“How about a picnic?”
“A picnic? What do you mean?”
“Well, you pack a lunch, put down a blanket in a pretty spot and eat.”
“Oh, that kind of picnic.”
“Is there any other kind?”
“I guess not.”
“Do you know of such a spot?”
Stone thought about it for a moment. “Yes, I do,” he said. “A clearing on a hilltop overlooking a fine landscape and a handsome house in the distance.”
“That should do nicely,” she said.
Stone found an old wicker basket with dishes and silver inside that he had discovered in a closet when he had bought the house. They drove down to the Village Market and bought a chicken, some salads and a cold bottle of wine, and Stone drove them to the hilltop road he had visited with Barton and Holly the week before. He parked the car, and they walked down a path to the little clearing.
“Oh,” she said, regarding the vista, “this is perfect.”
The weather was autumnal, but the sun warmed the clearing. Stone spread a blanket, and Carla busied herself arranging the lunch. “What are these for?” she asked, holding up Stone’s binoculars, which he had placed in the basket.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Sometimes they make the view more interesting.”
They sat cross-legged on the blanket, facing the distant house, ate their chicken and drank their wine. Stone lay back on an elbow and sighed. “This was a wonderful idea,” he said.
“I know,” she replied. “I have them all the time.”
“Ideas?”
“Wonderful ideas.”
“Well, so far I have no complaints about your ideas, only your ex-boyfriends.”
“Harlan is a pig,” she said.
“What did you ever see in him?”
“He’s one of those men who can be perfectly charming when you first meet him, then, as time wears on, becomes first awfully boring, then finally just awful.”
“I’ve known women like that.”
“Really? I thought it was exclusively a male characteristic.”
Stone sat up on the blanket and picked up the binoculars.
“What is it?” Carla asked.
“A truck,” he replied.
“It is a very Harlanlike characteristic to find a truck more interesting than I,” she said, archly.
“Oh, I don’t find it nearly as interesting as you, but you’re too close for binoculars,” he replied, focusing more finely.
She pulled the binoculars away from his face and kissed him. “Does that help?”
“That was delightful, but they’re unloading something from the truck, and I’d like to see what it is, if you’ll give me just a moment, then you will have my undivided attention.”
“Oh, all right,” she said, handing him the binoculars.
Stone watched as four men removed a large crate from the back of the truck and began carrying it up the front steps of the house. The two men at the rear of the crate then hoisted it above their heads and climbed the steps.
“It’s light,” Stone said.
“Swell.”
“And it’s bigger at the bottom than at the top.”
“Fascinating.”
Someone opened the front doors wide, and the men carried in the crate.
“It’s empty,” Stone said.
“What?”
“Four men are carrying a large, empty crate into Ab Kramer’s house.”
“Ab Kramer? The financial guy?”
“One and the same. Now why would they take an empty crate into his house.”
“Maybe they’re going to pack something in the crate and take it away.”
“Now that is an eminently sensible observation,” he said, putting down the binoculars, taking her into his arms and pulling her down to the blanket. “And you have my undivided attention.”
“I hope you’re not thinking of undressing me,” she said. “It’s chilly out here.”
“I was seeking only affection, not sex.”
“Well, it’s not as though we haven’t been getting any sex, is it?”
He laughed. “I’ve no complaints in that department.”
She sat up and looked toward the house, then picked up the binoculars. “They’re bringing the crate out,” she said.
“May I look?”
She handed him the binoculars.
Stone watched as the men reloaded the crate into the truck and was surprised that they coordinated their efforts and actually tossed the crate the last few feet. He could hear the noise when it fell into the bed of the truck. “There’s still nothing in it.”
“What?”
“They took an empty crate into the house, then brought it out again, still empty. Does that make any sense?”
“Not to me.”
“Nor to me, either.”
34
The sun passed behind the trees, bringing shade and chill to their clearing. Carla began collecting their debris and packing up.
“You have a domestic side, don’t you?” Stone said admiringly.
“My domestic side begins and ends with picking up the phone and calling room service. Why do you think I live in a hotel?”
“Well, when required, you rise to the occasion.”
“I could say the same of you,” she said, handing him the basket and shaking out the blanket.
What am I going to do with this girl? Stone was thinking. If Harlan Deal so much as sees us together, he could yank his account from Woodman amp; Weld, and at least half my income would vanish in a puff of smoke. She’s great, but is the relationship worth that risk? “I’d like you to meet someone,” Stone said, an ulterior motive stirring deep down in his cerebral cortex.
“Who?”
“A client of mine. You’ll like him.”
“Does he live in the woods?”
“Yes, but not these woods. Next to a lake.”
They drove down to Lake Waramaug and to Barton Cabot’s house. To Stone’s surprise, Barton was standing outside the barn, waiting for them, his right hand in his trousers pocket.
“Good afternoon, Stone,” Barton said as they got out of the car. He gave Carla a long look up and down. “And who’s this?”
“Barton, this is Carla. Carla, this is Barton Cabot.”
She offered him a hand. “How do you do?” she said.
“I do very well, but never better than now,” Barton replied.
“You were expecting us?” Stone asked.
Barton shook his head. “Just something I ordered from a catalogue. It beeps in the house and barn when a car drives past the mailbox. Sort of a doorbell for automobiles.” He led them into the house and the study and offered them drinks.
“I think I’d rather have tea, if you can manage it,” Carla said.
“I’ll have bourbon in my tea,” Stone added.
Ten minutes later they were settled into comfortable furniture before a blazing fire.
“Carla, where do you live?” Barton asked.
“In New York City.”
“Where in New York City?”
“At the Carlyle Hotel. I sing there, in the Bemelmens Bar, four nights a week. Play the piano, too.”
“I’d love to hear you sometime.”
“I’d love for you to hear me sometime.”
“I have a piano.”
“Is it in tune?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I’m afraid I don’t play untuned pianos, and I sing only for money.”
“I’ll pay the Carlyle, then.”
“Good.”
Stone eased out of his chair, strolled to the other side of the study and inspected a set of leather-bound books. His ulterior motive realized, he was not needed on the other side of the room. He extracted a book, one of six in a leather-bound set. It was a signed first edition of Winston Churchill’s history of the Second World War. He wondered, philistine that he was, what that was worth at auction. He moved to a wall hung with pictures, close together. The nearest to him was a Western scene by Albert Bierstadt. He spotted two very fine landscapes from the Hudson River School. This was the wall of either a multimillionaire or a very shrewd collector who had been at it for a long time. He went on exploring, listening in occasionally on the conversation going on behind him.