Quick & Dirty

29

Stone turned up on time and, in addition to a kiss from Morgan, was welcomed by an inviting aroma from the kitchen. She sat him down on a living room sofa and brought them both a drink from the bar. “Now,” she said, tapping his glass with hers, “tell me about your day.”

“Did you learn that at Cordon Bleu?” Stone asked.

She laughed. “As a matter of fact, I did. We had a few side lectures to the cooking course, one of them attuned to one’s conduct with the gentleman who is the recipient of the evening meal one has just prepared.”

“Aha. I thought it must be something like that.”

“But I really would like to know about your day,” she said, kissing him on an ear. “I can’t imagine what it is you do when you’re not with me.”

Stone decided it was time to be frank with her. “Well, I spent a good part of my day rummaging around in a storage room, looking for something.”

“One, what were you looking for? Two, and in whose storage room?” she asked.

“One, a Federal Express box,” he replied. “Two, yours.”

Her brow wrinkled. “My what?”

“Your storage room.”

She sat back and looked at him as if he were a naughty child. “Are you perfectly serious?”

“Perfectly.”

“Tell me what this is about, and I may not punish you.”

He set down his drink, took her by the shoulders, and pushed her into the sofa cushions. “All right. It’s not a simple story, and I’d like you to wait until I’ve finished before you ask any questions.”

“That level of restraint is not in my character,” she replied, “but I’ll do the best I can.”

“Here we go. I have learned that early on the afternoon of Mark’s death, he was visited by Pio Farina and Ann Kusch, at his invitation. He gave them a drink, they chatted for a while, and as they left, he asked them to drop off a package at the Federal Express store on Second Avenue, which was on their way to the tunnel. They did so, depositing it in the box outside the store.”

Morgan raised her hand, like a schoolgirl.

“Not yet,” Stone said.

She pouted, then lowered her hand.

“Subsequent investigation by the police revealed that Mark had addressed the box to himself, for third-day delivery.

“Not yet,” Stone said.

She rolled her eyes.

“The box arrived downstairs on the Wednesday following Mark’s death.”

“The day of his cremation,” she said.

“I’m not finished. Someone signed for the package, using Gino Poluci’s name, but it wasn’t Gino. Subsequent to that — I’m not sure when — the package was opened, the contents removed, and the empty box was placed in a locked steel cabinet inside the storage unit of Apartment 15A, where I found it today.”

She raised a hand again.

“What?”

“I have a list of questions before you continue.”

Stone sighed. “All right, go ahead.”

She held up a finger. “One, why would Mark send a package to himself?”

“Because he knew this apartment would be searched, and he didn’t want the contents of the package found.”

She held up two fingers. “What was in the package?”

“I can’t be certain, but I believe it was the missing van Gogh.”

Her jaw dropped.

“Do you have any further questions?”

“Yes, but I forgot what they were. Continue, please.”

“I had the box checked for fingerprints,” Stone said, “and four were found and identified. Two belonged to FedEx employees, one belonged to Pio Farina, and... one belonged to Margaretta Fernandez.”

Morgan stared at him. “Why...”

“Be specific.”

“Why was Margaretta’s fingerprint on the package?”

“Because at some point she handled it. Perhaps a doorman delivered it to her while you were out.”

“And did you say you found the empty box in my storage unit?”

“I did, inside a steel cabinet, which was locked and to which the doorman did not have a key.”

“Back up a step,” she said. “How did you get into my storage unit?”

“Simple — I bribed a doorman.”

“Which one?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“All right then, how did you get into the steel cabinet without a key?”

“I engaged a person with a deep knowledge of locks, and he picked it.”

“One more question,” she said. “Where is the painting now?”

“I don’t know, but I’d like to ask Margaretta that question. Would she have access to the key to the steel cabinet?”

“All my keys are in a drawer in the hall table,” she said.

“And does Margaretta know that?”

“Yes.”

“Anyway,” Stone said, “that’s how I spent my day, and now I’m hungry.”

“Come with me, you have to help.”

Stone followed her into the kitchen. She poured the contents of a saucepan into a double boiler, already simmering, and handed him a rubber spatula. “That is béarnaise sauce. Please stir it until it thickens.”

Stone took the spatula and started stirring.

Morgan turned on three eyes on the gas range and dropped two boned chicken breasts into a small skillet with some butter and olive oil. She sautéed them quickly on both sides, then put them on two plates and added haricots verts and new potatoes from the other two pans, then held out the plates. “Now pour the béarnaise onto the two plates.”

He did so.

“Now turn off the stove and follow me.” She led him around a corner to a small dining nook, where two places had been elaborately set and a bottle of wine decanted. Stone set down the plates and pulled her chair out for her, then he sat down.

He picked up the wine bottle. “Haut-Brion ’59. Wherever did you get that?”

“From the gigantic wine cupboard in the kitchen, which you failed to notice. There’s a lot like that in there.”

They raised their glasses and drank, then began to eat.

“Wonderful,” Stone said.

“I’ll have more questions when we’re finished,” she said.