“I do.”
“Bring it,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
“That’s better.” She hung up.
6
Stone 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.
—
They 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?”
Bo
b, 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.
7
Bob trotted toward the twelve-foot-high hedge that separated Carrie’s house from the next property, and hardly slowed as he squirmed through a hole at the bottom of the greenery. Stone took a right and walked to where the hedge parted to accommodate a padlocked gate. Stone grabbed the top of the gate and vaulted over.
Bob was sitting on the grass at the end of the house, looking at a pair of open windows on the second floor. He tilted his head back, aimed at the sky and gave forth with a single, long howl, then he came to Stone and sat down. “Thank you, Bob,” Stone said. “Message received. Let’s go have a look.”
Stone climbed the curving front steps to the porch and rang the doorbell. He could hear the chime from somewhere deep inside. He hammered on the front door, then tried opening it. To his surprise, unlike the front gate, it was unlocked. The odor got stronger. “Hello!” he shouted. “Anyone home?” He started to look around the ground floor, but Bob trotted up the stairs. Stone followed and came to a long hallway. Bob was sitting at the end in front of a closed door, looking back at him and whimpering. Stone walked down the hall and rapped on the door. “Hello! Anybody there?” He opened the door; the stench was overpowering. Bob entered, ran across the room and sat down next to the king-sized bed. There were women’s clothes in the closet and shoes scattered around the room. Stone tried breathing through a handkerchief. The bed was covered by a large duvet, and there was a large lump beneath it.
He took a deep breath and pulled back the duvet, just for a second. He didn’t need more than that to know that he didn’t want to see any more of what was there. He returned the duvet to its original position and left the room. “Come on, Bob,” he said, and the dog followed him. He closed the door behind him and walked down the hallway. He could hear voices from downstairs now.
His five luncheon companions were standing in the living room, chatting quietly and looking around.
“Did you find anything?” Carrie asked.
Stone didn’t reply; he didn’t want to explain more than once. He got out his iPhone and dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” a woman said.
“Please connect me with the watch commander.”
“What is your emergency?”
“I’m going to explain it only once, and to him. Give me your watch commander now, or I’ll come over there.”
“Please hold.”
The extension rang half a dozen times, and finally a man answered. “This is Sergeant D’Orio. What can I do for you?”
Stone gave him the address. “My name is Stone Barrington. I’m a retired NYPD detective. I’m a guest at the house next door, and I detected a powerful odor coming from this house, so I investigated. No one answered the door, but it was unlocked, so I went inside. I found the remains of a woman—at least I think it’s a woman—in an upstairs bedroom, in an advanced state of decay. I’ll wait for your team to arrive. You’re going to need a crime-scene specialist and the medical examiner, also some bolt cutters. The front gate is padlocked.”
“All right. Don’t touch anything in the house. We’re on our way.”
“I don’t think the neighbors would appreciate lights and sirens,” Stone said. “The person upstairs isn’t going anywhere, so take your time.”
“Right. Sit tight.” He hung up, and so did Stone. He addressed the little group in the living room. “Unless you want to spend a long afternoon answering the same questions over and over, you should all go back to the house now, before the police arrive, and Carrie, please take Bob with you. Did anybody touch anything?”
They all shook their heads.
“I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
“All right, everybody, let’s go home. Come on, Bob.”
“By the way, Carrie, who owns this house?”
“A friend of my ex-husband,” she replied. “His name is James Carlton.”
“Film director?”
“That’s the one. The place is for sale.”
“I didn’t see a real estate agent’s sign.”
“The people around here don’t like signs in their yards. Join us for cocktails, if you can. Dinner is at seven-thirty, and we’re dressing.”
Stone nodded, and she left. He took a seat on the living room sofa. A moment later Stone heard a snap from outside and the creak of the opening gate. Car doors slammed, and there were footsteps on the outside stairs.
A chunky police sergeant walked into the house and stopped. “Are you Barrington?”
“I am,” Stone said, rising to greet him.
“I’m Dante D’Orio,” he said, offering his hand.
Stone shook it. “Have a seat, and I’ll bring you up to date.”
D’Orio took the chair opposite and prepared to listen.
When Stone had finished, he asked, “Do you know who owns this house?”
“I’m told James Carlton.”
“The movie guy?”
“Yes. Apparently the house is on the market.”
“Do you know how long it’s been since anybody was here?”
“No, but you’d think that some real estate people might have been in here. The place isn’t exactly in a condition to show.”
Other people began to arrive, some of them carrying cases and equipment.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” D’Orio said.
“Do you need me further?”
“I’d like to know how to get in touch with you.”
Stone wrote his cell number on a card and handed it to him. “I’ll be next door at the home of Carrie Fiske if you need me.”
Stone returned to the house next door.
8
Stone dressed in a white dinner jacket and joined the others downstairs for cocktails; everybody was one drink ahead of him. To his pleasant surprise, Rupert was able to come up with a Knob Creek on the rocks.
“So, Stone,” Nicky said, “what did the police have to say?”
“I did most of the talking,” Stone said, “just telling them what I had seen. They went to work, and I left.”
“What did you see upstairs?” Nicky asked.
“Our worst fears realized.”
“Details?”
“I wouldn’t want to ruin your canapés.”
“That bad, huh?”
“As bad as it gets.”
“Man or woman?”
“A woman, judging from the clothes in the room. Otherwise, it was hard to tell. Something I don’t understand—if the house is on the market, why haven’t there been real estate people in there, showing it?”
“Jim is asking thirty-five million,” Carrie said. “That tends to cut down on the foot traffic.”
“I suppose so. Do you know when he was last here?”
“I keep my house open year-round,” she said. “I haven’t seen him since Christmas. I read somewhere that he was making a film in London—maybe he hasn’t returned for a while.”
“Do you know who the agents are?”
“Best Hamptons Properties, Julia Fields. I saw her arrive with some people—buyers, I guess—right after New Year’s. Nobody since. Do you think the body has been there that long?”
“Bodies decay at different rates, depending on the conditions present. I’m not an expert. When I was a cop I usually saw them when they were still fresh, with a few exceptions. I’ve tried to forget those.”
“How did you go from being a cop to being a lawyer?” Nicky asked.
“My senior year at NYU Law School I did a ride-around with the police, and I was captivated. After I graduated, I joined the NYPD. I was inval
ided out fourteen years later, after getting shot in a knee, and I happened to bump into a law school classmate who suggested I take a cram course for the bar exam, then become of counsel to his firm.”
“What’s ‘of counsel’?”
“It just means you’re not a partner or an associate. In my case it meant that I handled cases that the firm didn’t want to be seen as handling, often things that related to my experience as a police detective.”
“I’d like to read a book about those cases,” Carrie said.
“It will never be published, unless it’s without my knowledge. Your turn on the grill, Nicky,” Stone said. “Where’d you go to school?”
“Groton and Yale, art history major.”
“That qualifies you to be a dealer, I guess.”
“It sort of qualifies me to be a collector. I’ve never had a job. I shouldn’t say that too loudly, in case my great-grandfather is listening from somewhere. From what I know of him, it wouldn’t please him. Actually, over the years I’ve sold at a profit often enough to qualify as having made a living, if not quite the living that my trust has paid for.”
“I should think not,” Carrie said. “And Nicky, when you were confessing your real estate sins, you forgot to include the house in the South of France.”
“Oh, yes, that one. You’ve caught me. Stone, I’m interested in your property in the south of England. What does it consist of?”
“Eighty acres and a Georgian-style manor house, built in the twenties.”
“What attracted you to it?”
“It’s quite beautiful. It had just undergone a thorough renovation by a good designer, and it’s on a beautiful river with easy access to the Solent, the body of water that separates the mainland from the Isle of Wight. I sail now and then. What attracted you to Palm Beach?”
“I inherited the house, and nobody would buy it.”
Everybody laughed. “Donald Trump tried, before he bought his present property, but Nicky was too much of a snob to sell it to him.”
“That’s quite true,” Nicky said. “I was and am a snob. I’m attracted to people of substance, not just money. What is the name of the law firm to which you are ‘of counsel,’ Stone?”
Family Jewels (A Stone Barrington Novel) Page 3
