Hot Mahogany

4

Stone showed Barton to a guest room. “I’ll get you some pajamas and a change of clothes for tomorrow,” Stone said, “as soon as I turn off the lights downstairs and set the alarm.”

“Okay,” Barton said, sitting on the bed.

Stone went downstairs, switched everything off and tapped in the alarm code, then he went back upstairs to his bedroom to get the clothes for Barton. When he walked into the master suite, Barton was there, staring at four paintings grouped on a wall.

“Can I help you, Barton?”

“You’ve got some nice things in this house,” Barton replied. “I’ll give you eight hundred thousand dollars for these four pictures.”

“They’re not for sale,” Stone said.

“Do you have any more Matilda Stones?”

“No, just those. She was my mother.”

“Oh. She’s a wonderful painter,” Barton said. “You don’t often see her work on the market.”

“Barton, why do you think you have eight hundred thousand dollars?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I buy, I sell.”

“Pictures?”

Barton looked puzzled. “I guess.”

Stone went to his dressing room and got Barton the things he needed, then put them in his arms and turned him toward the stairs. “Do you remember where your room is?”

“Down the stairs, first door on the left,” Barton replied. “I remember things I just learned.”

“And I’m sure you’ll remember even more tomorrow morning,” Stone said, gently propelling him toward the stairs. He waited at the top until he heard the guest room door close, then he undressed and went to bed.

Stone walked into the kitchen the following morning to find Barton Cabot having breakfast, deep in conversation with Stone’s housekeeper, Helene. What surprised him was that the conversation was being conducted in Greek, Helene’s native language.

“Good morning, Stone,” Barton said.

“Good morning, Barton. I didn’t know you spoke Greek.”

“Neither did I.”

“He speaks my language beautifully,” Helene said, “and with an elegant accent.”

“Thank you, Helene,” Barton said.

Helene put scrambled eggs and bacon before Stone and went about her work.

“Stone,” Barton said, “what sort of work does Lance do?”

“Your younger brother is the deputy director of operations for the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. He was only recently appointed.”

“That’s a pretty important job, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“How did he get it?”

“Well, my first cousin, Dick Stone, was supposed to get it, but before he could start, he was murdered, along with his wife and daughter.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Barton said. “Dick Stone,” he mused. “I think I knew him.”

“Oh? How?”

“I’m not sure; school, maybe.”

“Choate or Harvard?”

“Maybe both. He was younger than I.”

“Did you know him well?”

“I don’t know, but I think I liked him.”

“Everybody liked Dick, except his brother.”

“Caleb?”

“That’s right.”

“He was my class, I think. I didn’t like him.”

“Neither did Dick.”

Stone didn’t feel like reciting a long explanation about how Dick had died and who had killed him, so he changed the subject. “If you’re done, let’s get started.”

“Started where?”

“To your house.”

“Where is that?”

“At 110 North Shore Road in Warren, Connecticut.”

“That sounds right.”

“Let’s go find out,” Stone said.

Helene handed Cabot his old clothes, newly washed and pressed, and Stone led him to the garage and put him into the car.

“What is this?” Cabot asked, indicating the car.

“A Mercedes.”

“What kind of Mercedes?”

“An E55,” Stone said, pressing the remote to open the garage door.

“That’s the fast one, isn’t it?”

“The fastest Mercedes,” Stone said, backing out of the garage and closing the door. “At least it was when I bought it.”

“I have a Mercedes, I think.” Barton said.

Stone got them to the other side of town and onto the West Side Highway. Soon they were on the Sawmill River Parkway.

“This is the way I go,” Barton said. “I like driving on this road.”

“So do I.”

“Do you get to Connecticut often?”

“Not as often as I’d like. I have a cottage in Washington, not far from your house.”

“Ah yes, lovely village.”

“I think so. I thought Lake Waramaug was in Washington Township. Why is your address in Warren?” Stone wanted to see if Barton had an answer to that.

“The south shore is in Washington; the northwest shore is in Kent; and North Shore Drive is in Warren.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a lovely lake, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I think I’ve lived there for some time. I think I built the house or at least renovated it,” Barton said. “There’s a barn, too. I work there.”

“At what?”

“At a desk.”

They drove in silence for a while, until they got off the four-lane highway at New Milford. Stone put his left-turn signal on as they approached a stop sign.

“It’s faster if you turn right,” Barton said.

“I guess it is, if you’re going to Lake Waramaug,” Stone said, changing lanes. “I was turning for Washington, as usual.”

They passed through New Milford, then New Preston, then the lake came into view.

“Which way?” Stone asked.

“Take the south road and drive around the lake,” Barton said. “I like the drive.”

“All right.”

Barton made a vague motion with his hand. “There’s a cave up there somewhere where people lived for twenty thousand years,” he said. “At least that’s what I read in a book.”

They drove around the lake to the north side, and Stone watched for numbers.

“The second driveway on your right,” Barton said.

Stone made the turn and discovered that Barton’s house was on a peninsula, jutting into the lake.

“This is the second-largest natural lake in Connecticut,” Barton said.

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

Stone stopped at the house, and Barton got out and stood there, sniffing the air.

Stone got out, too. “I’ll take you inside,” he said.

Barton shook his head. “Something’s wrong,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Something.”