Scandalous Behavior

33

Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun stepped down from the Black Maria at Heathrow, took his wife’s hand, and followed two uniformed police officers through immigration and security; then they were led to a departure gate lounge, where two other officers met them.

“Your flight leaves at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” an officer said to them. “So make yourselves as comfortable as you can.”

“Why can’t we go to an airport hotel?” Calhoun asked indignantly. “We’ll hardly be comfortable here.”

“A restaurant is over there, restrooms are in that direction, newspapers and magazines, too,” the officer said.

“We’d like to go to the first-class lounge, then,” Calhoun said.

“You don’t have first-class tickets, so that’s not possible.”

“I have a credit card that will get us inside.”

“Denied,” the officer said firmly, and walked away.

Calhoun’s wife, who was twenty-five years younger than he, pitched a fit. “I can’t live like this!” she screamed.

“You can and will until we’re in New York,” he said firmly, but that did not quiet her. She bitched until the night had passed and they had boarded their flight to Kennedy, and then she bitched about being in tourist class.

By the time they had arrived in New York, Calhoun was, himself, feeling very much as she did. They cleared immigration and were headed through customs when they were redirected to a special counter, where four officers awaited them.

“Open everything,” their supervisor said to Calhoun, while taking his large briefcase from him, placing it on a counter, and opening it. “Ah, what do we have here?” he asked, viewing the stacks of hundred-dollar bills and fifty-pound notes.

“There’s no law against carrying cash,” Calhoun replied.

“Let me see your declaration form for the cash.”

“What?”

“You’re allowed to bring only five thousand dollars into the country without a declaration.”

“But I took it out with me.”

“You were supposed to file a declaration then, too. That’s two offenses.”

Other officers were discovering cash in other suitcases.

“You can take five thousand dollars with you,” the supervisor said, handing him a stack of hundreds. “We’re confiscating the rest, pending a court hearing.”

Calhoun sagged. “I hope to God the cars I ordered are waiting,” he said to his steaming wife.

They were waiting, he discovered, after an hour and a half in customs, in a distant parking lot. After a long walk, they piled into the cars and were driven to Calhoun’s high-rise apartment in Manhattan.

There, with a drink in hand, Calhoun began to think about revenge.

The package containing the closing documents for the sale of Curtis House arrived at Windward Hall early the following morning, and Stone had time to review them before the ten AM completion. He reflected that everything was so much simpler when a mortgage company was not a party to the sale.

Lady Curtis looked somehow younger than the last time he had seen her. He assumed it was because a load had been lifted from her shoulders, and she was now independently wealthy, if she had not been before. She signed the documents eagerly, as did Stone and Marcel, and she turned over all the well-tagged keys to the house, then they adjourned for a light lunch.

Afterward, Susan showed Marcel and Stone the computer renditions of the main rooms of Curtis House and the plans were approved with few changes.

“Now I’ve got to go back to London, put my own house in order, and get work started on the draperies and wallpaper. I’ve got three crews arriving on Monday morning, one for the public rooms, one for the bedrooms, and one for the bathrooms. The engineering drawings for the new heating and air-conditioning systems will be along in a couple of weeks, and we’ll send them out for bids to companies in the area.”

“That’s good,” Marcel said. “Our neighbors will think better of us if we use local outfits, instead of bringing everything down from London.”

Stone walked Susan out to her car. “When will I see you?”

“Next weekend, and after that I’ll be working almost entirely from here, getting the plans organized for our application for the planning commission.”

“Won’t we need an architect for that?”

“I am a licensed architect with a degree from Cambridge,” she said.

“I didn’t know, but that’s very handy.”

“Various people will come down from London in aid of restructuring my company, and I’ll interview job applicants here, too. Would you prefer it if I worked from Curtis House?”

“Whatever is most convenient for you. I’m happy to have you here, but we’ve given you all the space we have available, and I’ll understand if it’s not enough.”

“I’ll give that some thought and let you know,” she said.

He kissed her, and she drove away in her green Range Rover.

“What a package,” he said aloud to himself.