Black Dog

Sixteen

Stone got into the Bentley with Joan and told Fred to proceed. “Do you have a remote control for the garage?” he asked Joan.

Joan took a small box from her purse and rummaged in it. “Yes,” she said.

“Fred, when we get there, drive into the garage. Joan will open it for you.”

“Yes, sir,” Fred replied.

Shortly, they turned into the short drive, and Joan opened the garage door.

“What else is on this level?” Stone asked.

“Staff rooms and what Aunt Annetta deigned to call the ‘servants’ hall.’ ”

“Let’s go there,” Stone said.

They got out of the car, which was parked next to a Mercedes station wagon and two Bentleys. Stone followed Joan into a room that had probably been suggested by Downton Abbey. Two maids and Geoffrey, the butler, were drinking coffee and watching a soccer match on a large TV.

“Listen up,” Stone said, “and mute the TV.”

Everybody jumped at his command.

“This,” Stone said, removing a sheet of paper from his briefcase, “is the death certificate of Annetta Charles.” He set it on the table and produced another sheet. “This is a page from Mrs. Charles’s will, bequeathing her entire estate to her niece, Joan Robertson, who stands beside me. This document specifically excludes Edwin Charles Jr. from inheriting any part of these estates. It also names me as the executor of her estate.” He found another sheet of paper. “This,” he said, “is a copy of the standard client agreement, appointing my law firm, under my supervision, to represent her, her estate, and the estate of her late husband, Edwin Charles. Is there a bulletin board in this room?”

“Yes, sir,” Geoffrey replied.

“Good. Please post these documents on that board, so that all the staff may read them. And get me a list of the staff members. Does anyone not understand that Joan Robertson now owns everything that previously was owned by Edwin and Annetta Charles?”

No one spoke.

“Good. Now, your first instruction from me is that, according to Mrs. Charles’s will, her stepson, Edwin Charles Jr., is barred from entering this house or any other dwelling or building owned by the Charleses. If he attempts to enter any of these buildings, you may eject him, or call the police and report him as a trespasser. Is that perfectly clear?”

Everyone nodded.

Bob Cantor entered the room, pushing a handcart containing a number of cardboard boxes.

“Good afternoon, Bob. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Mr. Robert Cantor, who will be replacing all the locks in the house with much better locks. Keys will be issued to authorized personnel by Ms. Robertson or me. Please help him in any way you can. Get started, Bob, and take a look at the security system and let me know if you consider any part of it to be inadequate.”

Stone turned to Joan. “Are you familiar with this house?”

“Yes, I am. I spent time here as a child and poked my nose into every nook and cranny.”

“Then let’s take a look into the nooks and crannies. Lead the way.”

Joan led him to an elevator and gave him a tour of the reception rooms on the lower floors, then the bedrooms on the middle floors, then finally, to the eighth floor, which contained a living room, a library, two bars, and two studies, one for each of the Charleses.

“Let’s start with Ed Sr.’s study and ransack the place, every cupboard and drawer.”

“What are we looking for?”

“Anything of interest, particularly keys, safe combinations, and documents dealing with banks, at home or abroad, particularly abroad.”

Joan found a pair of shopping bags from Bloomingdale’s and set them out, ready for use.

They had been ransacking for a few minutes when Joan held up something. “Aha!” she said.

“Aha, what?”

“Keys.”

“Look for a safety-deposit box key,” Stone said, then watched as she sifted through them. “We have four safety-deposit box keys,” she said, holding them up.

“From what banks?”

“One from United States Trust, around the corner, two from Troutman Trust, on Madison Avenue, and one from a bank in someplace called Georgetown.”

“Cayman Islands,” Stone said. “Keep them all and resume ransacking.”

“I’m tired,” Joan said.

“There’s a bar in the library,” Stone said. “Let’s ransack that.”

“Allow me,” Joan said, “as you are my guest.” She found some heavy Baccarat whiskey glasses and some ice and poured two stiff Knob Creeks, handing one to Stone, then collapsing into a wing chair by the fireplace.

“Are you feeling quite at home?” Stone asked.

“Oddly, yes. I think I’ll sleep here tonight.”

“The master bedroom looked comfortable.”

“Not until I’ve ransacked it, kept what I like, which will be mostly jewelry and furs, and sent the rest to Goodwill, which will blow their minds.”

“Good thinking. Now, I think we should discuss your successor.”

“My successor? Are you firing me?”

“Surely a person of your great wealth and standing in the community would not wish to continue working for me.”

“Why not? It’s the most fun I’ve ever had. You can refer to me as your assistant, though, and not your secretary. I’ll want to hire my own secretary.”

“Would you like a raise?”

“Just for form’s sake, you can double my present salary.”

“Done. And hire whoever you like and pay her or him whatever you see fit.”

“Tomorrow,” she said, “after we’ve ransacked the safety-deposit boxes.”