Insatiable Appetites

48

Elton Hills, at the behest of Bruce Willard, had subscribed to the New York Times and the Washington Post, and he was enjoying the reading. Then, in the social pages of the Post, a name in a caption below a photo of a group at a party caught his eye: Creed Harker.

He counted the names and the faces, and his finger came to one floating a head above the rest of the group. He felt the blood rise in him; his ears burned. With no other evidence than what he had heard about Harker and the man’s appearance, he felt he had met his enemy. For the first time in years, except for his son’s burial, he began to think of leaving his property.

Bruce Willard was at his desk going over a printout of his accountant’s monthly profit/loss statement, when the phone rang, and he picked it up. “Bruce Willard.”

“Bruce, it’s Elton Hills,” a voice said.

“Good morning, Elton. I hope you’re well.”

“I am, thank you. Bruce, I was thinking I might come to Washington for a few days to see how Evan lived.”

“What a good idea. I’ve got the keys to Evan’s house. I think you’d be very comfortable there.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. I don’t think I could tolerate the crowds at a hotel.”

“Evan has a live-in couple who take care of the place very well. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

“That would be grand. Do you think there’d be room for Manolo, too? I’d want him to drive me.”

“Of course. When would you like to arrive?”

“Late this afternoon? Would that be all right?”

“Of course. I’ll take you to dinner.”

“Do you think you could find a quiet table at the Four Seasons in Georgetown? I’ve heard about the restaurant from you and seen photographs of it in the papers.”

“Certainly. They know me there, as they knew Evan. When you arrive in town, come to my shop. I’d like you to see it. Then I’ll take you over to the house — it’s not far.” He gave the old man the address, then hung up and called the house to alert the couple that a guest was coming. “It’s Evan’s father,” he said, “and his chauffeur. I hope you’ll make them very comfortable.”

“Will you require dinner, Mr. Bruce?” the woman asked.

“No, we’ll be going out, but after that you should be prepared to serve meals. Mr. Hills doesn’t enjoy going out a lot.”

“We’ll be ready.”

Bruce hung up and went back to reading his statements. An hour later, UPS arrived, bringing him a package from Apple Publishing.

Mr. Hills,” Manolo said, “the people you were expecting from your attorney’s office have arrived.”

“Please show them in, Manolo.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Manolo, I want you to drive me to Washington, D.C., immediately after lunch. Pack a bag for two nights.”

Manolo was momentarily speechless; he had never had such a request from his employer. “Yes, sir,” he was finally able to say.

“And perhaps you’d better clean the car and fill it with gas.”

“Yes, sir.” Manolo showed the group of people into the library, and they began to hand Elton documents.

“Please read the marked passages, Mr. Hills,” the attorney said. “Those are where the changes you wished have been made. If they are correct, you may sign them, and we’ll witness them properly.”

Hills read the documents, approved them, and signed them. The group lined up to witness them.

Before lunch, Elton Hills did something he had not done for many years: he packed a bag. After lunch, he handed the bag to Manolo, then called him to look at a photograph in a folded newspaper. “Do you see this man, Manolo?”

“Yes, sir, very tall, isn’t he?”

“I believe so. I’m going out to dinner tonight with Mr. Willard, to a place this man frequents. If you see him arrive, come inside and tell me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then follow him. I want to know where he goes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll be staying at my son’s house tonight. I’m told we’ll be very comfortable there.”

“Very good, sir.” Manolo took the bag to the car and put it into the trunk.

Elton went to his desk, opened a drawer, and removed an object he had owned for more than fifty years. He put it into his coat pocket, got his overcoat, then went to join Manolo in the car.

Elton got into the rear seat of the old Bentley with his newspaper. He was nervous about the trip, but curious about what he might see. They left the estate, and he was amazed at the amount of traffic on the roads, particularly the interstates. They moved at thrilling speeds — seventy, sometimes, at his urging, eighty miles an hour.

This was fun!