“No, you got yourself beat up when you assaulted my associate, Fred.”
“That little twerp is your associate?”
“Mr. Biggers, let me remind you that the man you are referring to as ‘that little twerp’ put you in the hospital and made you look like a raccoon.”
“He just got lucky that time.”
“No, in that regard he is always lucky, and you should not provoke him again into having to defend himself. Now can we get back to the point?”
“The point is that your client, Carrie Fiske, wants you to think I want to kill her, when in reality it is she who wants to kill me.”
“Mr. Biggers, while I appreciate your newfound clarity of thought, your thought is preposterous. Why would she want to kill you?”
“Because she’s mad at me, and because she’s mean.”
“Let’s take those one at a time. Why is she mad at you?”
“Because I left her. Isn’t ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’ a motive in this modern world?”
“I’ll grant you that — a woman scorned is capable of a lot.”
“Carrie is capable of anything.”
“All right, how is she mean?”
“In any way you can possibly think of — she’s mean morning, noon, and night, especially at night, in bed.”
Stone wanted to rest his forehead on the glass top of his desk and cool his fevered brow, but instead he did the right thing. “Mr. Biggers,” he said, “I cannot listen to your concerns any longer. I refer you to the New York City Police Department, to which you can express your fears and even make a charge against Ms. Fiske, should you desire to do so. Now, this conversation is at an end. Please leave before I ask my secretary to escort you from the premises with a .45 stuck in your ribs.”
Harvey Biggers made a small noise, then he got up and strode, nearly ran, from Stone’s office. Stone heard the outside door close.
Joan came into his office. “Did he harm you?”
“No, he was too afraid of you.”
5
Biggers had not been gone five minutes when Joan buzzed.
“Carrie Fiske on line one.”
Stone pressed the button. “Hello, Carrie.”
“Hello, Stone.”
“I hope you are well.”
“So far. Tell me, have you heard from my ex-husband?”
“Yes, and from close range.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he was right across my desk.”
“In your office?”
“That’s where my desk is.”
“Good God! Did he hurt you?”
“I don’t think he is in any shape to hurt anybody today — he just got out of the hospital.”
“I saw what Fred did to him. That little man was magnificent. Who knew?”
“I knew — your ex-husband didn’t. He does now, though.”
“What did he want?”
“He wanted me to know that you are trying to kill him.”
“What nonsense! Why would I want to kill him?”
“That’s what I asked him.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said, because you’re mad at him, and you’re mean, especially in bed.”
“Well, God knows, I’m mad at him for creating that scene at the Central Park Boathouse. But mean? And in bed? What did he mean by that?”
“I was afraid to ask.”
“That’s very odd. I don’t think anyone has ever said I was mean in bed.”
“It is certainly odd, and I’m relieved to hear that you don’t have that reputation.”
“I wouldn’t like for a charge like that to get around — it might damage my... social life.”
“No doubt.”
“Can I sue him for defamation?”
“That is inadvisable.”
“But he has defamed me.”
“I don’t doubt that, but in the legal process of suing him...”
“Yes? Go on.”
“Well, do you remember that woman who was known as the Queen of Mean?”
“Leona Helmsley?”
“That’s the one.”
“What does she have to do with it?”
“I fear that, at least in the New York Post, you might well find yourself billed as the Queen of Mean in Bed, thus defeating the purpose of your lawsuit and sticking you with that sobriquet for life, perhaps longer.”
“Longer?”
“It might end up on your tombstone.”
“How?”
“You said you had a will. In it, is the person in charge of your funeral arrangements your husband?”
“Oh, shit.”
“Exactly. I think we need to draw up a new will for you right away, especially since you think he wants to kill you. If he managed to do that, and get away with it, he would be in charge of everything.”
“Why don’t you come out to my house in the Hamptons for the weekend?” she said, abruptly changing the subject.
Stone reflected that he had no plans for the weekend, but still...
“And,” she added before he could speak, “I have some friends coming that you might enjoy. And you could draw up my new will, before Harvey gets a chance to kill me.”
“You make a weekend in the Hamptons sound like an emergency.”
“A dire emergency. Do you know Georgica Pond?”
“I know that it’s a very nice neighborhood. I read the real estate ads in the Sunday Times magazine.”
“Can you find it?”
“Probably not, but the GPS lady in my car can.”
She gave him the address. “Lunch is at one o’clock tomorrow. Be there in time for the world’s best Bloody Mary.”
“I don’t drink before noon.”
“That’s why lunch is at one. And bring a dinner jacket.”
“To the Hamptons? I haven’t spent a lot of time out there, but my impression is that everybody is terribly, terribly casual.”
“Do you own a dinner jacket?”
“I do.”
“Bring it,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
“That’s better.” She hung up.
6
Stone thought about flying to the East Hampton airport, but he knew he would have to avoid Kennedy and LaGuardia airports and that the route might be too circuitous. Instead, he got out the Blaise, a French sports car built by his friend Marcel duBois. He had not driven it enough; the odometer showed less than a thousand miles.
He put his luggage into the small trunk and backed slowly out of the garage, using the remote to close the door. Half an hour later he was sorry he hadn’t flown. Once through the Midtown Tunnel and out of the city, he found himself in bumper-to-bumper traffic, moving at an average speed of about thirty miles an hour. At least he was moving.
Finally, the lady in his navigation system, who charmingly spoke with a French accent, guided him into East Hampton village and out to Georgica Pond, to the front door of a handsome, shingle-style house of some size, where the Blaise shared parking with two Porsches and a Mercedes. A yellow Labrador retriever bounded out of the house, first barking, then allowing Stone to scratch his back.
Carrie Fiske stuck her head out the door and shouted, “Leave your luggage. Rupert will take it to your room and unpack for you!” Stone left the trunk open for Rupert and went inside, the Lab staying at his knee all the way, tail wagging.
Carrie allowed herself to be kissed on both cheeks. “Don’t mind Bob,” she said, indicating the dog. “If he annoys you, just tell him, ‘Go away.’ They were among the first words he learned.”
“He’s not annoying me,” Stone said. “I haven’t had this much attention for a long time.”
Carrie led him into the living room and introduced him to two other couples. “This is Nicky and Vanessa Chalmers,” she said, indicating two handsome people lounging on a white sofa, “and that’s Derek and Alicia Bedford. This is Stone Barrington.” Two people in armchairs gave a limp wave. Nobody got up to greet him; apparently that was Bob’s job.