Family Jewels (A Stone Barrington Novel)

by Woods, Stuart

  “I handled the estate of a good friend a while back,” Stone said. “He had a lot of very fine things and a big art collection. I was fortunate, as executor, that his house was preserved pretty much intact, and I didn’t have to dispose of the contents. This one is going to be different, I fear.”

  “I think you’ll have to have everything very carefully cataloged and appraised.”

  “Yes, and I know just who to bring in for that.”

  “In the meantime, we have a day to enjoy the place,” Gala said. “Do you feel like a nap?”

  “Not really.”

  “Neither do I,” she said, kissing him.

  28

  Stone and Gala, fresh from making love and showering together, dined in the small dining room, where Hazel had set a beautiful table with old Wedgwood and Baccarat crystal and had put out a selection of wines from the cellar, from which Stone chose a Château Palmer ’61, a claret Stone had heard much of but never tasted. Oscar decanted it, and it surpassed what Stone could have hoped for.

  “This is such a beautiful place,” Gala said. “It seems a shame to pull it apart and sell everything off piecemeal.”

  “As Carrie’s executor, I would be delighted to sell it to you intact.”

  She laughed. “Would that I could afford it.”

  “The problem with a house like this is that the only people who could afford it are people you wouldn’t want living next door.”

  “I know what you mean—people like my ex-husband, not that he could afford it, either. What do you think it might sell for?”

  “I wouldn’t know what to ask,” Stone said.

  “Tell you what, I’ll think about it and make you an offer.”

  “I will look forward to receiving it.”

  They were served seared foie gras, followed by a suprême de volaille with a tarragon cream sauce, which went very well with the wine. When Hazel came back he asked her if she was the chef.

  “Oh, no, sir, that would be Bonnie, who has been with the family for more than thirty years.”

  “And how long have you been here?”

  “I’m a newcomer—only twenty-seven years. Oscar has been here for fifteen.”

  “How many others on staff?”

  “Three housemaids and two gardeners, with occasional extra help from outside.”

  “It seems to be a tightly run ship.”

  “We try.” She took away their plates, then served a peach cobbler with half a bottle of Château d’Yquem 1978.

  “Heavenly,” Gala said.

  They took Bob for a stroll in the gardens after dinner, then retired early, in each other’s arms. Bob slept on a large pillow next to their bed.

  —

  Stone was awakened shortly after seven AM by the sound of some sort of industrial engine running. He went to the window and peeked through the curtain.

  “What is it?” Gala asked sleepily.

  “A backhoe, digging the grave. It shouldn’t take long.” It didn’t, and they called down for breakfast in bed, which arrived with the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal.

  Nicky called at mid-morning to check on the time of the service and invite them to his place for dinner.

  Nicky and Vanessa arrived at three-thirty and were given a glass of champagne, then at four o’clock, they walked out into the garden and stood at the graveside. An Episcopal minister read a psalm and said a prayer, and the coffin was lowered into the earth. As they turned from the grave, Stone saw a young woman standing a few yards away. Thinking she might have been a friend of Carrie’s, he walked over and introduced himself.

  “I’m Monique Sullivan,” she said. “We spoke on the phone in Santa Fe. From CNN, remember?. May I speak to you now?”

  “Ms. Sullivan, I admire your enterprise, but we’ve just concluded a burial service here.”

  “I won’t take much of your time,” she said.

  He turned to the others. “Go on inside, I’ll be along in a minute.” He directed the young reporter to a garden bench, and they sat down. “All right, you’ve got five minutes.” He glanced at his watch.

  She quickly reviewed the facts of the case, and he confirmed them. “Are you satisfied that she was murdered by her ex-husband, Harvey Biggers?”

  “Mr. Biggers seems to be a person of interest,” Stone replied, “though he hasn’t been charged with anything.”

  “Your opinion?”

  “I’ll reserve my judgment until I’ve heard all the evi-dence.”

  “What, in your personal experience, would make Mr. Biggers a suspect?”

  “He had threatened her in the past, and he has been a presence in the investigation of the deaths of two other women.”

  “What do you mean by ‘a presence’?”

  “He was in their company shortly before they died, both under unexplained circumstances. That’s three things that would make him interesting to a homicide investigator.”

  “I suppose so. What evidence is there that Biggers was in Abiquiu at the time of Ms. Fiske’s death?”

  “He was seen in Santa Fe by someone who knew him well, the afternoon before her death.”

  Stone glanced at his watch.

  “Just one more question.”

  “All right.”

  “Who is the man who watched the funeral from a third-floor window?”

  “What?”

  She pointed, and he followed her finger, but all he saw was the movement of a curtain. Stone got up and started running toward the house.

  29

  Stone ran up the stone stairs to the rear of the house and into the downstairs hall, past Nicky, Vanessa, and Gala, who stood chatting. It occurred to him that he was unarmed, so as he passed a hall stand he grabbed a sturdy golf umbrella.

  He ran up the main stairs to the third floor, which he had not yet visited, and began opening doors to rooms with a view of the rear gardens. He got lucky on the second one.

  It was a smaller guest room than the one he was occupying a floor down; the bed was unmade, and there were a couple of men’s suits and a jacket or two in an open closet. Two drawers of a chest were open, one of them filled with dirty laundry. But where was the occupant? He stood still and listened for a moment, trying to slow his heavy breathing from the run up the stairs.

  He heard a heavy footstep from the south end of the house and the sound of a door slamming and feet on gravel. He could see no one out the back window, so he ran across the hall to a front bedroom and pulled up the blinds. He saw a large male figure carrying a suitcase turn a curve in the driveway and disappear in the direction of Ocean Drive.

  He grabbed his phone and dialed 911, then thought better of it. Instead, he called Dino. It took a moment for the secretary to put him through, and he used it to get his heart and breathing rate down.

  “Bacchetti.”

  “It’s Stone. Please listen carefully. I’m in Palm Beach, where we have just buried Carrie Fiske.” He gave Dino the address. “I don’t know if there’s an APB out for Harvey Biggers down here, and the Palm Beach police don’t know me. Biggers was watching the burial from a third-floor bedroom, where he seems to have been living for a couple of days. He just ran out of the house toward Ocean Drive, and he probably has a car parked someplace nearby. Will you call the chief down here and get his people on it?”

  “Yeah, okay. You’re sure it was Biggers?”

  “He was as big as Biggers, and who the hell else could he be?”

  “Why would he be there?”

  “I think, maybe, he wanted to attend Carrie’s funeral, but didn’t want to see me.”

  “All right. I’ll call you back.” They both hung up.

  Stone walked slowly down the stairs to the hall and found his three companions staring at him. “Harvey was watching the burial from the third floor,” he said. “He got o
ut in a hurry. The police will be here soon.”

  “Excuse me,” said a female voice behind him. He turned to find Monique Sullivan standing in the rear doorway. “May I come in?”

  “Yes, do. Everybody, this is Ms. Monique Sullivan, of CNN. This is Mr. and Mrs. Chalmers and Ms. Wilde.”

  Everyone murmured a greeting.

  “Was that Harvey Biggers watching from upstairs?”

  “I believe so. He seems to have been living up there for a couple of days.”

  “Over us?” Gala asked.

  “More or less. He ran when he heard me coming up the stairs.”

  “What’s the umbrella for?” Vanessa asked.

  “Persuasion,” Stone said, dropping it back into the umbrella stand.

  “Did you persuade him of anything?”

  “Just to leave, I guess.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?” Nicky asked.

  “I’ve already done that.” As if on cue they heard tires on gravel from the front drive. “I guess they don’t use sirens in good neighborhoods.”

  The doorbell rang, and Stone opened it. Two uniformed patrolmen stood in the doorway, their caps in their hands.

  “Mr. Barrington?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “We got a call about an intruder in the house?”

  “He left by the front door. Did you see anyone afoot on Ocean Drive?”

  “You mean South Ocean Boulevard?”

  “I do.”

  “No, sir, just cars. We understood that the person is a suspect in a murder?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Name of Harvey Biggers?”

  “Correct again.”

  “The chief has already given the order to close the bridges. Not close them, exactly, but we’ve got a description, and officers are looking into every car driving off the island.”

  “That’s the advantage of policing an island, I guess,” Stone said.

  “Yes, sir. Did the man do any damage here?”

  “No, but he slept here for a couple of nights, in a bedroom on the third floor, top of the stairs, second on the left.”

  “May we take a look?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  The two policemen trotted up the stairs.

  “Nicky,” Stone said, “might Harvey try to take shelter at your house?”

  “Well, he knows where we live—he came there with Carrie for dinner on a few occasions. We’ll be real careful when we get home. Can you and Gala come about seven for dinner? We’ll be real casual, no neckties.”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  The Chalmerses left to go home.

  Hazel appeared in the downstairs hall. “Mr. Barrington, did I just see two policemen going upstairs?”

  “Yes, you did, Hazel. Apparently Mr. Biggers has been sleeping in a third-floor bedroom for a couple of nights.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my goodness. Nobody has been up there since the first of the week. Are we in any danger?”

  “No, he fled when discovered, and the police are looking for him now. Don’t worry, he won’t be back.”

  “Thank God for that,” she said. “The housemaids will be in tomorrow morning, and I’ll have them tidy up.”

  “Thank you, Hazel. We’ll be dining out tonight, and we’ll be on our way to New York tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, Mr. Barrington. What time would you like breakfast?”

  “Seven o’clock will be fine.” She went back toward the kitchen.

  Gala came and leaned against Stone. “I didn’t think this trip would be nearly so exciting.”

  “Neither did I,” Stone replied.

  30

  Nicky and Vanessa Chalmers lived in a tony neighborhood, but with much smaller houses than those on South Ocean Boulevard. Stone and Gala turned up on time and were given a drink out back, beside a small swimming pool. Stone sipped his Knob Creek, and Gala had a martini.

  “It’s been quite a few days, hasn’t it?” Nicky observed.

  “No argument there,” Stone replied.

  A uniformed maid came out to where they sat. “Excuse me, Mr. Chalmers, but you might want to turn on the TV, to CNN.”

  Nicky reached for the remote and turned it on. They were watching an aerial shot, apparently from a helicopter or a drone, and the voice of Monique Sullivan could be heard. “The Fiske estate, one of the oldest on South Ocean Boulevard in Palm Beach, is one of the oldest and most elegant of the mansions lining the beachfront.” As she spoke the camera began to zoom in, until it was possible to make out two figures sitting on a bench in the Fiske garden.

  “That’s us,” Stone said, amazed. He could now recognize himself and Sullivan, as she interviewed him, and the sound was perfect.

  “You mean that conversation is being recorded by somebody in the air?”

  “Must have been a drone,” Stone said. “I didn’t hear a chopper, and there were no cameras around us. That’s very sneaky.” He saw Sullivan point at the house, and the shot zoomed in on the upstairs window, just as a figure moved behind a curtain.

  “That was Harvey,” Nicky said. “I’d recognize him anywhere.”

  “It was a pretty brief glimpse, Nicky,” Stone said. “Are you sure?”

  “I am.”

  A moment later the camera caught a figure running from the house and began to zoom in again, losing him as he ran behind some shrubbery along the driveway. The man, who was carrying a suitcase, ran out to the boulevard, then made two lefts into side streets, got into a dark car, and made his escape. The camera didn’t follow him.

  “The television arts seem to have made great technical advances when I wasn’t looking,” Stone said.

  “Well, they say you can’t go anywhere without being on camera,” Nicky observed.

  —

  They finished a good dinner and were on coffee in Nicky’s study when he brought up a new subject. “Stone, have you given any thought as to what Carrie’s house is worth?”

  “Not really. I’m going to have to order appraisals of the house and its contents.”

  “The same with the East Hampton house and the New York apartment, I suppose.”

  “I expect so. I’ve seen the East Hampton house, of course, but what is the New York apartment like?”

  “A duplex at 740 Park Avenue, which is said to be the best building in the city.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “Vanessa and I were talking this afternoon. We’ve never put a great deal of money into our residences, partly because we didn’t want the bother of decorating them. We didn’t have the sort of eye that Carrie had, and it occurs to us that, well . . .” He gathered himself. “I’d like to make you, or rather, the estate, an offer.”

  “For the Palm Beach house?”

  “For all three properties.”

  “God, that’s a very large bite, Nicky.”

  “I’m aware of that. Fortunately, I have a very large fortune. My father died a few months ago, and it got even larger. I know that you’ll have to get appraisals done, but I’d like to offer the estate a hundred million dollars for all three of Carrie’s properties.”

  “That’s a breathtaking offer, Nicky, but of course I’ll have to get appraisals of not only the properties but of the contents. Carrie had a lot of fine art in the Palm Beach house and a lot of American antique furniture, as well, much of which would bring large numbers at auction.”

  “I understand, and I’m prepared to adjust my offer, if necessary, when the appraisals come in. We might exclude some of the pieces, which you could auction.”

  “Well, when I get back to New York, I’ll get people to work on that. As long as you understand that my duty as executor is to get market prices.”

  “Having been through it with my father’s estate, I�
��m well aware of the hoops you have to jump through.”

  “Yes, and it would simplify life for me if I could sell it all to one buyer. I’ll give you, unofficially, a first option.”

  “That’s all I could ask for,” Nicky said.

  —

  Driving home, Gala spoke up. “Does Nicky really have that kind of money?”

  “He does. His great-grandfather founded, at the dawn of the automobile age, what became the largest tire company in the United States, perhaps in the world, and the family, that is to say, Nicky, still owns a majority of it. He has recently become a client of my firm, so I’m familiar with the facts of the matter.”

  “I was just thinking,” Gala said, “the real estate could give Nicky an excellent motive for, well . . .”

  “Nicky a murderer? Come on, you’ve gotten to know him, do you think he would be capable of that?”

  “Well, as he said, it’s an opportunity for him to acquire not just Carrie’s real estate, but her taste, as it were.”

  “You have an evil mind,” Stone said.

  “I was married to an evil man for eight years,” she said.

  —

  They walked Bob in the garden, then went to bed, but Gala’s thoughts about Nicky kept him awake for a while.

  31

  Nicky called the following morning and said that he and Vanessa had decided to spend a few more days in Palm Beach, so they wouldn’t be flying to New York with Stone and Gala.

  They had an uneventful flight to Teterboro, emptied Bob on arrival, and Fred met them and drove them into the city.

  “Well,” Gala said, looking around Stone’s living room, “it’s more masculine than Carrie’s house, but it’s very nice indeed. It looks like you, so my guess is that you were your own interior decorator.”

  “Good guess,” Stone said. He installed her in the master suite and left her working at her laptop.

  —

  Bob was very happy to see Joan, as she was the source of many cookies.

  “I was afraid you’d make him fat on your trip,” she said to Stone.