by Stuart Woods
“Why were you looking for me?” Stone asked.
“I need a bed, and I wondered if you could put me up for the night.”
“Sure, but what happened to Carla’s bed?”
“The girl wore me out, and I don’t think I could have survived another night with her right away, so I told her I’m driving back to Connecticut tonight. I’m too tired for that, though.” His drink arrived and he sipped it gratefully.
“More news from today’s events,” Stone said.
“What?”
“Charlie Crow drove up to Bristol, Rhode Island, and visited the home of a woman named Mrs. Caleb Strong.”
“Mildred? I know her.”
“Why on earth would Charlie Crow be visiting a woman in her nineties in Bristol, Rhode Island?”
“Well, let me tell you about Mildred. She is the grande dame of Rhode Island society, at the very top of the ladder, but she’s penniless, for all practical purposes. Lots of assets, no cash to speak of, just the dividends on some bank stock she owns. She also has a house full of authentic and gorgeous things that have been handed down in the Strong family for more than two hundred years. We’re talking about pieces that have been in the same house for that long, and they’re worth, probably, many millions of dollars. Dealers have been circling her home for years, like vultures, waiting for her to die, but she seems to be in rude good health, and she won’t even talk to them let alone sell anything.”
“Doesn’t she have any children or grandchildren?”
“No, old Caleb was the last of the Strong line, and she’s outlived all the members of her own family. Nobody even knows who her heirs are. Museums have been kowtowing to her for decades, hoping to pull in her collection when she goes, but she won’t tell them anything.”
“The question now arises,” Stone said, “why is she talking to Charlie Crow? He spent a good two hours in her house today. What could he possibly have to offer her?”
“Now, that’s a very interesting question,” Barton said, sipping his drink. “What could a jerk like Charlie Crow have to offer Mildred Strong?”
Dino spoke up. “Money? You said she was penniless.”
“Yes, sort of, but she’s not without assets besides her furniture. Her husband was a founding investor in a thriving local bank up there, and she’s never sold any of his stock. Rumor has it that she has fifty-one percent, but nobody knows for sure. The bank has no choice but to carry her. If she writes a check, they pay it, and she must have a very big overdraft by now.”
“How do they explain that to the bank examiners?” Stone asked.
“I suppose the bank’s board members must be putting their own funds in her account to keep her in the black. They certainly don’t want to piss her off, because she holds all that stock. She could sell it to one of the big banking conglomerates in a heartbeat, and the board would suddenly find themselves out of their cushy seats and into the street. So they pay her checks.”
“I wish I had that kind of a relationship with a bank,” Dino said.
“Don’t we all?” Barton replied.
They were all quiet for a few minutes, eating their dinner.
“I can think of something Crow could offer her,” Stone said.
“What?” Barton asked.
“An annuity.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Suppose our Charlie approaches her – he gets an introduction through some mutual acquaintance – and Charlie says, ‘Look, Mildred, you’ve got some beautiful things here, and I never want you to be separated from any of them. I understand that you need funds, though, so I’m prepared to offer you an annual income for the rest of your life, if you’ll make me the heir to the things in your house.’ ”
Barton nodded. “Either that or he just offers her ten or twenty million now, and she keeps her lifetime ownership. After all, how much longer can she last?”
“My impression is that Charlie doesn’t have that kind of cash on hand,” Stone said. “He seems to have been sailing pretty close to the wind. For a long time. I don’t even know if he could raise the annuity.”
“An annuity is an interesting idea,” Barton said. “I wish I’d thought of it.”
“Is it too late?” Stone asked.
Barton shrugged. “Maybe not. Mildred likes me, and I think she might talk to me. If she does, that would give me a chance to find out exactly what she’s got in that house, too.”
“How long since you’ve spoken to her?” Stone asked.
“I saw her at a dinner party at Marble House in Newport last year, and she seemed very pleased to see me. We chatted for nearly an hour over coffee, and I was careful never to bring up anything about her possessions.”
Dino broke in. “All this is very interesting, but let’s get back to Charlie Crow. Why the hell would he be interested in antique furniture?”
“Money,” Stone said. “Charlie is very interested in money.”
“I’ll grant you that,” Dino said, “but why furniture? Why does he even know anything about it? I saw a picture of his apartment in a magazine a few weeks ago, and it was full of a lot of awful gilded tables and chairs and huge chandeliers. Why would a guy like that know about or have any interest in eighteenth-century American furniture? If he were buying it, how would he know what to pay for it? And I find it hard to believe that Charlie and this Mildred would have any mutual acquaintances.”
“Good point,” Barton said. “It’s a mystery.”
“Barton,” Stone said, “do you have Mrs. Strong’s phone number?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why don’t you call her tomorrow morning and tell her you’ll be passing through Bristol tomorrow and that you’d like to stop in and see her?”
“I could do that.”
“And maybe, if Crow has made her some kind of offer, you could top it.”
“That would depend on what he’s offered her,” Barton said.
“You might find a way to slip something into your conversation that would give her doubts about dealing with Crow.”
“I’d be doing her a favor,” Barton said. “Charlie is the kind of guy who’d screw her out of everything she’s got, if he could find a way, and he’s good at finding a way.”
Stone nodded. “Think of it as a rescue mission,” he said.
42
Stone was having breakfast in the kitchen the following morning when Barton came down.
“Good morning,” Stone said.
“Yes, good morning,” Barton replied. He seemed preoccupied.
“What would you like for breakfast?”
“Oh, just toast and coffee.”
“You sure you wouldn’t like some eggs? Helene does wonderful scrambled eggs.”
“Perhaps just a plain omelette and orange juice.”
“Yes, sir,” Helene said, then went to work.
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation last night,” Barton said.
“And what have you concluded?”
“I think it’s worth a shot, assuming she doesn’t live forever.”
“How old is she, exactly?” Stone asked.
“At that dinner party where I last saw Mildred, another woman there told me she was ninety-six, and that was last year.”
“Well, if she’s ninety-seven and still healthy, she might live another ten years, maybe more.”
“Not unless she’s a freak of nature,” Barton said.
“You could assume that as a downside. How long could you afford to go on paying her?”
“If you can get my stolen secretary back, I could afford to pay her for a long time.”
“Decisions, decisions,” Stone said.
Barton dug into his omelette. “Delicious,” he said to Helene. “Stone, would you draw up a contract for me?”
“What kind of contract?”
“I’d like to say something like this: ‘I, Mildred Strong, agree to sell all the items listed on the attached list to Barton Cabot for the sum of blank, to be pa
id at the rate of blank annually until my death, at which time the residue would become payable to my estate, and Mr. Cabot would take possession of all the listed items. Until my death all the items would remain in my possession in my home. I instruct my executor to honor this contract within ten days of my death, upon receipt of the residue of funds from Mr. Cabot.’ ”
“That’s a pretty good contract right there,” Stone said. “Best to keep it simple, to one page, if possible, and you’d want at least one witness. You’d need to catalogue the goods, of course, and get her to sign the list, as well. How long would an inventory take?”
“To do a thorough job, probably a day or two. I’d want to get any documents she might have to provide provenance.”
“Is she likely to have eighteenth-century receipts?”
“That depends on whether Caleb Strong’s ancestors were sticklers for keeping records. Some of those old New England families never threw anything away.”
“Finish your breakfast and come into my office. I’ll draw up something for you.”
Barton read the document and set it on Stone’s desk. “Perfect,” he said.
Stone tapped a few computer keys, printed out some copies and put them into an envelope. “Here you are,” he said, handing over the envelope. I’ve put in some blank pages for the inventory which, I suppose, you’ll have to do by hand.”
“I suppose,” Barton said. “May I use your phone?”
“Of course,” Stone replied. “There’s one on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Would you like some privacy?”
“No, that’s all right.” Barton took an address book from his pocket, walked to the sofa and dialed a number. “May I speak to Mrs. Strong, please? This is Barton Cabot calling.”
Stone’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up. “Yes?”
“A woman who says her name is Carla is on line one for you.”
“Tell her I’m with a client, and I’ll call her back in a few minutes.” He hung up.
“Hello, Mildred?” Barton was saying. “How are you? Yes, it’s been a few years. I hope you’re well. I’m very well, thank you. I’m in New York, at the moment, but I’ll be driving to Newport in a few minutes, and I thought that, if you’re amenable, I might drop by Bristol and call on you.” Barton consulted his watch. “Lunch would be delightful. Would it be all right if I brought a friend?” He pointed at Stone and mouthed YOU.
Stone shrugged and nodded.
“You’re sure we won’t be putting you out? Fine, I’ll see you at one o’clock. Good-bye.” He hung up the phone, smiling. “That was easier than I expected,” he said. “She sounded very happy to hear from me.”
“You’re off to a good start, then.”
“I suppose I am. We better get moving, I guess.”
“I’ll open the garage door for you,” Stone said. He got up and pressed the button, then opened the inside door to the garage. “Just let me speak to Joan for a moment, then I’ll be right with you.” He walked into Joan’s office. “Please give me Carla’s number.” She did. “I’m going to drive up to Rhode Island with Barton. I should be back tonight.”
“Have a nice trip,” Joan said.
Stone went back to the garage. “I’d better follow you in my car,” he said to Barton. “You don’t want to have to drive me back to New York.”
“Good idea,” Barton said.
Stone hung his jacket in the backseat and got his car started. A moment later, they were headed to the East River Drive and thence to I-95.
When they were well under way, Stone called Carla.
“Hello?” Her voice was low and sexy. Stone repressed his thoughts.
“Hi, it’s Stone. I’m sorry; I was in a meeting when you called.”
“Are you out of your meeting, now? Would you like to come at… to lunch?”
Stone chuckled. “Love to, but I’m on the road. I have to drive up to Rhode Island for a meeting with a client.”
“Oh, shit,” she said.
“It’s just as well; Harlan Deal could still be having you watched. We had a meeting yesterday, and I think I threw him off the track, but you never know.”
“You mean we can’t get together at all?”
“Let’s give him time to lose interest,” Stone replied. “How did you and Barton get on?”
“Exactly how you thought we would,” she said with a little petulance.
“My congratulations to you both,” Stone said.
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” she said.
“That seems to be my only alternative.”
“Call me next week.” She hung up.
Stone tried redirecting his thoughts to eighteenth-century American furniture but did not entirely succeed.
43
Stone followed Barton up I-95, all the way through Providence, then they left the interstate and drove down the Bristol Peninsula to the town of Bristol.
Eleven Water Street turned out to be a large brick and limestone house in the Federal style, perhaps even the period. The door was answered by a middle-aged woman in a black housemaid’s uniform. They gave their names and were escorted into a spacious ground-floor drawing room.
“Mrs. Strong will be down directly,” the woman said, then left them.
Stone had expected the house to be something elegant but seedy, but there was no peeling paint or worn upholstery. The room was immaculate and beautifully furnished. Stone took a chair and watched Barton roam the room like a panther, looking closely at a piece here, a piece there.
Barton then joined Stone, taking the sofa next to him. “It’s a treasure trove,” he half whispered. “There’s at least ten million dollars at auction in this room.”
A door opened, and a tall, slender, beautifully dressed woman swept into the room, moving like someone half her age. She was perfectly coiffed and made up, and Stone wouldn’t have thought she was a day over seventy. He and Barton were immediately on their feet.
“Mildred! How good to see you!” Barton said.
She allowed herself to be kissed on both cheeks. “Barton, you look well.”
“May I present my friend, Stone Barrington?”
She extended a hand. “How do you do, Mr. Barrington.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Stone replied, receiving a firm handshake.
“Would you like a glass of sherry, or shall we go straight in to lunch?” she asked.
“Whatever is convenient,” Barton said.
“Let’s have lunch,” Mildred said, leading the way toward the rear of the house, outside through French doors and down a staircase into a garden, looking south over Narragansett Bay, where a table had been set for three.
Barton held her chair for her, and they sat.
“Mr. Barrington, would you pour the wine?” Mildred asked.
“Certainly,” he replied, “and please call me Stone.”
“And I’m Mildred.”
Stone took the bottle from the ice bucket next to him and glanced at the label. It read Montrachet 1955. Good God! he thought. He poured a little for Mildred Strong.
She tasted it. “Oh, very nice,” she said. “Caleb was an avid collector of wine. I’ve hardly been able to put a dent in his cellar since he died, twenty-five years ago.”
Stone sipped the wine. It was a deep golden color and tasted of honey and pears. “This is perfectly wonderful, Mildred.”
“Are you a collector of wines, Stone?”
“I have a very nice cellar in my house in New York, but only a few good cases, I’m afraid.”
“It is so nice not to have to shop for wine,” she said. “Caleb has already done it for me.”
The maid appeared with bowls of chilled asparagus soup.
“So, Barton,” Mildred said, “what brings you to Rhode Island?”
“It occurred to me that I haven’t done the shops in Newport for a couple of years, and I thought I’d see what I could pick up for my own place.”
“From what I hear, you don’t spend much time in
your shop,” she said.
“That’s perfectly true; I have a woman who runs it for me, while I scour the countryside for good pieces.”
“And that’s why you’ve come to see me, isn’t it?”
“My first impulse was to see you, Mildred, but it is a treat to see your beautiful house.”
“Yes, it is beautiful, isn’t it? In the daylight hours all I have to do with myself is to keep it that way, and the garden, too, and to write thank-you notes to my hostesses.”
“Do you still buy things?”
“Never. I haven’t bought a piece in thirty years. Caleb’s family collected so much over the centuries, that I haven’t had to shop. If I’m redoing a room and need something, I have no farther to look than my attic. There are dealers about who would pay a pretty penny for what I have in that attic.”
“Have you ever sold anything?” Barton asked.
“Not a th… well, nothing until… recently.”
Charlie Crow, Stone thought.
“Have you decided to finally begin selling?”
“Oh, no, there was just this one… thing.”
“May I ask what you sold?”
“Oh, I don’t want to talk about that. Did you come to buy my things?”
“I came to make you a proposition,” Barton said.
“I’ll just bet you did.”
“But I don’t want to take a single piece from your house… not anytime soon, at least.”
“What, exactly, do you mean by, ‘anytime soon’?”
“Not for as long as you live.”
Mildred chuckled. “I intend to make it to a hundred and fifty,” she said.
Stone believed she could do it.
“I hope you do,” Barton said, “but I’m prepared to make you what I hope you’ll think is a proposition worth considering.”
“Make your proposition, and I’ll consider it,” Mildred replied, “but probably not for very long.”
“I understand your attachment to your beautiful things and your reluctance to part with any of them,” Barton said, “and I will not ask you to do so. What I will do is this: I will make you an offer for a large group of specific pieces. Since I am not a very rich man, I will pay you a substantial part of my offer each year for the rest of your life. Upon your death, I will remit the unpaid balance to your executor, then take possession of the pieces.”
