Hot Mahogany

34

The sun passed behind the trees, bringing shade and chill to their clearing. Carla began collecting their debris and packing up.

“You have a domestic side, don’t you?” Stone said admiringly.

“My domestic side begins and ends with picking up the phone and calling room service. Why do you think I live in a hotel?”

“Well, when required, you rise to the occasion.”

“I could say the same of you,” she said, handing him the basket and shaking out the blanket.

What am I going to do with this girl? Stone was thinking. If Harlan Deal so much as sees us together, he could yank his account from Woodman amp; Weld, and at least half my income would vanish in a puff of smoke. She’s great, but is the relationship worth that risk? “I’d like you to meet someone,” Stone said, an ulterior motive stirring deep down in his cerebral cortex.

“Who?”

“A client of mine. You’ll like him.”

“Does he live in the woods?”

“Yes, but not these woods. Next to a lake.”

They drove down to Lake Waramaug and to Barton Cabot’s house. To Stone’s surprise, Barton was standing outside the barn, waiting for them, his right hand in his trousers pocket.

“Good afternoon, Stone,” Barton said as they got out of the car. He gave Carla a long look up and down. “And who’s this?”

“Barton, this is Carla. Carla, this is Barton Cabot.”

She offered him a hand. “How do you do?” she said.

“I do very well, but never better than now,” Barton replied.

“You were expecting us?” Stone asked.

Barton shook his head. “Just something I ordered from a catalogue. It beeps in the house and barn when a car drives past the mailbox. Sort of a doorbell for automobiles.” He led them into the house and the study and offered them drinks.

“I think I’d rather have tea, if you can manage it,” Carla said.

“I’ll have bourbon in my tea,” Stone added.

Ten minutes later they were settled into comfortable furniture before a blazing fire.

“Carla, where do you live?” Barton asked.

“In New York City.”

“Where in New York City?”

“At the Carlyle Hotel. I sing there, in the Bemelmens Bar, four nights a week. Play the piano, too.”

“I’d love to hear you sometime.”

“I’d love for you to hear me sometime.”

“I have a piano.”

“Is it in tune?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I’m afraid I don’t play untuned pianos, and I sing only for money.”

“I’ll pay the Carlyle, then.”

“Good.”

Stone eased out of his chair, strolled to the other side of the study and inspected a set of leather-bound books. His ulterior motive realized, he was not needed on the other side of the room. He extracted a book, one of six in a leather-bound set. It was a signed first edition of Winston Churchill’s history of the Second World War. He wondered, philistine that he was, what that was worth at auction. He moved to a wall hung with pictures, close together. The nearest to him was a Western scene by Albert Bierstadt. He spotted two very fine landscapes from the Hudson River School. This was the wall of either a multimillionaire or a very shrewd collector who had been at it for a long time. He went on exploring, listening in occasionally on the conversation going on behind him.

“You appear to be of Scandinavian extraction,” Barton said.

“Half Swedish, half Sicilian.”

“What an interesting combination.”

“You have no idea.”

The conversation fell into a gap, and Stone returned to his seat.

“Is there a powder room nearby?” Carla asked Barton.

“Through that door, first left,” Barton replied.

Carla rose and left the room.

“Is she for me?” Barton asked.

“She is if you want her and she’s agreeable.”

“What have I done to deserve such a gift?”

“You’ll be getting me off a hook. She recently left a former, very powerful boyfriend who is a legal client of mine, in a manner of speaking, and if he catches me in her company, it might reflect badly on the firm to which I am counsel.”

“I’m happy to be of help,” Barton replied with a small smile.

“Would you like to keep her for a couple of days, then return her to the city?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Good. Now I have a puzzle for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Carla and I picnicked today at the spot where you and Holly and I watched Ab Kramer’s house.”

“Yes?”

“A truck arrived, and four men unloaded a large crate that, from the way they carried it, appeared to be empty.”

“So Ab is packing up something?”

“I don’t think so. A few minutes later the four men returned with the crate and practically tossed it back into the truck. I think it was still empty.”

Barton’s brow furrowed, then his eyebrows suddenly went up. “What were the dimensions of the crate?”

“I don’t know exactly, but it appeared to be around seven or eight feet by four or five feet, and it was deeper at the bottom than at the top.”

“Around the size it would take to hold a large mahogany secretary?”

Stone was about to reply when Carla came back into the room, and Barton signaled to stop their conversation.

“Somehow I sense you two have been talking about me,” Carla said.

“Actually, we have,” Stone said. “After running into our mutual acquaintance last night at the inn, I think it might be best if you didn’t come back to the house with me.”

“You mean you are abandoning me in the wilds of Connecticut?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Barton has agreed to shelter you for a bit, then return you to New York. I’ll pack your things and leave them on my front stoop, and you and Barton can collect them when you go to the Mayflower Inn for dinner this evening.”

“Why the Mayflower?” Barton asked.

“Because a former friend of Carla is staying there, and I think it would be a good idea if he saw the two of you together.”

“Rather,” Carla said, “than the two of us?”

“Yes. It would cause more grief than you can imagine if Harlan saw you and me together.”

“If you say so,” she replied.

Stone drained his teacup and stood up. “Will you two excuse me, then?”

“Of course,” Barton said. “I’ll walk you out. Be right back, Carla.”

Stone and Barton shuffled through the leaves to where he had parked his car.

“That was deftly done,” Barton said.

“It seemed the best solution to the problem for all concerned.”

“I’m grateful for your solution.”

“Barton, you were saying that the crate I saw at Ab’s house was of a size and shape to hold a mahogany secretary?”

“Yes.”

“But it was empty on both arrival and departure.”

“There might be a very good reason for that.”

“What would that be?”

“The crate was also of a size and shape that one could use to see if it would fit well in an empty space in Ab’s study.”

“Ah.”

“Ah, indeed.”

Stone got into the car. “We’ll talk more about this.”

“Good.”

Stone started his car and drove away, relieved to have Carla off his hands, at least temporarily and maybe permanently.