Family Jewels (3 page)

5

B
iggers had not been gone five minutes when Joan buzzed.

“Carrie Fiske on line one.”

Stone pressed the button. “Hello, Carrie.”

“Hello, Stone.”

“I hope you are well.”

“So far. Tell me, have you heard from my ex-husband?”

“Yes, and from close range.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he was right across my desk.”

“In your office?”

“That’s where my desk is.”

“Good God! Did he hurt you?”

“I don’t think he is in any shape to hurt anybody today—he just got out of the hospital.”

“I saw what Fred did to him. That little man was magnificent. Who knew?”

“I knew—your ex-husband didn’t. He does now, though.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted me to know that you are trying to kill him.”

“What nonsense! Why would I want to kill him?”

“That’s what I asked him.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said, because you’re mad at him, and you’re mean, especially in bed.”

“Well, God knows, I’m mad at him for creating that scene at the Central Park Boathouse. But mean? And in bed? What did he mean by that?”

“I was afraid to ask.”

“That’s very odd. I don’t think anyone has ever said I was mean in bed.”

“It is certainly odd, and I’m relieved to hear that you don’t have that reputation.”

“I wouldn’t like for a charge like that to get around—it might damage my . . . social life.”

“No doubt.”

“Can I sue him for defamation?”

“That is inadvisable.”

“But he has defamed me.”

“I don’t doubt that, but in the legal process of suing him . . .”

“Yes? Go on.”

“Well, do you remember that woman who was known as the Queen of Mean?”

“Leona Helmsley?”

“That’s the one.”

“What does she have to do with it?”

“I fear that, at least in the
New York Post
, you might well find yourself billed as the Queen of Mean in Bed, thus defeating the purpose of your lawsuit and sticking you with that sobriquet for life, perhaps longer.”

“Longer?”

“It might end up on your tombstone.”

“How?”

“You said you had a will. In it, is the person in charge of your funeral arrangements your husband?”

“Oh, shit.”

“Exactly. I think we need to draw up a new will for you right away, especially since you think he wants to kill you. If he managed to do that, and get away with it, he would be in charge of everything.”

“Why don’t you come out to my house in the Hamptons for the weekend?” she said, abruptly changing the subject.

Stone reflected that he had no plans for the weekend, but still . . .

“And,” she added before he could speak, “I have some friends coming that you might enjoy. And you could draw up my new will, before Harvey gets a chance to kill me.”

“You make a weekend in the Hamptons sound like an emergency.”

“A dire emergency. Do you know Georgica Pond?”

“I know that it’s a very nice neighborhood. I read the real estate ads in the Sunday
Times
magazine.”

“Can you find it?”

“Probably not, but the GPS lady in my car can.”

She gave him the address. “Lunch is at one o’clock tomorrow. Be there in time for the world’s best Bloody Mary.”

“I don’t drink before noon.”

“That’s why lunch is at one. And bring a dinner jacket.”

“To the Hamptons? I haven’t spent a lot of time out there, but my impression is that everybody is terribly, terribly casual.”

“Do you own a dinner jacket?”

“I do.”

“Bring it,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

“That’s better.” She hung up.

6

S
tone thought about flying to the East Hampton airport, but he knew he would have to avoid Kennedy and LaGuardia airports and that the route might be too circuitous. Instead, he got out the Blaise, a French sports car built by his friend Marcel duBois. He had not driven it enough; the odometer showed less than a thousand miles.

He put his luggage into the small trunk and backed slowly out of the garage, using the remote to close the door. Half an hour later he was sorry he hadn’t flown. Once through the Midtown Tunnel and out of the city, he found himself in bumper-to-bumper traffic, moving at an average speed of about thirty miles an hour. At least he was moving.

Finally, the lady in his navigation system, who charmingly spoke with a French accent, guided him into East Hampton village and out to Georgica Pond, to the front door of a handsome,
shingle-style house of some size, where the Blaise shared parking with two Porsches and a Mercedes. A yellow Labrador retriever bounded out of the house, first barking, then allowing Stone to scratch his back.

Carrie Fiske stuck her head out the door and shouted, “Leave your luggage. Rupert will take it to your room and unpack for you!” Stone left the trunk open for Rupert and went inside, the Lab staying at his knee all the way, tail wagging.

Carrie allowed herself to be kissed on both cheeks. “Don’t mind Bob,” she said, indicating the dog. “If he annoys you, just tell him, ‘Go away.’ They were among the first words he learned.”

“He’s not annoying me,” Stone said. “I haven’t had this much attention for a long time.”

Carrie led him into the living room and introduced him to two other couples. “This is Nicky and Vanessa Chalmers,” she said, indicating two handsome people lounging on a white sofa, “and that’s Derek and Alicia Bedford. This is Stone Barrington.” Two people in armchairs gave a limp wave. Nobody got up to greet him; apparently that was Bob’s job.

“You’re half an hour late,” Carrie said. “I know—traffic. Those of us who live out here depart the city at dawn or midnight to miss it, visitors get bogged down in it.”

“Count me among the latter.”

A man in a white jacket, apparently Rupert, appeared with a silver tray bearing a large glass of a blood-red liquid with several kinds of vegetables crowding the top. Stone located a
straw among the vegetation and drew a long sip. “That’s the best Bloody Mary I’ve ever tasted,” he said. “What’s your secret?”

“The secret is Rupert’s, and he’s not telling, are you, Rupert?”

“No, madam,” Rupert replied in a crisp British accent.

“So you see why I can’t fire him.”

“I see,” Stone replied. “That would be unwise.”

“I know a dozen people out here who would hire Rupert away, just for his Bloody Marys.”

“I’m sure he has other gifts, as well,” Stone said.

“Thank you, Mr. Barrington,” Rupert said, and left the room. A moment later Stone heard his trunk lid slam, and he winced. Then Rupert ran lightly up the stairs carrying Stone’s cases. He appeared to be in very good shape.

“So, Stone,” Nicky drawled in a New England Lockjaw accent, “who are you? I’ve never heard of you.”

“Millions haven’t,” Stone replied.

“I can’t place your accent.”

“I don’t think I have one. Sorry, I don’t mean to be difficult.”

“Stone is my new lawyer,” Carrie said. “He’s come all the way out here to write me a new will.”

“I doubt that,” Vanessa said, in a duplicate of Nicky’s accent. “He looks to me as though he has ulterior motives.” She turned to Carrie. “Or is that you sending that vibe?”

“Be nice, Vanessa, or Stone will think you’re a bitch. You too, Nicky.”

“Me, a bitch? Well, I never.”

“You do all the time,” Carrie replied. “And you know it. You’re just suspicious of people who have jobs.”

“Well, working does seem an awful waste of time, doesn’t it? I don’t know why anyone does it.”

Stone wanted to go to the fireplace, find the poker, and wrap it around his neck.

“Almost everyone does, Nicky,” Carrie said. “Even the one-tenth of one percent, like you. But not even they have a trust fund the size of yours.” She turned toward Stone. “Nicky’s great-grandfather founded one of America’s first tire companies more than a century ago, just at the moment when his product became a necessity.”

“You chose your ancestors well,” Stone said to him.

Nicky beamed at the thought.

—

T
hey were at lunch on the rear deck, going at a lobster salad and drinking Montrachet, when Nicky started in again.

“So, Stone, let’s talk real estate. Where do you live?”

“In New York, you mean?”

“Oh, everywhere—tell us all.”

“In New York, I live in Turtle Bay. I also have homes in Dark Harbor, on Islesboro, in Maine, in Paris, and in Los Angeles. And I recently acquired a property in the south of England.”

“My, my, you do get around.”

“I get the feeling, Nicky,” Derek said, speaking for the first time, “that you’re dying to tell us where
you
live.”

“Oh, only in Greenwich, Manhattan, and Palm Beach,” Nicky replied. “I’m practically homeless, compared to Stone.”

That got a laugh.

“I would be interested to know,” Carrie said, “how and why you acquired each of those properties, Stone. If I’m not prying.”

“Well, let’s see. I inherited the house in Turtle Bay from a great-aunt, many years ago, when I was a police officer. Renovating it nearly broke me, so I took up the law to pay for the renovation and the property taxes.”

“A police officer!” Nicky cried. “I want to hear about that.”

“A much longer story,” Stone said.

“And Maine?”

“A first cousin left it to me after his untimely death, or rather, left me lifetime occupancy. I later bought it from the foundation that held title.”

“Aren’t you fortunate?” Carrie said. “Such nice relatives. Did you have an uncle in Los Angeles?”

“I’m a principal in a group of hotels, the first of which was built on property in Bel-Air owned by my late wife.”

“Ah, another inheritance!” Nicky crowed. “It’s better than a trust fund!”

“Paris?” Carrie persisted.

“I spent some time in a house owned by . . . an acquaintance, and I ended up buying it.”

“Where in Paris?”

“Saint-Germain-des-Prés.”

“Lovely. That leaves only the south of England.”

“A friend showed me a property on the Beaulieu River, near her home. She said I’d be taken with it, and she was right.”

Stone tried redirecting the conversation. “Derek, what do you do?”

“Oh, this and that,” Derek said. “I buy and sell.”

“Buy and sell what?”

Carrie interrupted. “Jewelry, mostly. Derek has the best eye for quality that I’ve ever known.”

“You’re too kind, Carrie,” Derek said.

“Not in the least!” she replied. “I’ve got three generations of jewelry in my safe, and Derek is going to help me cull the most out-of-date pieces and get the most money for them.”

Derek looked embarrassed. “I’ll do the best I can, Carrie, when you deign to show me the contents of that safe.”

Then, with complete suddenness, the conversation came to a halt. The wind had apparently shifted.

“Good God,” Carrie said, “what is that awful odor?”

Bob, who had been lying quietly at Stone’s feet, got up, jumped down from the deck, and began trotting in the direction of the next property.

Stone knew what the odor was. “Excuse me,” he said.

He got up and followed Bob.