“I see,” Stone said.

“Mr. Barrington,” Margaret Wilkes said, “you’re beginning to frighten me. Are you thinking that Paul might somehow have caused Frances’s death?”

“At this moment, I have no real reason to think so, Mrs. Wilkes. I’m simply concerned with learning whether he is, or once was, Paul Manning.”

“This Manning,” Wilkes said, “what was his relationship to Mrs. Harding?”

“He was her first husband.”

“And what sort of man is he?”

“Not a very nice one, I’m afraid.”

“Was this just some domestic dispute?”

“More than that,” Stone said. “Manning murdered three people.”

“Good God!” Wilkes said. “He’s dangerous, then?”

“Manning certainly is, but please remember, I have no evidence yet that Manning and Bartlett are the same man.”

“Well, I hope to God you’ll find out!” Wilkes said.

“I know this is upsetting to you and Mrs. Wilkes,” Stone said, “and I apologize for that.”

“No, no, if Paul is this Manning, then we certainly want to know. I assume you’ll have him arrested.”

“We’ll take whatever measures are appropriate,” Stone said.

“I’ll hardly know what to say to Paul when we see him,” Mrs. Wilkes said.

“Do you expect to see him anytime soon?”

“Why, yes. He’s coming to dinner tonight.”

“Here, in this house?”

“Yes,” she said.

Wilkes spoke up. “Perhaps you’d better come, too,” he said.

The three of them stood on the afterdeck, Stone in black tie, Callie in a silk dress and Liz in a terry robe.

“I wish you’d come with us,” Stone said to Liz.

Liz shook her head. “I don’t want to see him,” she said.

Callie patted her small purse. “I’ve got a camera in here,” she said. “I’ll get his picture.”

“All right, let’s go,” Stone said. “I’ve no idea what time we’ll be back, but I’ve asked Juanito to keep an eye on you.”

“Thank you, Stone,” Liz said.

Stone and Callie walked to the car and drove north.

“What do you think is going to happen?” Callie said.

“I don’t think anything will happen. I’ll contrive to stand next to Bartlett, and you’ll take our photograph, come hell or high water.”

“Have you alerted the police?”

“No. If he is Manning, he’s not charged with anything. I just want an opportunity to get him alone and to put an offer to him.”

“What sort of offer?”

“Liz is willing to pay him to go away.”

“Oh. And you think that will work?”

“I can only hope so.”

“What if he still denies being Manning?”

“I’ve got a friend in New York working on Bartlett’s background. Maybe we’ll be able to present him with some evidence that he’s not who he says he is.”

“Tonight?”

“Probably not that soon, although my friend has my cell phone number.”

“This is kind of exciting,” Callie said, giggling.

“All in a day’s work,” Stone said dryly.

The gates of the Wilkes house were open, and a valet took their car. Stone and Callie walked into the house and were greeted by Frank and Margaret Wilkes in the foyer.

“Stone, Callie, welcome,” Mrs. Wilkes said.

“Thank you for asking us, Margaret,” Stone replied. “Is he here yet?”

“No. In fact, he called and said he couldn’t make it in time for drinks, but he’d be here for dinner.”

“Did he say why?”

“No. Why don’t you two go on out to the terrace and have a drink. Frank and I will be along as soon as all our guests have arrived.”

“Thank you, we will.” Stone led Callie through the house and out to the same terrace where they had sat earlier that day. A dozen couples had already arrived and were drinking and talking to the tune of a light jazz trio, which was set up beside the pool.

Callie saw some people she knew and introduced Stone. A waiter brought them drinks, and they chatted with the other guests. Soon the crowd had swelled to around fifty, and the Wilkeses joined their guests on the terrace.

Margaret Wilkes tugged at Stone’s sleeve and whispered, “I’ve arranged the place cards so that you and Paul are at the same table.”

“Thank you,” Stone said.

Conversation continued for another half hour, then they were called to dinner. The very large dining hall had been set up with tables of eight, and Stone and Callie found their place cards and Paul Bartlett’s. Callie was seated next to Bartlett, and Stone was two places away. They had barely introduced themselves to their dinner partners and sat down, when Paul Bartlett entered the dining room, stopped to kiss his hostess on the cheek, then made his way to his place.

He looked surprised to find Stone and Callie there. They shook hands. “I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon, Stone,” he said. “How did you come to be here?”

“Callie is a friend of the Wilkeses,” Stone said. “They were kind enough to ask us.”

“Oh,” he replied, but he didn’t seem satisfied with the answer.

The first course was served, and Stone and Callie exchanged a glance and a shrug. No opportunity to get a photograph at dinner. It would have to be later.

The woman on Stone’s right was deep in conversation with Bartlett, to the exclusion of Stone, who had to occupy himself with the dinner companion on his left, a handsome woman in her seventies.

“And who are you?” she asked him, with a touch of imperiousness.

“My name is Stone Barrington.”

“And how do you know the Wilkeses?” There was suspicion in the question.

“My companion for the evening is a friend of theirs,” Stone said, nodding in Callie’s direction.

“Goodness,” the woman said, taking in Callie. “One wouldn’t think she would need a walker.”

“A walker?” Stone asked.

“Isn’t that what you are?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Of course you do, darling. My name is Lila Baldwin. Perhaps you could give me your card, for the future?” She nodded toward her own date, a sleekly handsome man in his thirties, who sat next to Callie. “I’m afraid I’ve had about all of Carlton that I can bear for one season.”

Stone gave the woman his card, then the penny dropped. The woman thought he was for hire as an escort, maybe more. “If you should ever need an attorney, please call me,” he said.

“Attorney?” She looked at the card, holding it at arm’s length. She apparently didn’t want to be seen in her glasses.

“Woodman and Weld, in New York,” Stone said.

She looked at him more closely, squinting. “Your firm did my estate planning,” she said. “A lovely man named William Eggers.”

“I know him well,” Stone said.

“You don’t look like an estate planner,” she said, accusingly.

“No, that’s a little out of my line,” he replied. “I’m more of a generalize.”

“And what sort of problem would I hire you for?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing specific. If you should have a problem of any sort, call Bill Eggers, and he’ll know if I’m your man.”

“Oh, I think you could be my man, no matter what my problem was,” she said.

Stone was trying to come up with an answer to that when his tiny cell phone, clipped to his waistband, began to vibrate silently. “Would you excuse me for just a moment?” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He stood up and walked toward the dining room door, fishing out the phone and opening it, but keeping it concealed in his hand until he was out in the hall.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Bob Berman said.

“Have you got something?”

“This guy’s an amateur,” Bob said. “His identity is paper thin. There’s nothing in his credit report going back more than two and a half years. His driver’s license is green as grass, and he’s only got one credit card, one of those that’s guaranteed by a savings account. No mortgage or bank loans on the record, only a car loan, from a high-interest loan company.”

“His design company must have done business with a bank.”