Family Jewels

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 evidence.”

“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.