“Because I thought you might tell me something. And you have. I’m grateful to you.”

“Then I’m no longer under suspicion?”

“You’re off the hook.”

She clinked her glass against his. “Then let’s start over.”