by Stuart Woods
“Why don’t I take you out?” Stone asked. “I should get to know the lay of the land.”
“I’d love that.”
“Book us at some place you like.”
“Will do.” She turned her attention to her lunch.
She was very attractive, Stone thought. Late twenties or early thirties, tall, slender, a blond ponytail, nice tan. He finished his lunch and she took their trays away.
“Is there a phone on the airplane?” he asked her.
“In the arm of your chair,” she said. “It’s a satellite phone, but it works like a cell phone.” She headed for the galley.
Stone dug the slip of paper from his pocket and looked at it. Mrs. Winston Harding III, in the 561 area code. Where was that? He dialed the number.
“Hello,” a low female voice said immediately.
“May I speak with Mrs. Winston Harding, please? My name is Stone Barrington.”
“Oh, Mr. Barrington, this is Mrs. Harding. How good of you to ring me back so promptly. You sound a little funny. Are you in a car?”
“In an airplane,” Stone said. “Tell me, where is the five-six-one area code?”
“Palm Beach, Florida,” she said.
“Oh. Oddly enough, that’s where I’m flying to.”
“How convenient,” she said. “I wonder if we might meet while you’re here? I’m in need of some very good legal counsel.”
“Of course. Who recommended me, may I ask?”
“No one, really. It was something I read about you once. Let’s have lunch tomorrow. Do you know a restaurant called Renato’s?”
“No, this will be my first visit to Palm Beach.”
“It’s in the heart of town, in a little cul-de-sac off Worth Avenue, right across the street from the Everglades Club. Anyone can tell you.”
“I expect I can find it.”
“Twelve-thirty, then, in the garden?”
“Fine. How will I recognize you?”
“I’ll recognize you,” she said. “See you tomorrow.” She hung up.
Stone replaced the phone in the arm of the chair. Winston Harding. Sounded faintly familiar, but he couldn’t place the man. Hard to tell much about Mrs. Harding from her voice, even her age. He pictured her as in her fifties, but she could be younger, he supposed. Or older.
He settled back into his chair and returned his attention to the Times. Soon, he dozed off.
5
STONE WAS WAKENED BY A SLIGHT JAR AND THE SCREECH of rubber on pavement. He opened his eyes to see airport buildings rushing past the airplane’s windows as the pilot deployed the thrust reversers.
“You slept very well,” Callie said. She was back in her seat.
“It’s one of the things I do best,” he replied.
“I guess I’ll have to figure out the other things for myself,” she said, with a little smile.
The airplane taxied to a stop in front of a terminal, and the copilot came out of the cockpit and lowered the airstair door. A lineman entered the airplane, and the copilot showed him where the luggage was stored.
Stone followed Callie down the stairs to a waiting car, a Jaguar XK8 convertible, top down. The lineman was stowing their luggage in the trunk and behind the seat.
“Hop in,” Callie said.
Stone got into the passenger seat, and a minute later they were out of the airport, rolling east. The temperature was in the mid-seventies, and the sun was shining brightly.
“Quite a difference from New York, huh?” Callie said.
“Where are we now?” Stone asked.
“We’re in West Palm, and in a couple of minutes we’ll cross onto the island of Palm Beach, if traffic isn’t too screwed up on the bridge. They’re replacing it, and it’s taking forever.”
Traffic was screwed up on the bridge, and it took forever before they were waved across and Callie was able to drive quickly again. They passed between a double row of very tall royal palms.
“This your first trip here?” she asked.
“Yes, it is. In fact, the only place I’ve ever been in Florida is Miami—twice, both times to pick up people in handcuffs.”
She looked at him. “What kind of lawyer are you?”
“One who used to be a cop.”
She made a few quick turns and suddenly, they were on the beach, driving past huge, ugly stucco mansions. “Thought I’d give you a little tour on the way to the house,” she said. “That’s Mar a Lago over there—the home of Marjorie Meriwether Post, now owned by the awful Donald Trump. He’s turned it into a club. Some of these palaces have tunnels to the beach.” She turned down Worth Avenue. “This is the shopping heart of Palm Beach,” she said. “All the famous stores are here.” They drove past Saks Fifth Avenue, Ralph Lauren and dozens of smaller shops.
“Where is the Everglades Club?” he asked.
“Down at the end. Why do you ask?”
“I have a lunch date for tomorrow at a place called Renato’s, which is supposed to be across the street.”
“Here comes the Everglades Club on the left,” she said, “and on the right is a little alley full of shops, and Renato’s is at the end.”
“What’s the Everglades Club?”
“Palm Beach’s most desirable club, or the snottiest, depending on your point of view.”
“And what is your point of view?”
“It’s the snottiest. Not only are Jews not allowed as members, they can’t even visit as guests, and I’m half-Jewish.”
“I didn’t know that sort of thing still existed in this country.”
“You’ve led a sheltered life,” she said. She turned left and began driving through a series of quiet streets lined with large houses and sheltered by tropical vegetation.
“This is beautiful,” he said.
“Certainly is. The most desirable houses are either on the beach or on the Inland Waterway, which in Palm Beach is called Lake Worth. Thad’s place is on Lake Worth. It’s more sheltered for the boat.” Shortly, she turned the Jaguar through a large gate into a circular drive and stopped before a palazzo that seemed to have been airlifted from Venice. “Here we are. Leave the luggage. Somebody will get it.”
Stone followed her to the huge double front doors. She pushed and a door swung back to reveal a central hallway that ran straight through the house. The hall was a gallery, hung with large oils. Stone recognized a Turner.
“Oh, good,” she said. “They’ve finished redoing the hall.” She led Stone out the back door and into gorgeously planted gardens.
Stone looked back. “You’d never know the house was under construction,” he said.
“The outside is all finished, now, so all the equipment and tools are inside.” They passed through the gardens and onto a broad lawn, beyond which Lake Worth gleamed in the sunlight.
Blocking most of the view, however, was a very large, very beautiful old yacht.
“That’s Toscana,” Callie said.
“She’s glorious.”
“She was built in Italy in the thirties. Thad spent two years both restoring her to her original condition and almost invisibly modernizing every system on board.”
“How big is she?”
“Two hundred and twenty-two feet, but with only seven cabins, so everyone aboard can be comfortable. Thad gives me the smallest one, but that’s bigger than the big cabins on lesser yachts.”
A small Hispanic young man wearing a smart uniform of white shirt and shorts came down the gangplank to meet them.
“Stone, this is Juanito, Toscana’s chief steward. Juanito, this is Mr. Barrington.”
“Welcome aboard,” Juanito said. “Mr. Barrington is in cabin number two. Mr. Thad phoned to say he was coming.”
“I’ll show him aboard,” Callie said. “Our luggage is in the Jag.”
Juanito found a handcart and ran off toward the house.
Stone followed Callie into the main saloon, and it was as if they had stepped into a much earlier decade. “My God,” he said, “it m
ight have been launched yesterday.”
“Yes, Thad did a really good job on the restoration. Come on, I’ll show you to your cabin. Thad has given you the best one, after the master stateroom.” She led the way down a central passage off the saloon and opened a heavy mahogany door on the starboard side. “Here you are.”
Stone stepped into a cabin paneled in mahogany, with white painted trim. There was a carved marble fireplace on one side of the room, with a sofa and a pair of chairs facing it, and behind them, a large bed with a canopy, trimmed in nautical-looking fabric. Out the large porthole was a view of the water. “Marvelous,” he said.
“Your bath is in here,” Callie said, switching on a light.
More marble, with a large tub and a separate shower stall. “I’ve never seen anything like this vessel,” Stone said, “although I once sank a yacht nearly as large.”
“Run her on the rocks?”
“No, I was just angry with her owner.”
Callie looked at him, unsure whether he was serious. “I wouldn’t mention that to Thad,” she said. “You might make him nervous.”
Juanito appeared with Stone’s luggage. “May I unpack for you, Mr. Barrington?”
“Thank you, Juanito, yes.”
“And would you like your suits pressed?”
“Thank you again.”
“My cabin is down the hall,” Callie said, grabbing the single small duffel that had accompanied her. “Why don’t you poke around, take a look at Toscana? Dinner at eight all right? I booked from the airplane.”
“Fine. How are we dressing?”
“It’s an elegant place, and the crowd will be elegantly dressed, at least, as they define elegant.”
“See you a little before eight,” Stone said. He left Juanito to do his work and began to explore the big yacht. There were two other cabins on the starboard side, and another three on the port side. Stone took a narrow staircase up a deck and emerged under a broad awning covering an expanse of teak decking. The superstructure was forward, and a set of doors led to what he suspected was the master stateroom. He took another staircase and came to the bridge, where a man in his mid-thirties, wearing the same white uniform as Juanito, except with more stripes on his shoulder boards, was sitting at the chart table.
“G’day,” the young man said with an Australian twang. “You must be Mr. Barrington.”
“That’s right,” Stone said, offering his hand.
“I’m Gary Stringfellow, the captain,” he said.
“Good to meet you.”
“Juanito show you to your cabin?”
“Yes, I’m just having a look around. This is quite some bridge.” It was all mahogany and brass.
“Yes. In the rebuilding, we tried to keep it much as it was when the yacht was built, except, of course, we have every piece of modern gear known to man.”
“I can see that.”
“Wander at will,” Gary said. “I have some work to do. Just let Juanito know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, I will.” Stone continued his tour, working his way forward to the stem, then aft to a broad sundeck, where he shucked off his coat, loosened his tie and collapsed into a chair.
Juanito appeared, as if by magic, bearing a silver tray and a frosty glass. “I thought you might like a gin and tonic,” he said.
“Thank you, Juanito. You’re psychic.” Stone took the drink, and Juanito disappeared, only to return a moment later with a cordless phone.
“A call for you, Mr. Barrington,” he said.
Stone accepted the instrument. “Hello?”
“It’s Bill. How was your flight?”
“You’re full of surprises, Bill, I’ll give you that.”
“I had meant to brief you before you met Thad, but there was no time. I take it you understand his problem?”
“Yes, it’s sort of like being back in high school—the geek wants to date the beauty queen.”
“Thad is impulsive, but he takes these things seriously. Do the best job for him you can, and it will react to your benefit.”
“It already has,” Stone said. “After all, I’m sitting on a yacht in Palm Beach with a gin and tonic frozen to my fist, while you’re in New York, freezing your ass off.”
“That was unkind.”
“It’s no fun being in Florida in winter if you can’t gloat a little.”
“Yeah, yeah. Listen, Stone, take this assignment seriously, all right? Thad is very important to the firm. We’re doing all the legal work on his IPO, and I’m his personal attorney. Clients don’t get any bigger than Thad Shames.”
“I get the picture,” Stone replied.
“Keep me posted,” Eggers said, “and don’t let anything go wrong.” He hung up.
Stone put his feet up, sipped his drink and watched the yachts sail by. This was wonderful. Tomorrow he’d find the girl and she and Shames would live happily ever after. What could possibly go wrong?
6
STONE REAPPEARED ON THE AFTERDECK JUST BEFORE eight, showered, shaved and wearing a gray linen suit, a cream-colored silk shirt, a yellow tie and black alligator shoes. He took a long look at the lights of West Palm, and then he was joined by Callie.
“Good evening,” she said.
He turned to look at her and was stunned by the transformation. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she was wearing a tight-fitting, short dress of a dark brown espresso color. It was cut fairly low, showing off handsome breasts and a good tan. When she smiled, her teeth practically glowed in the dark. “Good evening,” he said, when he got his breath back.
“Shall we go?” She led him back through the gardens, their way lighted by low lamps along the path, through the house and to the car. “Would you like to drive?” She held out the keys.
Stone took them. “Sure. I haven’t driven one of these.” He opened the door for her, then went around to the driver’s side. The engine purred, rather than roared, to life, and he pulled into the lamplit street and accelerated. “Nice. What kind of power?”
“A two-hundred-and-ninety-horsepower V-eight.”
“Very smooth, too. Is it yours?”
“Yes.”
“Cooking must pay better than I thought.”
“Well, I don’t have rent, utilities or any other household expenses to worry about, and it helps when your boss gives you an interest-free loan.”
“Sounds as though you’ve made yourself important to Thad.”
“I try.” She directed him through a number of turns and shortly they pulled up before a restaurant called Cafe L’Europe. A valet took the car.
“I would have thought the ‘el, apostrophe’ was a little much,” Stone said as they entered.
“A great deal about Palm Beach is a little much,” she said.
They were shown to a table near the center of the room. “What would you like to drink?” Stone asked.
“A Tanqueray martini, please.”
“And a vodka gimlet,” Stone told the waiter. “This is a very good table,” he said to her.
“I booked it in Thad’s name,” she replied.
“Smart move.” Menus and a wine list were brought.
Callie closed her menu. “I’m sick of thinking about food,” she said. “Order for me.”
“Anything you don’t eat?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
The waiter returned. “Are you ready to order, sir?”
“Yes,” Stone said. “We’ll start with the beluga caviar and iced Absolut Citron,” he said. “For the main course, the rack of lamb, medium rare.” He opened the wine list. “And a bottle of the Phelps Insignia ’ninety-one.”
“Very good, sir.” He went away.
They sat back and sipped their drinks until the caviar came, then they ate it slowly, sipping the lemon vodka and making it all last. A couple came into the restaurant, the young woman wearing a sleeveless sweater with the name “Chanel” emblazoned across her chest, in two-inch-high letters.
&nbs
p; “A billboard,” Stone said.
“Typical of Palm Beach,” Callie replied.
“Eurotrash?”
“Just trash. There’s a lot of it about. Oh, there are still some old-line families around, living quietly, if grandly, but mostly it’s what you see here—people who somehow got ahold of a lot of money and want everybody to know it. They’ve bid up the real estate out of sight. A nice little house on a couple of acres is now three million bucks, and last week I saw an ad for what was advertised as the last vacant beachfront lot in Palm Beach—all one and a half acres of it—and they’re asking eight and a half million.”
Stone nearly choked on his vodka.
The waiter had just taken away the dishes when three people, two women and a man, entered the restaurant and were shown to a table by the street windows. Stone followed their progress closely. One of the women, a redhead, had something very familiar about her.
Callie kicked him under the table. “I thought that in this dress, I might get your undivided attention.”
“I’m sorry,” Stone said, “but I think I know one of the women. Except she’s a redhead, and the woman I knew was a blonde, like you. Well, not as beautiful as you.”
“She must have been important,” Callie said. “Tell me about her.”
“It’s not a short story,” Stone said. “More of a novella.”
“I’ve got all night.”
“All right.”
Dinner arrived, and Stone tasted the wine. “Decant it, please,” he said to the waiter.
When that was done, Callie said, “Continue.”
“Oh, yes. A few years back I scheduled a sailing charter out of St. Marks. You know it?”
“Yes, we’ve been in there on Toscana.”
“My girlfriend was supposed to follow, but she got snowed into New York, then she got a magazine assignment to interview Vance Calder.”
“Lucky girl,” she said. “My favorite movie star.”
“Everybody’s favorite. That’s why she couldn’t turn it down. Anyway, I was stuck there alone, and one morning I was having breakfast in the cockpit of the boat, and something odd happened. A yacht of about fifty feet sailed into the harbor, the mainsail ripped, and nobody aboard but a beautiful blonde. After customs had cleared the boat, the police came and took her away.