Family Jewels

6

Stone thought about flying to the East Hampton airport, but he knew he would have to avoid Kennedy and LaGuardia airports and that the route might be too circuitous. Instead, he got out the Blaise, a French sports car built by his friend Marcel duBois. He had not driven it enough; the odometer showed less than a thousand miles.

He put his luggage into the small trunk and backed slowly out of the garage, using the remote to close the door. Half an hour later he was sorry he hadn’t flown. Once through the Midtown Tunnel and out of the city, he found himself in bumper-to-bumper traffic, moving at an average speed of about thirty miles an hour. At least he was moving.

Finally, the lady in his navigation system, who charmingly spoke with a French accent, guided him into East Hampton village and out to Georgica Pond, to the front door of a handsome, shingle-style house of some size, where the Blaise shared parking with two Porsches and a Mercedes. A yellow Labrador retriever bounded out of the house, first barking, then allowing Stone to scratch his back.

Carrie Fiske stuck her head out the door and shouted, “Leave your luggage. Rupert will take it to your room and unpack for you!” Stone left the trunk open for Rupert and went inside, the Lab staying at his knee all the way, tail wagging.

Carrie allowed herself to be kissed on both cheeks. “Don’t mind Bob,” she said, indicating the dog. “If he annoys you, just tell him, ‘Go away.’ They were among the first words he learned.”

“He’s not annoying me,” Stone said. “I haven’t had this much attention for a long time.”

Carrie led him into the living room and introduced him to two other couples. “This is Nicky and Vanessa Chalmers,” she said, indicating two handsome people lounging on a white sofa, “and that’s Derek and Alicia Bedford. This is Stone Barrington.” Two people in armchairs gave a limp wave. Nobody got up to greet him; apparently that was Bob’s job.

“You’re half an hour late,” Carrie said. “I know — traffic. Those of us who live out here depart the city at dawn or midnight to miss it, visitors get bogged down in it.”

“Count me among the latter.”

A man in a white jacket, apparently Rupert, appeared with a silver tray bearing a large glass of a blood-red liquid with several kinds of vegetables crowding the top. Stone located a straw among the vegetation and drew a long sip. “That’s the best Bloody Mary I’ve ever tasted,” he said. “What’s your secret?”

“The secret is Rupert’s, and he’s not telling, are you, Rupert?”

“No, madam,” Rupert replied in a crisp British accent.

“So you see why I can’t fire him.”

“I see,” Stone replied. “That would be unwise.”

“I know a dozen people out here who would hire Rupert away, just for his Bloody Marys.”

“I’m sure he has other gifts, as well,” Stone said.

“Thank you, Mr. Barrington,” Rupert said, and left the room. A moment later Stone heard his trunk lid slam, and he winced. Then Rupert ran lightly up the stairs carrying Stone’s cases. He appeared to be in very good shape.

“So, Stone,” Nicky drawled in a New England Lockjaw accent, “who are you? I’ve never heard of you.”

“Millions haven’t,” Stone replied.

“I can’t place your accent.”

“I don’t think I have one. Sorry, I don’t mean to be difficult.”

“Stone is my new lawyer,” Carrie said. “He’s come all the way out here to write me a new will.”

“I doubt that,” Vanessa said, in a duplicate of Nicky’s accent. “He looks to me as though he has ulterior motives.” She turned to Carrie. “Or is that you sending that vibe?”

“Be nice, Vanessa, or Stone will think you’re a bitch. You too, Nicky.”

“Me, a bitch? Well, I never.”

“You do all the time,” Carrie replied. “And you know it. You’re just suspicious of people who have jobs.”

“Well, working does seem an awful waste of time, doesn’t it? I don’t know why anyone does it.”

Stone wanted to go to the fireplace, find the poker, and wrap it around his neck.

“Almost everyone does, Nicky,” Carrie said. “Even the one-tenth of one percent, like you. But not even they have a trust fund the size of yours.” She turned toward Stone. “Nicky’s great-grandfather founded one of America’s first tire companies more than a century ago, just at the moment when his product became a necessity.”

“You chose your ancestors well,” Stone said to him.

Nicky beamed at the thought.

They were at lunch on the rear deck, going at a lobster salad and drinking Montrachet, when Nicky started in again.

“So, Stone, let’s talk real estate. Where do you live?”

“In New York, you mean?”

“Oh, everywhere — tell us all.”

“In New York, I live in Turtle Bay. I also have homes in Dark Harbor, on Islesboro, in Maine, in Paris, and in Los Angeles. And I recently acquired a property in the south of England.”

“My, my, you do get around.”

“I get the feeling, Nicky,” Derek said, speaking for the first time, “that you’re dying to tell us where you live.”

“Oh, only in Greenwich, Manhattan, and Palm Beach,” Nicky replied. “I’m practically homeless, compared to Stone.”

That got a laugh.

“I would be interested to know,” Carrie said, “how and why you acquired each of those properties, Stone. If I’m not prying.”

“Well, let’s see. I inherited the house in Turtle Bay from a great-aunt, many years ago, when I was a police officer. Renovating it nearly broke me, so I took up the law to pay for the renovation and the property taxes.”

“A police officer!” Nicky cried. “I want to hear about that.”

“A much longer story,” Stone said.

“And Maine?”

“A first cousin left it to me after his untimely death, or rather, left me lifetime occupancy. I later bought it from the foundation that held title.”

“Aren’t you fortunate?” Carrie said. “Such nice relatives. Did you have an uncle in Los Angeles?”

“I’m a principal in a group of hotels, the first of which was built on property in Bel-Air owned by my late wife.”

“Ah, another inheritance!” Nicky crowed. “It’s better than a trust fund!”

“Paris?” Carrie persisted.

“I spent some time in a house owned by... an acquaintance, and I ended up buying it.”

“Where in Paris?”

“Saint-Germain-des-Prés.”

“Lovely. That leaves only the south of England.”

“A friend showed me a property on the Beaulieu River, near her home. She said I’d be taken with it, and she was right.”

Stone tried redirecting the conversation. “Derek, what do you do?”

“Oh, this and that,” Derek said. “I buy and sell.”

“Buy and sell what?”

Carrie interrupted. “Jewelry, mostly. Derek has the best eye for quality that I’ve ever known.”

“You’re too kind, Carrie,” Derek said.

“Not in the least!” she replied. “I’ve got three generations of jewelry in my safe, and Derek is going to help me cull the most out-of-date pieces and get the most money for them.”

Derek looked embarrassed. “I’ll do the best I can, Carrie, when you deign to show me the contents of that safe.”

Then, with complete suddenness, the conversation came to a halt. The wind had apparently shifted.

“Good God,” Carrie said, “what is that awful odor?”

Bob, who had been lying quietly at Stone’s feet, got up, jumped down from the deck, and began trotting in the direction of the next property.

Stone knew what the odor was. “Excuse me,” he said.

He got up and followed Bob.