Stone continued. “I honestly can’t fathom it, either. Margo was really good-natured. She was the kind of woman you wanted to hang out with, because she never took things too seriously. She could laugh at herself. You don’t find that quality often in the circles I run in.”
I figured not.
“Actually, something about you kind of reminds me of her, Belinda.” His hand briefly covered my own and he gave a light squeeze, sending an unexpected tingle up my arm. He smiled, effectively lightening the mood. “Why don’t we carpe diem the heck out of this evening? This place has the best grilled quail I’ve ever tasted. And it might be old-school, but I also love their cassoulet.”
My mouth watered just thinking of the pork-laden dish. Stone was truly a man after my own, bacon-loving heart.
Red deposited us by the entrance of The White Peony with time to spare. The red lacquer door itself was a work of art, and it featured a carved alabaster peony as its focal point.
The hostess showed us to a private dining nook, thus proving my suspicions that Stone Carrington the fifth was both a recognized and valued patron. I situated myself on the velvet L-shaped couch, inhaling the scent of fresh peonies that sat on the marble tabletop. How expensive would peonies be this time of year?
Stone slid in next to me, his thigh bumping my own. All coherent thoughts I might have had were utterly derailed. He smiled and his eyes, blue as Caribbean waters, focused on mine expectantly.
I needed to say something. Anything.
“Posh place,” I managed.
“Isn’t it? It’s my mom’s fave.” He glanced over the menu, which was entirely in French. “Now let’s order something delicious.”
* * * *
I had finished my spring salad and polished off the first heavenly bite of cassoulet when Stone circled back around to our information-gathering mission.
“Dietrich Myers is a bit of an odd bird,” he said. “He and Margo dated for years when he lived in Greenwich, and honestly, I never understood what she saw in him. He was the stalker type—always watching her every move and acting creepy when she did anything without him. She finally dumped him a few years ago, but I think he’s still ticked about it.”
“So how do we question him?” I asked.
“Well, he was at my billiards party Monday night, so I figure I’ll just mention that and poke around to see if he knows anything.”
“What do I do? Isn’t he going to wonder why I’m there?”
Stone gave a short laugh. “I came up with a cover story that’s guaranteed to soften him up. He’s an artist, and artists love to have their egos stroked, right? So I’ll introduce you as a painter wannabe and say you’ve been impressed with his style.”
I frowned. “I took oil painting in high school, but I remember next to nothing about it. What kind of art does he do?”
“Weird art. Oils, I think. It’s probably abstract, if that’s still the correct term.” He snorted. “Another perfect description is ‘art you’d never willingly hang on your wall’.”
Although it was true that I was at my best when flying by the seat of my pants, it would be a stretch to pretend to be an artist. I couldn’t even remember the terminology.
Stone seemed to sense my misgivings and his voice deepened, taking on a near-seductive tone. “I promise I’ll be right there to change the subject if he gets too inquisitive. Please don’t back out on me now, Belinda. I’ve been looking forward to this evening with you so much.” He leaned in close when I didn’t respond, his expression cajoling as he covered my hand with his again. “Come on. Seize the day with me.”
I had the distinct impression Stone was playing me, but some lonely part of me didn’t mind being played.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
* * * *
Red dropped us off in a hipster section of Brooklyn called Williamsburg. Along Dietrich’s street, we passed eclectic diners, indie art galleries, and secondhand boutiques. Dietrich’s apartment building was a sleekly repurposed factory that was so large, it basically anchored the street corner.
Dietrich buzzed us in, and we paused in the entry room to gape at the wall-to-wall windows that overlooked the East River. The room gave you the impression you were floating in a spaceship, with its light wood floors, white walls, and spectacular view.
This was not the home of a starving artist, that was for dead sure.
We walked up to the second floor. Stone knocked at a thick metal door with an oversized number one painted on it, and Dietrich swung it open, greeting us with a smile and a waft of citrusy cologne. If I could’ve conjured up an artist stereotype in my head, he would have ticked every box. Dark goatee, check. Black turtleneck even when it was unusually mild outside, check. Slim cigarette dangling from his lips, check. The only thing he wasn’t sporting was a beret.
“Stone, how delightful of you to visit. And who is this charming muse you brought with you?” Even his voice had a hint of international flair.
“Belinda Blake,” I answered, before Stone could rush to explain.
Dietrich scrutinized my face, and I felt he was memorizing every detail of it. He must’ve liked what he saw, because he said, “You remind me of this one Klimt painting—the subject also has blonde hair, and she looks equal parts naive and knowing, like you. There are butterflies and purple and white morning glories climbing up her body.” He nodded, as though agreeing with himself. “Striking, just as you are.”
“Thank you.” I made a mental note to scour the internet for that painting and see if he really meant that as a compliment. Thankfully, I had always been fond of Klimt.
Stone was suddenly staring at me like I had dropped in from outer space.
Dietrich gave Stone a weak slap on the arm, simultaneously taking a deep puff of his cigarette. “Wake up, my good man! Is this the first time you’ve really looked at our Belinda?”
While I appreciated the inclusivity of Dietrich’s “our Belinda,” it was quite apparent that Stone hadn’t actually considered me part of his crowd yet.
Stone cleared his throat. “Very funny. What’re you working on now?” He was launching into the “soften Dietrich up” portion of our visit.
As predicted, Dietrich was more than happy to oblige. The artist motioned us over to a semicircle of canvases. He had propped an oversized canvas on an easel, and we turned to take it in.
It only took me a moment to determine that I’d rather not take in that particular painting. Hideous excrement colors cavorted with blazing reds and oranges around a curvy, elongated purple blob in the center of the painting. The bottom half had yet to be painted, so I stared at that portion of white canvas and feigned a pensive look.
“And what does this portray?” Stone asked. I had to give him credit because he treated this as an inspirational piece of art. He didn’t even crack a grin.
Dietrich frowned and clutched a hand to his chest, as if Stone’s question had mortally wounded him. “Don’t you see it? I thought of all my paintings, this would be the one you’d feel most deeply.”
Stone’s brow creased. He rubbed a hand through his bangs. He squinted closer at the painting and must’ve seen something he recognized in that swirling, psychedelic mess.
“Is this...Margo?”
Dietrich squealed and gave an excited jump. “It is. You must have recognized that the aubergine color represents the evil that overtook her in the end. Now, compare it to this one.”
Dietrich