“Does she know about the .38 in her underwear drawer not being a match?”
“She does.”
“So why does she need an attorney?”
“To handle the estate of one Randall Hedger.”
“Estate? Randy? Is she hoping to sell his clothes at a profit?”
“The lamented Randy appears to be of more substance than we had heretofore realized,” Herb said.
“What? Did he fix a horse race, or something, and cash in big? If that’s the case, maybe his bookie shot him.”
“That possibility crossed my mind,” Herb said. “Robbie brought his will with her, and Estelle Parkinson’s, as well. Apparently, Robbie and Hedger both made wills when they got married, and they were locked in her office safe, sealed. We opened them in the presence of two witnesses, and they had both left the other everything. Randy probably thinking that, since he didn’t have an estate, what the hell? And he appointed her his sole executor.”
“What about Estelle’s will? When was that executed?”
“Later, a couple of weeks before she died.”
“And who were her heirs?”
“Just Hedger.”
“So Hedger inherits from Estelle, then Robbie inherits from Hedger.”
“Exactly.”
“Then they both had motives for killing Estelle.”
“Right.”
“My money is on Hedger,” Stone said. “Robbie is the person driving the Macan. She’s following Hedger, and she finds Estelle’s body, then she chases him down and shoots him.”
“That’s the cops’ problem,” Herb said. “Talk to them.”
“Have you turned up anything else at all?”
“Ah, yes. The plot thickens, as they say in Victorian fiction, or is it Agatha Christie?”
“Same thing,” Stone commented.
“Early this morning Robbie received a hand-delivered envelope from the medical examiner containing his report and the decedent’s personal effects, and to Robbie’s surprise, Randy’s address on the form, and on his driver’s license, was listed as a tony apartment building on Beekman Place.”
“So? He was probably shacking up with a lady that Robbie hadn’t heard about yet.”
“Nothing like that,” Herb said. “Robbie and I — overcome with curiosity — took his keys from the ME’s plastic bag and went over there. The place turns out to be a roomy, one-bedroom penthouse with a gorgeous view of the East River and beautiful downtown Long Island City — also with a great view of the Pepsi-Cola sign. It’s handsomely furnished with good art and some antique American pieces.”
“Who knew?” Stone wondered.
“Wait, there’s more. There was a safe behind a Picasso drawing in the study, and Robbie, after a couple of guesses, got the combination right. Turns out Randy, like everybody else, had a few passwords, etc., that he used for everything.”
“And did you, in the best tradition of Dame Agatha, find a clue in the safe?”
“You bet your sweet ass we did. There was a little over half a million in hundreds stacked neatly on the bottom shelf, and the share certificate for the apartment, which turns out to be a co-op; he’s been living there for just over a year. There was also an envelope stuffed with receipts for the furnishings — Randy was, apparently, a habitué of the auction houses.”
“Randy must have fixed more than one horse race,” Stone said.
“But wait, there’s still more. We stopped at the reception desk on the way out, to introduce Mrs. Hedger to the building manager, and there was a rather heavy package waiting that had been delivered on the day Randy died.”
“Don’t tell me: drugs!”
“No. We went back upstairs to the apartment and opened it and found another eighty grand in hundreds, and a close questioning of the receptionist revealed that Randy received a similar package once a week, hand-delivered.”
“Sounds like Randy was into more than fixing horse races.”
“But wait,” Herb said, “there’s still even more. I got thirsty and went searching for a glass of water, and in the kitchen refrigerator were stacked half a dozen half-liter cans of beluga caviar, a substance available only to those who don’t care about the cost of anything. And when I returned to the study I had a peek into a large cigar humidor built into a bookcase and found a dozen unopened boxes of a Cuban cigar that I can’t remember the name of — let’s call it El Ropo Grande. Now once, not long ago, when I found myself imprisoned in a cigar bar with a client, I fell into conversation with a gentleman who told me a cigar story.”
“I can’t wait to hear it.”
“Apparently, El Ropo Grandes were made of the finest Cuban tobacco by angelic maidens who hand-rolled them on their moist thighs, for the personal consumption of Fidel Castro, his friends, and his most loyal enemies. When Castro died, a Communist official saw an opportunity. One evening shortly after Castro’s demise, with El Ropo Grandes piling up, undistributed, this gentleman encountered a visiting American in the bar of the Hotel Nacional, who, apparently, charmed the socks off him. After sampling a cigar offered by the man, they discussed entering into an arrangement whereby the rights to the sale and consumption of these heavenly cigars might be deflected from the Cuban elite to their super-wealthy neighbors to the north, and the American was already established in the smuggling business.”
“And how much do these tobacco sticks sell for?”
“My conversant in the cigar bar looked around as if we might be overheard and offered me a box for ten thousand dollars, or a single El Ropo Grande sample for a mere six hundred, which I declined with alacrity.”
“Let me guess: the American encountered by the Communist capitalist was Randall Hedger.”
“Bingo! And finally — and this is all, I promise — the Cuban entrepreneur was also in the way of keeping Fidel and company supplied with beluga caviar, through the good offices of a Russian gentleman employed in their Havana embassy. Need I say more?”
“And how long has this been going on?”
“Who knows? It was about two years ago that I was in the cigar bar.”
“And what did you do with all that cash?”
“It still reposes in Randy’s safe. I gave Robbie a stern lecture on the duties of an executor and pointed out that her new position had not yet been affirmed by the court. But she still has the key to the apartment, so who knows what ideas are racing through her cunning brain as we speak.”
“Well, good luck keeping a lid on her.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep you posted on events. Oh, and I’ve sent you a small gift as a referral fee. You should have it shortly.”
“Entirely unnecessary, but it will be gratefully received,” Stone said, and they both hung up.
When Stone had finished with his story, Joan entered with a package. “I don’t know what it is,” she said, “but it’s cold.”
“Unwrap it, please?”
“You’re expecting a bomb?”
“I am not.”
Joan found a box cutter and gingerly removed the wrapping, then held up a blue disc-shaped can. “It says beluga caviar,” she said.
“Would you take it to the kitchen and put it in the refrigerator — not the freezer, please.”
Joan vanished, and Stone called Dino.
“Bacchetti.”
“Stop by here on your way to dinner, and I’ll have a treat for you.”
44
Stone got a chilled bottle of Stolichnaya vodka from the study fridge, covered a silver platter with a linen napkin, and set out small crystal glasses. He found some demitasse spoons in the silver drawer, then he went to the kitchen, boiled an egg, then chopped it, along with some Bermuda onion.