by Stuart Woods
“That was fast, Julian.”
“We do what we can.”
“Please overnight everything to me, and would you please call Lady Curtis or her solicitor and ask if we might meet at ten tomorrow at Windward Hall for the completion?”
“Of course. The package is on its way.”
They hung up, and a moment later Stone’s phone rang again. “Hello?”
“It’s Felicity.”
“Hello, there.”
“I’ve just heard of the outcome of this morning’s proceedings. You must be very pleased.”
“I certainly am.”
“I’m pleased, too, and so is the Home Secretary, because he won’t have to go to the bother of kicking Dr. Don out of the country and dealing with his appeal.”
“The judge also said they can’t come back here without the Home Secretary’s written permission.”
“Which, in the circumstances, neither he nor his possible successors will ever give.”
He told her about the travel arrangements Aslett had made for the group and got a big laugh from her. “Dino has also arranged for U.S. Customs to search them for excess cash on their arrival,” Stone said.
“Oh, good! I don’t think Dr. Don is ever going to mess you about again.”
“Not in England, anyway. Oh, by the way, I’ve just heard that Glynnis Curtis has moved out of her house and is staying with you. We’re planning to complete the sale at Windward Hall tomorrow morning.”
“Funny how fast everything moves when everyone involved wants it to. I hear Susan is already at work on making Curtis House into the next Arrington.”
“She is.”
“Aren’t you glad you took my suggestion about seeing her socially?”
“It’s all worked out very well.”
“I promise not to tread on her turf, so to speak, but you’ll be free again soon enough—you always are.”
“I hardly know how to respond to that.”
“Perhaps I’ll have the Muddle East sorted out enough to come down for the weekend, and we can all have dinner.”
“Wonderful idea, and we’ll do it at Windward Hall.”
“I look forward to that.” She hung up.
“Your luck is holding out, isn’t it?” Dino said.
“Let’s hope it continues,” Stone replied.
33
Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun stepped down from the Black Maria at Heathrow, took his wife’s hand, and followed two uniformed police officers through immigration and security; then they were led to a departure gate lounge, where two other officers met them.
“Your flight leaves at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” an officer said to them. “So make yourselves as comfortable as you can.”
“Why can’t we go to an airport hotel?” Calhoun asked indignantly. “We’ll hardly be comfortable here.”
“A restaurant is over there, restrooms are in that direction, newspapers and magazines, too,” the officer said.
“We’d like to go to the first-class lounge, then,” Calhoun said.
“You don’t have first-class tickets, so that’s not possible.”
“I have a credit card that will get us inside.”
“Denied,” the officer said firmly, and walked away.
Calhoun’s wife, who was twenty-five years younger than he, pitched a fit. “I can’t live like this!” she screamed.
“You can and will until we’re in New York,” he said firmly, but that did not quiet her. She bitched until the night had passed and they had boarded their flight to Kennedy, and then she bitched about being in tourist class.
—
By the time they had arrived in New York, Calhoun was, himself, feeling very much as she did. They cleared immigration and were headed through customs when they were redirected to a special counter, where four officers awaited them.
“Open everything,” their supervisor said to Calhoun, while taking his large briefcase from him, placing it on a counter, and opening it. “Ah, what do we have here?” he asked, viewing the stacks of hundred-dollar bills and fifty-pound notes.
“There’s no law against carrying cash,” Calhoun replied.
“Let me see your declaration form for the cash.”
“What?”
“You’re allowed to bring only five thousand dollars into the country without a declaration.”
“But I took it out with me.”
“You were supposed to file a declaration then, too. That’s two offenses.”
Other officers were discovering cash in other suitcases.
“You can take five thousand dollars with you,” the supervisor said, handing him a stack of hundreds. “We’re confiscating the rest, pending a court hearing.”
Calhoun sagged. “I hope to God the cars I ordered are waiting,” he said to his steaming wife.
They were waiting, he discovered, after an hour and a half in customs, in a distant parking lot. After a long walk, they piled into the cars and were driven to Calhoun’s high-rise apartment in Manhattan.
There, with a drink in hand, Calhoun began to think about revenge.
—
The package containing the closing documents for the sale of Curtis House arrived at Windward Hall early the following morning, and Stone had time to review them before the ten AM completion. He reflected that everything was so much simpler when a mortgage company was not a party to the sale.
Lady Curtis looked somehow younger than the last time he had seen her. He assumed it was because a load had been lifted from her shoulders, and she was now independently wealthy, if she had not been before. She signed the documents eagerly, as did Stone and Marcel, and she turned over all the well-tagged keys to the house, then they adjourned for a light lunch.
Afterward, Susan showed Marcel and Stone the computer renditions of the main rooms of Curtis House and the plans were approved with few changes.
“Now I’ve got to go back to London, put my own house in order, and get work started on the draperies and wallpaper. I’ve got three crews arriving on Monday morning, one for the public rooms, one for the bedrooms, and one for the bathrooms. The engineering drawings for the new heating and air-conditioning systems will be along in a couple of weeks, and we’ll send them out for bids to companies in the area.”
“That’s good,” Marcel said. “Our neighbors will think better of us if we use local outfits, instead of bringing everything down from London.”
Stone walked Susan out to her car. “When will I see you?”
“Next weekend, and after that I’ll be working almost entirely from here, getting the plans organized for our application for the planning commission.”
“Won’t we need an architect for that?”
“I am a licensed architect with a degree from Cambridge,” she said.
“I didn’t know, but that’s very handy.”
“Various people will come down from London in aid of restructuring my company, and I’ll interview job applicants here, too. Would you prefer it if I worked from Curtis House?”
“Whatever is most convenient for you. I’m happy to have you here, but we’ve given you all the space we have available, and I’ll understand if it’s not enough.”
“I’ll give that some thought and let you know,” she said.
He kissed her, and she drove away in her green Range Rover.
“What a package,” he said aloud to himself.
34
After Susan had driven away, Stan brought the Land Rover around for Marcel.
“You’re leaving so soon?” Stone asked.
“Yes, my airplane is on the way to your field. I must run to Paris, then Rome for a few days, to keep our kettles boiling there, then I’ll be back.”
“You’ll be very welcome,” Stone said.
“I’ve left a few things in my room,�
�� Marcel said, “including some laundry.”
“I’ll see that it’s taken care of.”
Marcel got into the car and was driven away.
Stone and Dino walked over to the stables, where horses had been saddled for them.
“You should keep some riding clothes here,” Stone said.
“What riding clothes? I don’t own any.”
“There’s a shop in Beaulieu that will fix you up.”
They mounted, then rode across the meadow, through the wood, then jumped the stone wall onto the Curtis House property. There were two large moving vans parked in front of the house, and furniture was being loaded on them.
“They’re going to London, to Susan’s workshop, for reupholstering,” Stone explained.
“Susan is quite a girl,” Dino said. “Why don’t you hang on to her?”
“I’d like that, but I don’t know if she’s going to have time for me. She’s expanding her company while redoing Curtis House, and she’s got her hands full.”
“She doesn’t work nights, does she?”
“That’s what’s keeping us going.”
They rode slowly around the property, seeing things they hadn’t noticed before.
“I saw the hermit’s house,” Dino said. “I’ll bet the brigadier was an interesting guy.”
“I never met him, and saw him on the property only twice.”
“You remember when we were young, back at the Nineteenth, and got our first big homicide?”
“How could I forget?”
“Remember the lesbian lady who offed herself in the bathtub?”
“I do.”
“And we thought for a while she had done it out of guilt, but it turned out she wasn’t the murderer?”
“I do.”
“Ever since, I’ve always been suspicious when suicides confess.”
“As I recall, she didn’t confess.”
“Right, but we assumed she was guilty, anyway.”
“I see your point. Are you suspicious of the brigadier’s confession?”
“Sometimes there are motives for suicide other than guilt,” Dino said. “I don’t know enough about this one to form an opinion, but I think you ought to keep that in mind.”
“Why? I’m not investigating it. I accept his confession as sincere.”
“Maybe you ought to know more about the case,” Dino said, then spurred his horse into a gallop and jumped another stone wall.
Stone followed him and concentrated on the wall, putting everything else out of his mind.
—
Dr. Don was enjoying his first breakfast back in New York, and his wife, Cheree, seemed to be, as well. “How are you feeling?” he asked her.
“Well, I hadn’t expected to be back in New York this soon. I thought we were going to buy that house and operate over there for a while.”
“Well, yes . . .”
“After all, it’s gotten a little hot on this side of the Atlantic, hasn’t it? I mean, that magazine piece we heard about is going to come out sooner or later. What was it, New York?”
“The New Yorker.”
“You should never have given that woman the interview.”
“Oh, I don’t know, at least I got my side of the story told.”
“You just wanted to screw her,” Cheree said with a snort. “Did you, by the way?”
“I did not, she was not my type.”
“Oh, Don, your type is anything with a pussy.”
He laughed. “I’ve been accused of that.”
“I thought I was keeping you satisfied.”
“Oh, you are, my sweet,” he said, patting her on the knee. He finished his coffee just as the doorbell rang, and he went to answer it. He opened the door to find the New Yorker writer, Lisa Altman, standing there.
“Good morning,” she said brightly.
“How did you get past the doorman?” he asked.
“Oh, we’re old friends,” she said. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” he said, stepping back and admitting her.
“The New Yorker is gearing up to run my profile on you, and I wanted to ask a couple more questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.” He led her into the living room, with its spectacular view of Central Park, and sat her down facing the window. “Now,” he said, settling into a chair, “what can I tell you?”
“Tell me how you managed to get yourself declared persona non grata from Britain.”
Calhoun was stunned. “How on earth . . . ?”
“Oh, you made the papers this morning. Haven’t you seen the Times?”
He had not. His secretary didn’t know they were back; she hadn’t restarted the papers. “No. What did they have to say?”
“Only that you, your wife, and half a dozen of your staff had been hauled into court, charged with trespassing and possession of illegal weapons, and fined and deported.”
“Oh, they’ve blown that all out of proportion. We had an argument over a real estate deal, and the fastest way to settle it was just to leave.”
“And not come back?” she asked, while taking notes on a pad.
“That’s just temporary.”
“What sort of real estate deal?”
“We were looking at a country house and some property. Somebody outbid us.”
“And that would be a Mr. Stone Barrington?”
Calhoun blinked. “Ah, yes, he owns an adjoining property.”
“And two of your people were arrested earlier in New York and Connecticut on weapons charges, weren’t they?”
“I’m afraid they hadn’t researched the local laws on the subject. They’re Westerners, you see, and unaccustomed to restrictions on Second Amendment rights.”
“So that’s twice you’ve had to exert your Second Amendment rights against Mr. Barrington? Is there some sort of animus between you?”
“Certainly not on my part,” Calhoun said, sounding wounded. “His son has made a defamatory film about me.”
“Oh, yes, Hell’s Bells. Nice title.”
“We’ll be filing a libel suit soon.”
“Libel is tough to prove. Are you sure you have enough evidence? Movie scripts are very well vetted by the studios before they’re put into production.”
“I don’t want to say too much at this point.” He looked at his watch. “Goodness, I have an appointment. You’re going to have to excuse me,” he said, rising. “Let me show you out.”
He got her out the door, then went back to the kitchen. “That New Yorker woman is back,” he said. “She says they’re running her profile soon.”
“Maybe we’d better go back to L.A.,” she said.
“Not just yet,” he replied. “I’ve some work to do here.” He picked up the phone and dialed a number.
35
The following morning, early, Stone got a phone call from Joan. “You didn’t tell me you were redecorating the house,” she said.
“How’s that again?”
“The paint job on the front of the house. Did you order that done?”
“No, I didn’t. What kind of a paint job?”
“Pink,” she said, “with dirty words. I shouldn’t have to read them to you, they’re always on the tip of your tongue.”
“Any messages?”
“Something about Second Amendment rights.”
“Take pictures, e-mail them to Dino and me, then call the police and say we suspect followers of Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun. He arrived in New York yesterday. I don’t know if he’s in a hotel or home in California. Then get somebody to come in and clean the facade. They may have to clean it all the way to the top to get a match in the brick color.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Yes, call Mike Freeman and ask him to put an arm
ed guard in your reception area, so he can see out the window. Twenty-four/seven, until further notice.”
“I’ll feel so safe,” she said. “I hope he’s cute.”
“Don’t distract him.” Stone hung up and called Dino’s room and told him what had happened. “You’ll have the photos in a minute.”
“What do you need?”
“I need to make Dr. Don’s life continuously miserable until he crawls back into his hole.”
“Sounds like that’s what he’s trying to do to you.”
“Right. I want to trump him.”
“Does he have a residence in New York?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll look into that. The New York State tax department is on a tear about part-time residents right now. They seem to think that anybody who breathes in New York should pay income taxes.”
“What a good idea!”
“Oh, by the way, I got a call: U.S. Customs nailed Dr. Don at Kennedy with something over a hundred thousand bucks and half that much in pounds, confiscated it all, except five thousand dollars, pending a hearing.”
“Oh, grand! See you later.”
Stone’s bedside phone rang. “Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington, my name is Lisa Altman. I’m a writer for The New Yorker.”
“Good morning, how can I help you?”
“We’re about to publish a profile of Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun.”
“I’m delighted to hear it. I’m sure he won’t like it.”
“I’m sure, too. I spoke to Dr. Don yesterday and asked him why he is now persona non grata in the U.K. He said it was over a real estate argument with you.”
“Have you got a tape recorder running?”
“I will in two seconds . . . there.”
Stone gave her an account of events since Peter’s movie opened, right up to having his New York house repainted.
“Sounds like war,” she said.
“Does Calhoun have an apartment in New York?”
“Yes, on West Fifty-seventh Street, high up in one of those skinny, impossibly expensive buildings.” She gave him the street and apartment number.
“Do you know how long he’s had it?”