Hot Mahogany Page 13

Stone ducked into the bar and peeped into the hall, looking for Carla. She came out of the ladies’ room and bolted for the front door.

  Stone flagged down the bartender. “I have to go. Put the drinks on my account.” He found Carla in the car, waiting for him.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said. “That man is everywhere.”

  “He certainly is,” Stone said, starting the car. “I think we’ll dine elsewhere.”

  Stone and Carla sat on the bed, watching a DVD of Singin’ in the Rain and eating a large, heavily laden pizza that Stone had picked up at the pizza parlor in the village.

  “I love Gene Kelly,” Carla said.

  “So do I.”

  “I think he’s the best dancer this country has ever produced.”

  “Better than Baryshnikov?”

  “Baryshnikov was produced by Russia.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “I think he’s a terrific singer, too.”

  “So do I, but he’s not as good as you, and as far as I know, he didn’t play piano, either.”

  Stone’s cell phone vibrated on his belt. He looked at the calling number in the little window. Bob Cantor was calling. What the hell did he want? He ignored it and let it go to voice mail. He considered telling Carla of Harlan Deal’s interest in The Rocks but thought better of it. That might put a damper on their sex life.

  33

  The following morning, Stone was contemplating getting out of bed when the phone rang. “Hello?”

  “It’s Dino.”

  “Good morning.”

  “It’s almost afternoon.”

  “It’s ten A.M.,” Stone said. “What’s up?”

  “I got a call to come in this morning about another case, and I reran last night’s GPS surveillance on Charlie Crow’s car.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Just to one place: It was parked for a little under three hours at Abner Kramer’s house.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Well, he could have been next door or across the street, I guess. After all, the GPS unit is attached to his car, not to him, but that’s where his car was parked.”

  “What was the time?”

  “He arrived a little after eight and left a little before eleven.”

  “Sounds like dinner,” Stone observed.

  “Does Charlie Crow sound like the sort of guy an elegant fellow like Kramer would invite to dinner?”

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” Stone reminded him. “Not even in dinner companions.”

  “Yeah, I guess. I just thought you’d like to know.”

  “Have you made up with Genevieve?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that she’s talking to me but not sleeping with me.”

  “Have you found out what she was pissed off about?”

  “Not a clue. I’ve wracked my brain.”

  “She’ll get around to telling you, don’t worry.”

  Carla stirred next to Stone.

  “Gotta run,” Stone said. He hung up and gave his full attention to Carla.

  When they had showered and dressed, Carla suddenly said,

  “How about a picnic?”

  “A picnic? What do you mean?”

  “Well, you pack a lunch, put down a blanket in a pretty spot and eat.”

  “Oh, that kind of picnic.”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Do you know of such a spot?”

  Stone thought about it for a moment. “Yes, I do,” he said. “A clearing on a hilltop overlooking a fine landscape and a handsome house in the distance.”

  “That should do nicely,” she said.

  Stone found an old wicker basket with dishes and silver inside that he had discovered in a closet when he had bought the house. They drove down to the Village Market and bought a chicken, some salads and a cold bottle of wine, and Stone drove them to the hilltop road he had visited with Barton and Holly the week before. He parked the car, and they walked down a path to the little clearing.

  “Oh,” she said, regarding the vista, “this is perfect.”

  The weather was autumnal, but the sun warmed the clearing. Stone spread a blanket, and Carla busied herself arranging the lunch. “What are these for?” she asked, holding up Stone’s binoculars, which he had placed in the basket.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Sometimes they make the view more interesting.”

  They sat cross-legged on the blanket, facing the distant house, ate their chicken and drank their wine. Stone lay back on an elbow and sighed. “This was a wonderful idea,” he said.

  “I know,” she replied. “I have them all the time.”

  “Ideas?”

  “Wonderful ideas.”

  “Well, so far I have no complaints about your ideas, only your ex-boyfriends.”

  “Harlan is a pig,” she said.

  “What did you ever see in him?”

  “He’s one of those men who can be perfectly charming when you first meet him, then, as time wears on, becomes first awfully boring, then finally just awful.”

  “I’ve known women like that.”

  “Really? I thought it was exclusively a male characteristic.”

  Stone sat up on the blanket and picked up the binoculars.

  “What is it?” Carla asked.

  “A truck,” he replied.

  “It is a very Harlanlike characteristic to find a truck more interesting than I,” she said, archly.

  “Oh, I don’t find it nearly as interesting as you, but you’re too close for binoculars,” he replied, focusing more finely.

  She pulled the binoculars away from his face and kissed him. “Does that help?”

  “That was delightful, but they’re unloading something from the truck, and I’d like to see what it is, if you’ll give me just a moment, then you will have my undivided attention.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said, handing him the binoculars.

  Stone watched as four men removed a large crate from the back of the truck and began carrying it up the front steps of the house. The two men at the rear of the crate then hoisted it above their heads and climbed the steps.

  “It’s light,” Stone said.

  “Swell.”

  “And it’s bigger at the bottom than at the top.”

  “Fascinating.”

  Someone opened the front doors wide, and the men carried in the crate.

  “It’s empty,” Stone said.

  “What?”

  “Four men are carrying a large, empty crate into Ab Kramer’s house.”

  “Ab Kramer? The financial guy?”

  “One and the same. Now why would they take an empty crate into his house.”

  “Maybe they’re going to pack something in the crate and take it away.”

  “Now that is an eminently sensible observation,” he said, putting down the binoculars, taking her into his arms and pulling her down to the blanket. “And you have my undivided attention.”

  “I hope you’re not thinking of undressing me,” she said. “It’s chilly out here.”

  “I was seeking only affection, not sex.”

  “Well, it’s not as though we haven’t been getting any sex, is it?”

  He laughed. “I’ve no complaints in that department.”

  She sat up and looked toward the house, then picked up the binoculars. “They’re bringing the crate out,” she said.

  “May I look?”

  She handed him the binoculars.

  Stone watched as the men reloaded the crate into the truck and was surprised that they coordinated their efforts and actually tossed the crate the last few feet. He could hear the noise when it fell into the bed of the truck. “There’s still nothing in it.”

  “What?”

  “They took an empty crate into the house, then brought it out again, still empty. Does that make any sense?”

  �
�Not to me.”

  “Nor to me, either.”

  34

  The sun passed behind the trees, bringing shade and chill to their clearing. Carla began collecting their debris and packing up.

  “You have a domestic side, don’t you?” Stone said admiringly.

  “My domestic side begins and ends with picking up the phone and calling room service. Why do you think I live in a hotel?”

  “Well, when required, you rise to the occasion.”

  “I could say the same of you,” she said, handing him the basket and shaking out the blanket.

  What am I going to do with this girl? Stone was thinking. If Harlan Deal so much as sees us together, he could yank his account from Woodman amp; Weld, and at least half my income would vanish in a puff of smoke. She’s great, but is the relationship worth that risk? “I’d like you to meet someone,” Stone said, an ulterior motive stirring deep down in his cerebral cortex.

  “Who?”

  “A client of mine. You’ll like him.”

  “Does he live in the woods?”

  “Yes, but not these woods. Next to a lake.”

  They drove down to Lake Waramaug and to Barton Cabot’s house. To Stone’s surprise, Barton was standing outside the barn, waiting for them, his right hand in his trousers pocket.

  “Good afternoon, Stone,” Barton said as they got out of the car. He gave Carla a long look up and down. “And who’s this?”

  “Barton, this is Carla. Carla, this is Barton Cabot.”

  She offered him a hand. “How do you do?” she said.

  “I do very well, but never better than now,” Barton replied.

  “You were expecting us?” Stone asked.

  Barton shook his head. “Just something I ordered from a catalogue. It beeps in the house and barn when a car drives past the mailbox. Sort of a doorbell for automobiles.” He led them into the house and the study and offered them drinks.

  “I think I’d rather have tea, if you can manage it,” Carla said.

  “I’ll have bourbon in my tea,” Stone added.

  Ten minutes later they were settled into comfortable furniture before a blazing fire.

  “Carla, where do you live?” Barton asked.

  “In New York City.”

  “Where in New York City?”

  “At the Carlyle Hotel. I sing there, in the Bemelmens Bar, four nights a week. Play the piano, too.”

  “I’d love to hear you sometime.”

  “I’d love for you to hear me sometime.”

  “I have a piano.”

  “Is it in tune?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t play untuned pianos, and I sing only for money.”

  “I’ll pay the Carlyle, then.”

  “Good.”

  Stone eased out of his chair, strolled to the other side of the study and inspected a set of leather-bound books. His ulterior motive realized, he was not needed on the other side of the room. He extracted a book, one of six in a leather-bound set. It was a signed first edition of Winston Churchill’s history of the Second World War. He wondered, philistine that he was, what that was worth at auction. He moved to a wall hung with pictures, close together. The nearest to him was a Western scene by Albert Bierstadt. He spotted two very fine landscapes from the Hudson River School. This was the wall of either a multimillionaire or a very shrewd collector who had been at it for a long time. He went on exploring, listening in occasionally on the conversation going on behind him.

  “You appear to be of Scandinavian extraction,” Barton said.

  “Half Swedish, half Sicilian.”

  “What an interesting combination.”

  “You have no idea.”

  The conversation fell into a gap, and Stone returned to his seat.

  “Is there a powder room nearby?” Carla asked Barton.

  “Through that door, first left,” Barton replied.

  Carla rose and left the room.

  “Is she for me?” Barton asked.

  “She is if you want her and she’s agreeable.”

  “What have I done to deserve such a gift?”

  “You’ll be getting me off a hook. She recently left a former, very powerful boyfriend who is a legal client of mine, in a manner of speaking, and if he catches me in her company, it might reflect badly on the firm to which I am counsel.”

  “I’m happy to be of help,” Barton replied with a small smile.

  “Would you like to keep her for a couple of days, then return her to the city?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Good. Now I have a puzzle for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Carla and I picnicked today at the spot where you and Holly and I watched Ab Kramer’s house.”

  “Yes?”

  “A truck arrived, and four men unloaded a large crate that, from the way they carried it, appeared to be empty.”

  “So Ab is packing up something?”

  “I don’t think so. A few minutes later the four men returned with the crate and practically tossed it back into the truck. I think it was still empty.”

  Barton’s brow furrowed, then his eyebrows suddenly went up. “What were the dimensions of the crate?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but it appeared to be around seven or eight feet by four or five feet, and it was deeper at the bottom than at the top.”

  “Around the size it would take to hold a large mahogany secretary?”

  Stone was about to reply when Carla came back into the room, and Barton signaled to stop their conversation.

  “Somehow I sense you two have been talking about me,” Carla said.

  “Actually, we have,” Stone said. “After running into our mutual acquaintance last night at the inn, I think it might be best if you didn’t come back to the house with me.”

  “You mean you are abandoning me in the wilds of Connecticut?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Barton has agreed to shelter you for a bit, then return you to New York. I’ll pack your things and leave them on my front stoop, and you and Barton can collect them when you go to the Mayflower Inn for dinner this evening.”

  “Why the Mayflower?” Barton asked.

  “Because a former friend of Carla is staying there, and I think it would be a good idea if he saw the two of you together.”

  “Rather,” Carla said, “than the two of us?”

  “Yes. It would cause more grief than you can imagine if Harlan saw you and me together.”

  “If you say so,” she replied.

  Stone drained his teacup and stood up. “Will you two excuse me, then?”

  “Of course,” Barton said. “I’ll walk you out. Be right back, Carla.”

  Stone and Barton shuffled through the leaves to where he had parked his car.

  “That was deftly done,” Barton said.

  “It seemed the best solution to the problem for all concerned.”

  “I’m grateful for your solution.”

  “Barton, you were saying that the crate I saw at Ab’s house was of a size and shape to hold a mahogany secretary?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it was empty on both arrival and departure.”

  “There might be a very good reason for that.”

  “What would that be?”

  “The crate was also of a size and shape that one could use to see if it would fit well in an empty space in Ab’s study.”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah, indeed.”

  Stone got into the car. “We’ll talk more about this.”

  “Good.”

  Stone started his car and drove away, relieved to have Carla off his hands, at least temporarily and maybe permanently.

  35

  Stone arrived at Elaine’s that evening to find Dino parked at the usual table, but this time in the company of the lovely Genevieve. “Good evening,” he said, sitting down. Somebody placed a glass of Knob Creek before him.

  “How was the country?” Genevieve
asked.

  Stone noticed that she was wearing a small but lovely diamond bracelet that he hadn’t seen before. “Like a picture postcard,” he said. “The foliage is at its very peak. Why don’t the two of you run up there for a couple of days and use the house?”

  “What a nice idea,” she said. “We’ll have to coordinate our schedules, Dino, and see what we can arrange.”

  “I’m am at your beck and call,” Dino said. Whatever his transgression against Genevieve might have been, he had apparently been absolved and had promised not to sin again.

  Genevieve excused herself and went to the ladies’.

  “Did you figure out what you did?” Stone asked Dino.

  “Something to do with the relative placement of our shoes in the closet, I think. I’m still not sure exactly what.”

  “Never touch anything of hers, unless you’re helping her remove it from her body,” Stone said.

  “Sage advice, for once.”

  “What do you mean, for once? I always give sage advice. Your life would be so much richer and fuller and happier if you would just take my sage advice. If you’ll cast your thoughts back a few years, you’ll recall that I advised you not to marry Mary Ann.”

  “Yeah, but you waited until she was pregnant to advise me.”

  “I didn’t say my advice was always timely, just sage.”

  “It wasn’t very timely with Genevieve, either.”

  “You had only to ask.”

  “You mean, I should call you up and ask you about the arrangement of her clothes in the closet?”

  “Such a call might have saved you the purchase of a diamond bracelet.”

  Dino reddened slightly. “You noticed that, huh?”

  “Noticed it? She was waving it back and forth under my nose. My eyes must have looked like I was watching a tennis match.”

  “Well, I know a guy in the diamond district; he gave me a price.”

  “I would not advise you on the purchase of diamond jewelry,” Stone said. “I have always avoided anything to do with diamonds.”

  “That’s because you don’t know your women long enough to get around to gift giving, before they dump you.”

  “Once and a while, if I’m a little out of sync, a birthday pops up. Or Christmas.”

  Genevieve returned to the table and sat down. “Eliza is getting married to her doctor next Sunday afternoon,” she said to Stone, not too casually.