“Hazel, please. Well, it did and it didn’t come as a surprise. I always thought that Mr. Biggers might harm her. Mr. Chalmers explained everything on the phone, and the undertaker has already called. His number is by the phone on the hall table. I’ve put you in the Magnolia Suite — that’s our nicest guest room.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind. We’ll try not to be too much trouble.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble. Ms. Fiske always asked us to be ready for guests at any time. What time would you like dinner?”
“Say, seven-thirty?”
“Is there anything in particular you’d like?”
“No, whatever is convenient for you.”
“As you wish. May I give you a little tour?”
“Thank you, yes.” Hazel led them into a large drawing room that had had the attention of a very fine decorator, followed by a library, a billiards room, small and large dining rooms, and a broad rear roofed terrace that looked out over the extensive gardens, with Lake Worth at the end.
“Ms. Fiske had one of the few properties that run from the ocean to the lake,” Hazel said. “Her grandfather built it, and her father put in the dock and boathouse. It’s fenced in, if you’d like to let the dog out.”
Bob, delighted to be off his lead, began a systematic inspection of the gardens.
“It’s all very beautiful,” Stone said. He stopped at the hall table and called the undertaker, a Mr. Willis.
“Thank you for returning my call, Mr. Barrington,” he said. “I’ve received word that Ms. Fiske’s remains have arrived in Atlanta and will be put on an early-morning airplane tomorrow and will arrive in Palm Beach around mid-morning. When would you like to have the burial?”
“Would tomorrow afternoon be convenient?”
“We have some work to do beforehand — say, four PM?”
“That will be fine.”
“You may leave the choice of flowers and a minister to us, if you like.”
“That’s fine.”
“There remains only the choice of the coffin. Would you like to come to our showroom?”
“Have you something in mahogany?” Stone asked, remembering the last time he had viewed coffins.
“We do. We have a very fine model — solid mahogany with a silk lining at sixty-nine thousand dollars. That price includes the shipping of the remains and all our work, the preparation of the burial site, with which we are familiar from the burial of Ms. Fiske’s parents, and a simple headstone with her dates, which we have. Is there some sentiment you’d like included?”
“I think not. I’m sure the coffin will be suitable.”
“Our people will arrive early tomorrow morning to prepare the gravesite. They will try not to disturb you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Willis.”
Stone whistled up Bob, and he and Gala followed Hazel upstairs to a large sitting room, with a bedroom and bath to one side. The view was of the gardens and the lake.
Stone thanked her, and they spent a few minutes hanging up their clothes.
“There is a lot of very fine American antique furniture in this house,” Gala said. “I mean, stuff that would bring millions at auction.”
“I thought there were some very good pieces,” Stone said.
“Virtually every bit of wood furniture we’ve seen,” Gala said, stroking a chest of drawers in the room. “I expect that her grandparents and parents must have bought most of it many years ago, before the prices skyrocketed. There are some valuable pictures, too. I swear I spotted a Rembrandt downstairs.”
“I handled the estate of a good friend a while back,” Stone said. “He had a lot of very fine things and a big art collection. I was fortunate, as executor, that his house was preserved pretty much intact, and I didn’t have to dispose of the contents. This one is going to be different, I fear.”
“I think you’ll have to have everything very carefully cataloged and appraised.”
“Yes, and I know just who to bring in for that.”
“In the meantime, we have a day to enjoy the place,” Gala said. “Do you feel like a nap?”
“Not really.”
“Neither do I,” she said, kissing him.
28
Stone and Gala, fresh from making love and showering together, dined in the small dining room, where Hazel had set a beautiful table with old Wedgwood and Baccarat crystal and had put out a selection of wines from the cellar, from which Stone chose a Château Palmer ’61, a claret Stone had heard much of but never tasted. Oscar decanted it, and it surpassed what Stone could have hoped for.
“This is such a beautiful place,” Gala said. “It seems a shame to pull it apart and sell everything off piecemeal.”
“As Carrie’s executor, I would be delighted to sell it to you intact.”
She laughed. “Would that I could afford it.”
“The problem with a house like this is that the only people who could afford it are people you wouldn’t want living next door.”
“I know what you mean — people like my ex-husband, not that he could afford it, either. What do you think it might sell for?”
“I wouldn’t know what to ask,” Stone said.
“Tell you what, I’ll think about it and make you an offer.”
“I will look forward to receiving it.”
They were served seared foie gras, followed by a suprême de volaille with a tarragon cream sauce, which went very well with the wine. When Hazel came back he asked her if she was the chef.
“Oh, no, sir, that would be Bonnie, who has been with the family for more than thirty years.”
“And how long have you been here?”
“I’m a newcomer — only twenty-seven years. Oscar has been here for fifteen.”
“How many others on staff?”
“Three housemaids and two gardeners, with occasional extra help from outside.”
“It seems to be a tightly run ship.”
“We try.” She took away their plates, then served a peach cobbler with half a bottle of Château d’Yquem 1978.
“Heavenly,” Gala said.
They took Bob for a stroll in the gardens after dinner, then retired early, in each other’s arms. Bob slept on a large pillow next to their bed.
Stone was awakened shortly after seven AM by the sound of some sort of industrial engine running. He went to the window and peeked through the curtain.
“What is it?” Gala asked sleepily.
“A backhoe, digging the grave. It shouldn’t take long.” It didn’t, and they called down for breakfast in bed, which arrived with the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal.
Nicky called at mid-morning to check on the time of the service and invite them to his place for dinner.
Nicky and Vanessa arrived at three-thirty and were given a glass of champagne, then at four o’clock, they walked out into the garden and stood at the graveside. An Episcopal minister read a psalm and said a prayer, and the coffin was lowered into the earth. As they turned from the grave, Stone saw a young woman standing a few yards away. Thinking she might have been a friend of Carrie’s, he walked over and introduced himself.
“I’m Monique Sullivan,” she said. “We spoke on the phone in Santa Fe. From CNN, remember?. May I speak to you now?”
“Ms. Sullivan, I admire your enterprise, but we’ve just concluded a burial service here.”
“I won’t take much of your time,” she said.
He turned to the others. “Go on inside, I’ll be along in a minute.” He directed the young reporter to a garden bench, and they sat down. “All right, you’ve got five minutes.” He glanced at his watch.