Insatiable Appetites

by Stuart Woods

  “Yes, and Raoul Pitt and I got the whole story from Magnussen’s girlfriend.” Stone told him about their trip downtown.

  “That’s a great story, Stone, you’ll dine out on it for years.”

  “I certainly will.”

  Stone called Mary Ann, who was greatly relieved to get the news. “I’m delighted, but something else has come up,” she said.

  “What now?”

  “I received a telephone call today from the mother superior of the convent where Dolce recovered from her illness.”

  “Yes?”

  “She told me that Dolce had psychiatric counseling for more than a year after her arrival there.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. It seems to have worked.”

  “That’s what the mother superior thought, but apparently it worked a little too well. Dolce and her psychiatrist formed a closer relationship than had been intended. This was confirmed to her by a novitiate who had come upon them in flagrante delicto in a storeroom Dolce used as a studio. The psychiatrist was removed from the case at once.”

  “Why would the mother superior call you about that at this late date?”

  “Because she read the name of the psychiatrist in the Italian newspapers,” Mary Ann said. “He was a brilliant man in a number of fields, by all accounts, who left Sicily to join the Vatican Bank in an important position. He was an Irish priest named Frank Donovan.”

  Stone froze in his seat.

  “You do read the papers, don’t you?” Mary Ann said.

  “I’m sorry, yes, I know to whom you are referring.”

  “Stone, it is very important that Dino not hear about this from you.”

  “Then from whom should he hear about it? Are you going to tell him?”

  “Certainly not, and if you have any respect for the memory of my father and for your duties as his executor, neither will you.”

  “Mary Ann—”

  “Listen to me, Stone. Even if it were known that Dolce knew him, there is nothing whatever to connect them after he went to the Vatican. Nothing.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because if a connection were known, Dolce would already have been questioned by the police.”

  “I expect that is true, but—”

  “No buts,” Mary Ann said firmly. “You cannot subject my father’s name and his family’s reputation to the kind of public scrutiny that would occur if the police could connect Dolce with Father Donovan in any way at all, even if they could be shown never to have met during Father Donovan’s brief visit to New York.”

  “Very brief visit.”

  “I’ve spoken to the cardinal, and he assures me that Father Donovan came to New York on Vatican business and stayed at an Opus Dei facility for visiting priests and dignitaries. He made no mention of having seen anyone outside the archdiocese during his stay there. The cardinal believes him to have been a victim of street crime, and that is what I believe, too.”

  “Then why are you telling me all this?”

  “Because I knew that if you or Dino—particularly Dino—heard of the connection between Dolce and Donovan, you would draw the wrong conclusions, and before the investigation was complete, a great deal of harm would have been done to all concerned.”

  “Except to Father Frank Donovan.”

  “Especially to the priest, whose reputation would be destroyed, and to the Vatican, which would be greatly embarrassed for no good reason.”

  “I understand your views, Mary Ann, and I will keep them in mind.”

  “Please see that you do.” She hung up.

  Stone hung up, too, shaken and worried.

  Bruce Willard drove his own car, an old Mercedes station wagon that he used mostly for buying trips, to Philadelphia, following the confident instructions of a dash-mounted GPS. He followed the directions numbly, trying not to think of Evan for a while.

  As he neared his destination he began looking for a driveway or a mailbox but saw neither. Then the female voice of the GPS began to insist that he make a U-turn. He did so and retraced his track until the U-turn message came again. This time he slowed down to ten miles per hour, but he still nearly missed an overgrown, gravel track: no street number, no mailbox. He turned into the track and proceeded slowly, branches on either side scraping against the car. After a quarter of a mile or so the little road widened and became paved with granite cobblestones, winding through a corridor of old oak trees until he passed through a high, wrought-iron gate and into a forecourt before a large brick house of the Federal style—three stories, the corners and windows trimmed in limestone. The place practically gleamed with good care and fresh paint.

  As he came to a halt the front door opened and an Asian man in a white jacket, black trousers, and black bow tie trotted down the front walk to the car.

  “Good morning. Mr. Willard?”

  “I am,” Bruce replied.

  “May I take your luggage?”

  “There’s just the duffel in the backseat.”

  “I am Manolo,” the man said. “I take care of Mr. Hills. Please follow me.”

  Bruce trailed him up the walk and into the house and a broad foyer containing a Georgian table so beautiful that he had to resist stroking it, upon which rested a heavy silver bowl filled with fresh flowers.

  “The living room is to the left,” Manolo said, pointing, “and the library to the right. Your room is upstairs.” He trotted up the broad staircase and opened the first door down the hallway to the right. “This is the Elm Room,” Manolo said. “Mr. Hills hopes you will be comfortable here.”

  Bruce surveyed the room—the canopied bed, the comfortable chairs before an Adam fireplace, the good pictures, the fine fabrics. “I’m sure I will be,” he said.

  Manolo opened the door to a dressing room. “Would you like me to unpack for you?”

  “Thank you, that won’t be necessary.”

  “Mr. Hills expects you for lunch in half an hour,” the man said. “He will meet you in the library.”

  “How are we dressing?” Bruce asked. He was wearing a blue suit and a necktie, since he did not know if he would have time or a place to change before the funeral.

  “You are perfectly dressed, sir. Is there anything else I may do for you?”

  “Thank you, no, Manolo. I’ll be down in thirty minutes.”

  Manolo left, closing the heavy mahogany door softly behind him. Bruce took his toiletry items into the big marble bathroom, splashed some water on his face, then took off his jacket and sat in a comfortable chair for a few minutes, still numb.

  At the appointed hour Bruce put his jacket on again, adjusted his necktie, and walked downstairs to the library. A man was sitting at a desk, wielding a magnifying glass, examining an album of stamps. He looked up and stood. “Good afternoon, Mr. Willard,” he said.

  Bruce thought he looked exactly as Evan would have looked in thirty years: slim, beautifully tailored, with thick white hair.

  Elton Hills came around the desk and offered his hand, then directed Bruce to a wing chair before the large fireplace, where a fire burned brightly. “Would you like a glass of sherry before lunch?” he asked.

  “Thank you, yes.” He sat down, and a moment later Manolo appeared with a silver tray bearing a black bottle and two glasses. He poured the wine and handed it to Bruce and Mr. Hills, then left.

  “It’s a fino, nicely chilled,” Hills said. “It won’t get you drunk before lunch.”

  Bruce tasted it. “Excellent,” he said.

  “Have you ever visited Spain?” Hills asked.

  “Yes, in fact I once attended the sherry harvest festival in Jerez de la Frontera, as the guest of one of the houses there.”

  “And did you enjoy the experience?”

  “It was a week of relentless debauchery,” Bruce replied. “Every time I turned arou
nd there was someone with a bottle of sherry, refilling my glass. There was a bullfight, a fiera, and in the wee hours, after dinner, much flamenco dancing, much of it by members of my host firm and their domestic staff.”

  Hills smiled. “I did that once, too—once was enough.”

  “I know how you feel.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Willard, was my son a queer?”

  “Yes,” Bruce replied, “as am I, though these days we prefer ‘gay.’ We were lovers as well as friends.”

  Hills winced noticeably. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Mr. Hills, if you are uncomfortable in my company, I can leave now.”

  Hills made a placating motion with his hands. “No, please. I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m an old man, unaccustomed to today’s ways, and there are many things I don’t understand.”

  “Are you of a religious nature, Mr. Hills?”

  “I am.”

  “Well then, all I can say to you on the subject is that God made us all, and he made us as we are. Evan and I no more chose our sexual orientation than you chose yours.”

  “You’re quite right, I suppose. I didn’t choose to be heterosexual, I just was.”

  “And there you have it in a nutshell.”

  Manolo entered the room and called them to lunch. They did not speak again about sexuality.

  They dined on butternut squash soup and perfectly cooked lamb chops and shared half a bottle of a French wine. The plates were taken away, and while they awaited dessert, Elton Hills began to speak quietly.

  “I suppose I could be considered by some as a recluse,” he said. “My wife died nearly twenty years ago, and, without really thinking about it, I began to leave this house less and less.”

  “It’s a beautiful house, beautifully kept,” Bruce replied.

  “Thank you. It was built by my great-great-grandfather, after the American Revolution, and my grandfather and father made judicious additions. I have contented myself with preservation.” He took a sip of his wine. “It is my great regret that I secluded myself not only from the outside world, but from my only remaining son. My firstborn, Elton Junior, in a burst of patriotism of which I heartily approved, joined the army and became a platoon leader in Special Forces. He gave his life for his country.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Bruce said.

  “How did you come to be in the military?”

  “I was born in a small town in Georgia called Delano,” Bruce replied. “As I approached college age, my only alternative was a branch of the state university, but my father had gone to high school with our congressman, and he secured an appointment to West Point for me. I did well there and made my career in the army. I was executive officer of a Special Forces unit when, leading a patrol, I stepped on a land mine. After a year at Walter Reed, I retired. I had saved most of my pay, and I used that to open my shop in Washington.”

  “I like an entrepreneur,” Hills said.

  “I’m very impressed with the quality of your pieces in this house,” Bruce said. “I would like to specialize in American furniture, but the prices have risen so much that I haven’t had the capital to invest. As you know, Evan was very kind to me in his will, and I’ve thought of funding a furniture operation with some of that.”

  “What a good idea,” Hills said. “You know, once Evan was out of law school, he wouldn’t take anything from me. His mother left him a modest bequest, and I was very glad to see that he had grown his estate so much during his life. Now I have no heirs, only a foundation.”

  Bruce didn’t know what to say about that, so he only nodded.

  Dessert was served, and Elton Hills changed the subject. “This Mr. Barrington sent me copies of a story about Evan that appears in today’s New York Times,” he said. “Did you know about all that?”

  “Yes, I did. Evan used my shop for meetings with the reporter from the Times. I got a copy of the paper last night and read the piece.”

  “I’ve been a Republican all my life, and I was absolutely appalled at what I read. My party has returned to being what it was when Teddy Roosevelt was president, and it makes me very sad.”

  “Evan was outraged,” Bruce said, “and frightened of what the reaction would be if those in his party found out where the story originated.”

  “Do you think Evan’s death was . . . not an accident?” Hills asked.

  “I think it’s possible. Certainly Evan felt endangered. Stone Barrington had offered him a guest apartment in his home, and Evan had accepted. He was on his way to his hotel to collect his things when he was struck by the car.”

  “If it turns out that Evan was murdered for political reasons, I shall reconsider what to do with the residue of my estate. I think I would use it to help oust from office those who were responsible.”

  “I can understand your feelings.”

  Hills consulted a gold pocket watch. “Well, let’s not keep the bishop waiting,” he said. “We’ll take my car, and of course, I would be pleased if you would stay the night.”

  “Thank you. I’d be happy to.”

  Hills’s car was a Rolls-Royce from the sixties, apparently little used, as it was in showroom condition. The cemetery was only a few minutes’ drive from the house, and as they approached the entrance they saw a large van with an antenna on top parked at the front gate. A reporter with a microphone was saying something into a camera, and there were other reporters and photographers there, too.

  “Don’t slow down,” Hills said to Manolo. “Just plow through.” As they passed through the gates, the reporters nearly threw themselves in front of the car, and they shouted questions as it passed. Hills sat back in his seat. “Mr. Barrington warned me this might happen,” he said, “but I didn’t believe him. You’ve met this Barrington. What do you make of him?”

  “I was impressed with him, and so was Evan, enough so to make him his executor. He chose Barrington to tell his story to because he’s known to be a friend of the president and his wife, the president-elect. I think he chose well.”

  The car pulled up behind a police car that was apparently guarding the grave site. A robed bishop stood, waiting for them. Hills greeted the man and had a brief conversation with him, then introduced Bruce. The funeral director appeared and led them to the graveside.

  A mahogany casket rested on an apparatus over the grave, covered by a blanket of yellow roses that Bruce had sent.

  The service was brief; the bishop spoke for less than five minutes, and Hills indicated that he had nothing to say. Neither did Bruce. It was all over very quickly.

  The media still swarmed around the gate, but they got no joy from the people in the Rolls. Soon they pulled into the hidden driveway.

  “Bruce, if I may call you that . . .”

  “Certainly.”

  “And please call me Elton.”

  “Of course.”

  “Bruce, I wonder if, while you’re here, you would take a walk around the house and look at my furniture and art. It has not been appraised for many years.”

  “I’d be delighted. And if you can endure my company for a few days, I’d be very pleased to do a proper inventory and photograph each piece. A proper appraisal will require some research, but I’m sure your insurers would like to have that, as well as your attorneys.”

  “What a good idea!” Hills said, smiling for the first time that day. “Come inside, and I’ll show you around.”

  “All I need is a legal pad,” Bruce said. “My telephone contains a good camera.”

  “A phone with a camera? Extraordinary!”

  “It’s an extraordinary world these days, Elton,” Bruce said. “You should see a bit more of it.”

  The two men went into the house together, arm in arm.

  Stone and Dino had dinner at the Writing Room, and halfway through their drinks, Stone finally brought himself to speak
about what was on his mind.

  “I’ve got some news you should know,” he said. “I’ve been asked not to tell you, but I have to.”

  “Shoot,” Dino said.

  “When Dolce was first sent to the nunnery in Sicily, she was treated by a priest who was also a psychiatrist, and they began to have an affair, which the mother superior put an end to. The priest’s name was Frank Donovan.”

  “I’m not as surprised as you may think,” Dino said. “Donovan’s body parts were found in an area no more than a mile out in Jamaica Bay, pretty much in line with a tidal creek that runs up to the Bianchi property, where there’s a dock and a boat that Eduardo used to take rides in.”

  “I don’t see how Dolce could have done this alone,” Stone said.

  “Neither do I. I think I detect the fine Sicilian hand of Pietro in this. There have been rumors about him for decades, and he is devoted to the family. All Dolce would have had to do was ask.”

  “Is there anything substantial to tie her to Donovan’s death?”

  “Donovan arrived at JFK Airport three days before he reported in at the archdiocese, and there’s no way we can find out whether he stayed at the Opus Dei guesthouse without a search warrant, and the DA is not going to ask a judge for that, based solely on what we suspect.”

  “You suspect that Donovan was staying with Dolce?”

  “The staff in her building clammed up, but one of the younger doormen is on a suspended sentence for assault in a barroom fight, and we were able to lean on him. He ID’d Donovan, said he saw him on the street outside her building, but he wasn’t dressed as a priest, and the guy couldn’t connect him to Dolce.”

  “Any security camera shots?”

  “Only in the elevator, and a man in a hat would be unidentifiable, because the camera was set high. It’s winter, men are wearing hats.”

  “Have you questioned Pietro?”

  “He would go all omertà on us, so there’s no point. If we pulled him in, that would alert Dolce that we’re on to her. I’d rather let her think she’s safe.”