Class Act

36

They had a tomato and basil bisque, followed by a pork roast, with vegetables from the garden, followed by an apple tart, then Stilton and port.

“All right,” Tara said. “I’ve contained my curiosity long beyond the ability of most adults: Why is someone trying to murder you, Stone?”

“Jealous lover,” he said.

“A woman?”

“Male jealous lover.”

“Who is the woman involved?”

“Caravaggio, the night before last. Now, is your curiosity satisfied?”

“Details, please.”

“I’ve no wish to speak ill of her, and the details would not be complimentary of her judgment, so I will avoid those. Are you curious about nothing else?”

“All right, how did you come to own this house?”

“A friend of mine who lives across the Beaulieu River” — he pronounced it Bewley — “found me on the continent and insisted I come and see it. She didn’t tell me at the time that ‘it’ was an estate, just said it would be a nice surprise. It was.”

“Then?”

“She gave me the tour. Then she introduced me to the owner, who had been ill and was not getting better, over dinner at the Royal Yacht Squadron, in Cowes, across the Solent. There, I wrote him a check for the property.”

“What is the ‘Solent’?”

“The body of water that separates mainland England from the Isle of Wight.”

“Who was this friend?”

“Her name is Dame Felicity Devonshire. You will meet her at dinner here tomorrow evening.”

“What is the ‘Royal Yacht Squadron’?”

“It is the oldest yacht club in England, second oldest in the world after the Royal Cork Yacht Club in Ireland. It is housed in a seaside castle built by Henry the Eighth, to protect England from the French.”

“Will we dine there while we’re in England?”

“If I survive long enough.”

They moved to the sofa and chairs before the fireplace for brandy. Stone’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and saw the word Private. “Excuse me,” he said, “I have to take this.” He walked into the hallway and pressed the button. “Hello?”

“Stone?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Hilda.”

“Sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice.”

“I’m calling from a rather small powder room.”

“I won’t inquire further about that.”

“I have good news: you’re off the hook.”

“How so?”

“Sal has left town.”

“Good. When is he coming back?”

“It sounded as though he had quite a lot to do elsewhere.”

“Where did he go?”

“Out of the country. That’s why you don’t have to worry.”

“Where is he as we speak?”

“In London.”

Swell, Stone thought. “Why London?”

“He said he had business to take care of there.”

“Thanks for letting me know. I have guests, so I have to go now.”

“Sure. I just wanted you to be able to relax.”

“I’m grateful to you, Hilda. Bye-bye.”

He returned to the library.

Dino’s eyebrows went up. “You don’t look so hot,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve just learned that I have nothing to worry about,” Stone said. “Sal has left New York.”

“That’s good news.”

“The bad news is, he’s gone to London.”

Everybody was silent for a moment.

“How far is London?” Tara asked, finally.

“About eighty miles — an hour-and-a-half drive.”

“Oh. Does he know you are... wherever we are?”

“The nearest village is Beaulieu. I have no reason to believe he knows I’m here.”

“Well, then, he might as well be anywhere,” Tara said. “So might you be.”

“I prefer three thousand miles from him to eighty,” Stone said, “given the choice.”

“It’s rather ironic that we’ve come all the way here to get away from this man, and he turns out to be eighty miles away.”

“I got the irony, thanks,” Stone said.

“What will you do?”

“Stay put, and not tell anybody where I am. That’s what you should do, too.”

“I haven’t told anybody,” Tara said. “Except my production manager, Tony. He has to be able to get in touch with me, if there are production problems.”

Dino took a notebook and pen from his pocket. “I’ll make a list,” he said. “What’s Tony’s last name?”

“Trafficante,” Tara replied, spelling it for him.

“I know how to spell it,” Dino said, looking at Stone. “You know, sometimes I think you’re the luckiest guy in the world, but then sometimes... not so much.”

“When did you speak to him?” Stone asked.

“Right after we arrived. I didn’t know where we were going until then, remember?”

“Did you swear him to secrecy?”

“I didn’t know our whereabouts were a secret, except from me.”

“Tell me about Tony Trafficante,” Dino said. “Where’s he from?”

“Born and raised in Brooklyn.”

“Do you know if he has any relatives in... unusual occupations?”

“What sort of unusual occupations?”

“Bookmaking, loan-sharking, prostitution, like that.”

“You mean, like, criminal occupations?”

“I do.”

“Well, there were rumors about his family when we were kids.”

“What sort of rumors?”

“Like, unusual occupations.”

“Tara,” Stone said. “What, exactly, did you tell Tony about where we were?”

“I told him I was in a beautiful country house named Windward Hall, in the county of Hampshire, in the south of England. In short, exactly what you told me.”

“Oh,” Stone said.