The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  I didn’t reply to that, and hearing it from Special Agent Mancuso was a jolt.

  He continued, “But stay calm, and take some precautions, and keep in touch with the local police.” He added, “I believe there is a danger, but I don’t believe it is imminent.”

  “Why not?”

  “We can discuss that when I see you.” He concluded, “All right, I’ll make every effort to come out to you tomorrow. Are you free?”

  “Yes, I’m unemployed, and so is Mrs. Sutter.”

  He didn’t respond to that and said, “Please give her my regards.”

  “I will . . .” I was about to sign off, then I had a thought and said, “I may have more work for you, Mr. Mancuso.”

  “Maybe I should have retired.”

  I laughed politely, then said, “Something to do with your current assignment on the Terrorist Task Force.” He didn’t respond, so I continued, “The person who bought Stanhope Hall, Mr. Amir Nasim, is an Iranian-born gentleman, and in a conversation with him last week, he indicated to me that he believes he may be the target of a political assassination plot, originated, I believe, in his homeland.”

  “I see.”

  He didn’t seem overly interested in this for some reason, so I said, “Well, we can discuss that when you get here if you’d like.”

  “Please go on.”

  “All right . . .” So I gave him a short briefing and concluded, “Nasim could be paranoid, or he could have other motives for sharing his concerns with me. But I’m just passing it on to you.”

  Mr. Mancuso said, “Thank you. I’ll look into it.” He added, “As we say now to the public, ‘If you see something, say something.’”

  I assumed that also pertained to law enforcement agencies, so I reminded him, “Please call Detective Nastasi.”

  Mr. Mancuso wished me a good day, and I did the same.

  Well, I felt that I was covering all bases—including reporting on possible terrorist activities in the neighborhood—and that I was being proactive and not reactive, and also that this little corner of the world, at least, was a bit safer than it had been two days ago.

  Having said that, I still needed to find the shotgun.

  So I went into the basement and spent half an hour among packing boxes, most labeled, but none labeled “Shotgun,” or even “Boyfriends, ashes of.”

  I did, however, find a box marked “John.” I assumed that was me, and Emily Post would tell me not to open it. But with the justification that Susan snooped through the gatehouse . . . better yet, the shotgun could be in there, though the box was a bit short. Anyway, I cut open the tape with the box cutter I’d found, and opened the lid.

  Inside were stacks of love letters, cards, photos, and some silly souvenirs for Susan that I’d brought back from business trips.

  There were also a few printed e-mails on top of the older items, and I took one out and saw that it was from Susan to me in London, dated four years ago. It read: John, I’m sorry to hear about Aunt Cornelia. I will be in N.Y. for the funeral, and Edward says you will be, too. Just wanted you to know. Hope to see you there, and hope you are well. Susan.

  My reply was attached: I will be there, as per Edward.

  Short and not so sweet.

  I had no idea why she printed this out. Well, I did have an idea, and oddly—or maybe not so oddly—seeing this was painful. She’d been trying to reach out to me, and I was unreachable.

  But as Mr. Mancuso and William Shakespeare said, all’s well that ends well. Even if we all lost some years that didn’t need to be lost.

  And standing there—with this e-mail in my hand, and the shotgun still not found, and with Felix Mancuso’s words of concern on my mind, and the past casting a long shadow over my and Susan’s bright future—I suddenly had this thought that I needed to kill Anthony Bellarosa.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Susan always returned from her estate runs through the rose garden, so I sat on the patio with a bottle of cold water and a towel, waiting for her. She’d been gone over an hour, and though I wasn’t concerned, I wasn’t entirely unconcerned. It occurred to me that we could not live like this for any length of time.

  I had one of her cordless phones with me, so I dialed her cell phone. It went into voice mail, and I left a message and decided to go look for her.

  I took the cordless phone with me, which has a limited range but was better than nothing, and I went to the front of the house and got into my Taurus.

  The cordless phone rang, and I answered, “John Sutter.”

  I was relieved to hear Susan’s voice say, “I’m here . . .” She was out of breath and panted, “On the patio.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I returned to the patio, and Susan was standing on the path in the rose garden, bent forward with her hands on her knees, taking deep breaths. Also, except for her running shoes, she was stark naked.

  I thought I should inquire, “Where are your clothes?”

  She drew in a long breath and replied, “Oh . . . my sweats are in the laundry, and you said not to wear shorts, so this is all I had left.” She added, “Good run.”

  I wasn’t totally buying this, but to play along, I said, “Good thinking. Where did you keep your phone?”

  She replied, “Don’t ask.”

  I wondered if it was on vibrate.

  She came onto the patio, put her cell phone on the table, then wiped her sweaty face and body with the towel. She took a long swig from the bottled water, then said, “I saw Nasim, and he doubled his offer.”

  I smiled and replied, “If it were me, I’d pay you to stay.”

  She put her towel and her bare butt on the wicker chair, then put her feet on the table. She asked me to take off her running shoes, which I did along with her socks. She wiggled her toes, meaning I should rub her feet, which I also did as she poured water over her head, then took a long drink. She threw her head back, drew another breath, and asked, “What have you been doing?”

  “Pilates.”

  She smiled, then said, “It’s cocktail time, and it’s your turn to make them.” She ordered, “Grey Goose and cranberry juice.”

  I inquired, “Can I get you some clothes while I’m inside?”

  “No. I really like being naked.”

  No argument there. I went into the kitchen and made her drink and made a Dewar’s and soda for myself. I also emptied a jar of peanuts into a bowl to give the illusion that it wasn’t all about the cocktails.

  A word about that—this was, and I’m sure still is, a hard-drinking crowd in our perfect Garden of Eden. Most of it is social drinking, not fall-off-the-barstool drinking, though I’m sure there’s a good deal of closet drinking at home. In any case, Susan and I had probably been at the low end of the local weekly alcohol consumption, but by the standards of, say, a dry county in the Midwest, we’d be court-ordered into AA and denounced from the pulpit. More to the point, since our local alert level had just risen to Condition Red, we’d be well advised to limit our alcohol intake.

  I carried everything outside on a tray, and noticed that Susan had retrieved her workout clothes from somewhere and thrown them on a chair, which she also used to elevate her legs. The towel was draped around her shoulders and hung over her breasts for modesty.

  I gave her her drink, we clinked glasses, and I said, “To summer.”

  I sat, and we both sipped our drinks and ate peanuts, enjoying the quiet, and the soft breeze that moved through the towering trees beyond the rose garden.

  I let her know, “I was a little concerned.”

  She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “You worry too much.”

  I knew that was coming, so I replied, “There is actually something to worry about.”

  “I know, but . . . what else can we do?”

  There were a number of things we could do, but she didn’t want to do them. I said to her, “I looked in the basement for the shotgun, but I couldn’t find it.”

  “Maybe i
t’s somewhere else.”

  “If we can’t find it by tomorrow, I’m going to buy one, or buy a rifle.”

  She reminded me, “I’m good with a shotgun.”

  Not too bad with a pistol, either, but that was a sore subject. I informed her, “While you were out, I spoke to Felix Mancuso.”

  She nodded, and I continued, “He wants to arrange a meeting with us, maybe tomorrow, and I gave him your cell phone number.”

  “I think it’s time you got your own cell phone.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “You’re running up my bill.”

  “Susan . . . I really want you to get your head out of the sand and start helping me.”

  She replied, “All right. I will do whatever you tell me to do.”

  That, of course, is wife-talk for, “You are a bully, and a complete shithead, and I am the unwilling victim of your domineering personality, but I’ll do whatever you tell me to do, darling.”

  She asked, “Didn’t I follow your instructions about running on the property, and taking my cell phone, and not wearing shorts?” She added, “Look at me. I had to run around the estate naked because of you.”

  It’s difficult to get angry at a beautiful naked woman, but I suggested, “When following my instructions, don’t be too literal-minded.”

  She stayed quiet for a moment, then said, more seriously, “No one likes the bearer of bad news. You are only the messenger, and I get the message.”

  “I know you do.”

  “And I love you for being worried about me.”

  I wanted to tell her that Felix Mancuso shared my concern, but that would be better coming from him.

  We went upstairs to our bedroom, and Susan informed me, “Running naked makes me hot.”

  So we took care of that, then showered together. As we were getting dressed for dinner at The Creek, Susan’s cell phone rang, and she looked at the display and said, “I think this is your call.”

  I took the phone and Felix Mancuso said, “How about ten A.M. tomorrow?”

  “Fine. You know where we are.”

  “I do.”

  In fact, he’d been here twice on business—once to drive me home from Manhattan after the Bellarosa rubout attempt, and once to tell me that my wife had just murdered Frank Bellarosa next door. I said, “See you then,” and hung up. I said to her, “Tomorrow, ten A.M.” I added, “I want you to be available.”

  “Of course, darling.”

  I drove Susan’s Lexus down the long drive and past the gatehouse, which now looked dark and forlorn. In a day or so, Nasim might have his own people in there, unless, of course, he decided that no one was really trying to assassinate him. My concerns were more verifiable, so I really didn’t mind if I had to go through Checkpoint Nasim to get to my house. Every bit of security helped, though I reminded myself that Anthony Bellarosa’s hit men could strike anywhere.

  Of more immediate concern was my reentry into The Creek Country Club. On the positive side, no one had ever been whacked there at dinner, though I’d thought about it myself when my dinner companions were boring me to death. I said to Susan, “For the record, I’m not thrilled about going to The Creek.”

  She replied, “It will be fine. You’re with me.”

  “Right.” I still couldn’t understand why Susan got a pass on murder, and I was blackballed for bringing a Mafia don to The Creek for dinner. Well, I did understand—she’d only broken the law; I had broken the unwritten club rules. Plus, she was a Stanhope. Regarding her affair with the Don Who Came to Dinner, as I said, that was just too juicy to get her blackballed. In fact, they should give her a year of free membership.

  The Creek is a short ten-minute drive from Stanhope Hall, and before I could think of a good reason to turn around, we were headed up the long, tree-lined drive to the clubhouse.

  The Creek Country Club is a very pleasant place with a golf course, a beach with a cabana on the Sound, tennis courts, and guest cottages where either the Stanhopes or I would be staying shortly. The clubhouse is an old mansion that still exudes charm and grace, and the food is good after a few cocktails, and gets better after a bottle or two of wine. The service is sometimes off, but that’s part of the charm, which I’d tried to explain to Mr. Frank Bellarosa when he and Anna had been our guests here. Frank hadn’t quite understood the old tradition of so-so club food and quirky service, which marked him as an unsophisticated lout. There were other problems with his visit here that night, of course, including his and his wife’s attire, his snapping at Richard, the old waiter who’d been here forever, and, as I mentioned, his unrealistic and incomprehensible desire to be a member of this club. But thank God I’d avoided that awkward situation when Susan shot him.

  I parked in the small lot and we went inside. Susan checked in, and we skipped the bar and lounge, which was crowded and fraught with unpleasant possibilities. The hostess showed us directly to the dining room, seated us at a table for two in the corner, then took our drink orders.

  There weren’t many people dining this evening, but I saw a few familiar faces, though no former friends or former clients.

  Susan asked me, “Are you happy to be here?”

  I replied, “When I am with you, darling, I can be happy anywhere.”

  “Good. We’ll take my parents here one night.”

  I assured her, “If they are comfortable with that, then I look forward to it.”

  She seemed a bit skeptical, but said, “They love me and want me to be happy.”

  “Then we all have something in common.”

  She suggested, “Maybe we’ll have our wedding reception here.”

  “I wouldn’t want to put your father through that expense again. I mean, same husband and all that.”

  She informed me, “This one is on us.”

  I wondered who paid for Susan’s wedding to Dan what’s-his-name. I suggested, “Let’s keep it small.”

  “Maybe we could do it outdoors at the guest cottage.”

  “Don’t forget to invite the Nasims. They love a party.”

  She reminisced, “Our reception at Stanhope Hall was the highlight of the summer season.”

  Susan had apparently forgotten that it was a theme party, and the theme, set by her father, was “Let’s relive World War II”—with food rationing, liquor shortages, and blackout conditions after 10:00 P.M. I said, “It was a night to remember.”

  She had a good idea and exclaimed, “John, let’s do it at Seawanhaka!” She looked at me and continued, “That’s where we met, and you’re a sailor, so that would be perfect.”

  All this wedding talk was making me jumpy, so to move on, I agreed. “Perfect.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll call tomorrow and see what’s available.”

  “Call me, too, and see if I’m available.”

  She took that well and smiled.

  Our waitress came with our drinks—two wimpy white wines—and delivered the menus.

  Susan and I clinked glasses, and I said, “Lovelier the second time around.”

  “You’re so sweet.”

  I scanned the menu to see if they’d added an Italian dish since the celebrity Mafia don had dined here. Veal Bellarosa? The Don’s Famous Machine Gun Meatballs? Shotgun Pasta Made with Real Shells?

  Susan said, “Order sensibly.”

  “I was thinking of the Chicken Kevlar.”

  “Where do you see that?”

  “Entrées, third down.”

  She looked and said, “That’s Chicken Kiev.”

  “Oh . . . right. Kiev.” I put down my menu and said, “It’s hard to read in this light. You order for me.”

  The waitress returned, and Susan ordered chopped salad for two and two poached scrod, which made my mouth water just thinking about it.

  Anyway, it was a pleasant and uneventful dinner at The Creek, uninterrupted by anyone we knew, and I was thankful that it was a quiet night in the dining room.

  On our way out, however, I caught a glimpse
of the bar and lounge and saw a number of people I knew, and a few of them spotted Susan and me. In fact, I saw a lady at one of the tables who reminded me of my mother. Actually, it was my mother, sitting with four ladies of her age.

  She hadn’t seen me, so I continued on toward the front door.

  I had not seen my mother since Aunt Cornelia’s funeral four years ago, though we’d spoken on the phone about once a month and exchanged appropriate greeting cards. I’d invited her to London, but like many active senior citizens these days, she was too busy. In fact, she was traveling a lot with Elderhostel—not to London, but to exotic places where she could commune with nature and bond with indigenous people who were wise, noble, unmaterialistic, and probably unhygienic. So she was not tempted by my offer to take her to the Imperial War Museum.

  Harriet had been a founding member of the Conflicted Socialist Party, refusing, on principle, to join a private club, but not hesitating to be my or someone else’s guest. And now, since my father died, it appeared that she’d become a guest of what some members called the Widows’ Wine and Whine Club. I used to spot these ladies in the cocktail lounge here, sipping their wine or sherry, and speaking of their dearly departed husbands with far more affection than they actually had for them when those pains in the asses were alive.

  I continued with Susan out the front door. But then I stopped and said, “The time has come to meet the beast.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My mother is in the lounge.”

  “John, that’s awful.” She added, “Let’s go say hello.”

  We retraced our steps and entered the lounge.

  Harriet spotted us as we entered, stood, and let out a screech of joy. “John! John!” She said to her friends, “Girls! It’s my son, John! Oh, what good and blessed fortune has smiled on me tonight.”

  Those were not her exact words. In fact, she had no words, so overcome was she with emotion.

  I walked to the table with Susan, who took the lead and bent over and exchanged a hug and kiss with her once and future mother-in-law. I did the same.

  Harriet introduced us to her friends by saying, “Ladies, this is my son, John, whom I think some of you may remember, and this is his former wife, Susan Stanhope, whom I think you all know, or you know her parents.” She then introduced the four ladies to us, and indeed I remembered the Merry Widows or their late husbands, some of whom appeared to be alive the last time I saw them.