Not usually. They don't want trouble with the police." Randall said, "But didn't Bellarosa kill a Colombian drug dealer some months ago?"
On the other hand, I didn't want to sound like a Mafia groupie, so I shrugged. "I don't know." But in fact I recall the news stories back in January, I think, because it struck me at the time that a man as highly placed as Bellarosa would have to be insane to personally commit a murder.
Lester wanted to know, "What do you suppose he was doing at Hicks'?" "Maybe he works there on weekends," I suggested. This got a little chuckle out of everyone, and we ordered another round. I wanted desperately to turn my head toward Beryl Carlisle again, but I knew I couldn't get away with it a second time.
Martin's wife, Pauline, showed up and stood at the door near the bar, trying to get his attention by flapping her arms like a windmill. Martin finally noticed and lifted his great roast beef of a body, then ambled over to his wife. Randall then excused himself to talk to his son-in-law. Lester Remsen and I sat in silence a moment, then I said, "Susan tells me I made an unfortunate remark last Sunday, and if I did, I want you to know it was unintentional." This is the Wasp equivalent of an apology. If it's worded just right, it leaves some doubt that you think any apology is required.
Lester waved his hand in dismissal. "Never mind that. Did you get a chance to look at Meudon?"
This is the Wasp equivalent of "I fully accept your halfhearted apology." I replied to Lester, "Yes, I took the Bronco over the acreage just this morning. I haven't seen it in years, and it's quite overgrown, but the specimen trees are in remarkably good shape."
We spoke about Meudon for a while. Lester, you should understand, is no nature nut in the true sense, and neither are most of his friends and my neighbours. But, as I said, they've discovered that nature nuts can be useful to achieve their own ends, which is to preserve their lifestyle. This has resulted in an odd coalition of gentry and students, rich estate owners, and middle-class people. I am both gentry and nature nut and am therefore invaluable. Lester proclaimed, "I don't want fifty two-million-dollar tractor sheds in my backyard."
That's what Lester calls contemporary homes: tractor sheds. I nodded in sympathy.
He asked, "Can't we get Meudon rezoned for twenty-acre plots?" "Maybe. We have to wait until the developer files his environmental impact statement."
"All right. We'll keep an eye on that. What's the story with your place?" Stanhope Hall, as you know, is not my place, but Lester was being both polite and nosey. I replied, There are no takers for the whole two hundred acres with the house as a single estate, and no takers for the house with ten surrounding acres. I've advertised it both ways."
Lester nodded in understanding. The future of Stanhope Hall, the main house, is uncertain. A house that size, you understand, may be someone's dream palace, but even an Arab sheik at today's crude oil prices would have a hard time maintaining and staffing a place that's as big as a medium-size hotel. Lester said, "It's such a beautiful house. Got an award, didn't it?" "Several. Town amp; Country noted it best American house of the year when it was built in 1906. But times change." The other option was to tear the place down, as Meudon Palace had been torn down. This would force the tax authorities to reassess the property as undeveloped land. The guesthouse is Susan's, and we pay separate tax rates on that, and the gatehouse where the Allards live is theoretically protected by Grandfather Stanhope's will. Lester said, "What sort of people seem interested in the house?"
"The sort who think five hundred thousand sounds good for a fifty-room house." That's what I'm trying to get for it with ten acres attached. The irony is that it cost five million dollars in 1906 to construct. That's about twenty-five million of today's dollars. Aside from any aesthetic considerations about tearing down Stanhope Hall, my frugal father-in-law, William Stanhope, would have to consider the cost of knocking down a granite structure built to last a millennium and then trucking the debris someplace as per the new environmental laws. The granite and marble used to build Stanhope Hall came here to Long Island by railroad from Vermont. Maybe Vermont wants the rubble back. Susan, incidentally, does not care about the main house or the other structures – except the stables and tennis courts – which I find interesting. Whatever memories are attached to the house, the gazebo, and the love temple are apparently not important or good. She was upset the night that vandals burned down her playhouse. It was a sort of Hansel and Gretel gingerbread house, as big as a small cottage, but made of wood and in bad repair. One can only imagine a lonely little rich girl with her dolls playing lonely games in a house all her own.
Lester inquired, "Did you hear from the county park people yet?" "Yes," I replied. "A fellow named Pinelli at the park commissioner's office. He said he thought the county owned enough Gold Coast mansions for the time being. But that might only be their opening gambit, because Pinelli asked me if the house had any architectural or historical significance." "Well," said Lester, "it certainly has architectural significance. Who was the architect?"
"McKim, Mead, White," I replied. Neither history nor architecture is Lester's strong point, but in addition to becoming a nature nut, he's becoming an authority on the social and architectural history of the Gold Coast. I added, "As for historical significance, I know that Teddy Roosevelt used to pop over from Oyster Bay now and then, and Lindbergh dined there while he was staying with the Guggenheims. There were other noteworthy guests, but I think the county is looking for something more significant than dinner. I'll have to research it."
"How about making something up?" Lester suggested half jokingly. "Like maybe Teddy Roosevelt drafted a treaty or a speech at Stanhope Hall." I ignored that and continued, "One of the problems with selling the estate to the county as a museum and park is that Grace Lane is still private, as you know, and that doesn't sit well with the county bureaucrats. Nor would I be very popular on Grace Lane if a thousand cars full of people from Brooklyn and Queens showed up every weekend to gawk."
"No, you wouldn't," Lester assured me.
"Bottom line, Lester, if the county did make an offer, it would only offer a price equal to the back taxes. That's their game."
Lester did not ask how much that was, because he had probably looked it up in the public record or saw it published in the Locust Valley Sentinel under the heading TAX DELINQUENCIES.
The back taxes on Stanhope Hall, including interest and penalties, is about four hundred thousand dollars, give or take. You can look it up. Well, you might be thinking, "If I owed four thousand dollars, let alone four hundred thousand dollars, in back taxes, they'd grab my house and kids." Probably. But the rich are different. They have better lawyers, like me.
However, I've nearly exhausted all the legal manoeuvres that I learned at Harvard Law, and I can't forestall a tax sale or foreclosure on this potentially valuable property for much longer. I don't normally do legal work for free, but William Stanhope hasn't offered to pay me for my services, so I guess I'm making an exception for my father-in-law. Not only is it true that the rich do not pay their bills promptly, but when they do finally pay, they like to decide for themselves how much they owe.
Lester seemed to be reading my dark thoughts because he said, "I trust your father-in-law appreciates all you've done."
"I'm sure he does. However, he has lost touch with the new realities here regarding land use and environmental concerns. If he can't sell the whole estate intact, he wants it subdivided and sold to developers. Even if I could get the two hundred acres divided, there's the house to deal with. William has the idea that a developer will either tear down the old house or offer it to the new residents as a clubhouse or some such thing. Unfortunately, it's expensive to tear down and much too expensive for twenty new households to maintain it." "It certainly is a white elephant," Lester informed me. "But you are trying to preserve that land if not the house."