Стюарт Вудс - Desperate Measures

“Is most appreciated when rare. Now it’s your turn. Where is your second home?”

“In the Hamptons,” she said, “in Sag Harbor.”

“But you despise the Hamptons!”

“Yes, but I despise Sag Harbor somewhat less than the other towns. Besides, I didn’t choose it; my husband already owned the house when we married. And anyway, it’s on the market. In fact, I was hoping to sell it to you.”

“Don’t point that thing at me,” Stone said. “My real estate portfolio is threatening to explode as it is.”

And then, before they could continue, Dr. Johnny Hon appeared and pulled up a chair.

“May I pick you up at seven tomorrow evening?” Stone asked, before the man could get started.

“I have something a little earlier; may we meet somewhere?”

“Do you know Patroon?”

“I do, but not well.”

He gave her the address, then ceded her company to Dr. Hon.

Edith Beresford was twenty minutes late for dinner. Stone was about to order his second bourbon when she turned up, all apologies. Her hair was down, and it fell below her shoulders.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I’d give you my excuse, but it wouldn’t be good enough. It would get our evening off to a poor start, and I wouldn’t want that.”

“Then I forgive you all your sins, so we won’t have to work through them. What would you like to drink?”

“What are you having?”

“Knob Creek bourbon.”

“Never heard of it. I’ll have some of that.”

He ordered two, and they arrived quickly. They clinked glasses and drank.

“I feel so clean,” she said.

“How’s that?”

“I haven’t had all my sins forgiven since I was in high school, during my last confession. I stopped going after that.”

“What was your sin?” he asked.

“It would be too embarrassing to tell you.”

“Then what was your penance?”

“Ten Hail Marys and swearing never to put my hand in a boy’s pants again.”

“Did you keep your oath?”

“Why do you think I stopped going to confession? I couldn’t face that priest again!”

Stone laughed.

“Are you Catholic?” she asked.

“I’m not a joiner, generally speaking. I think I agree with my late friend Frank Muir, who described himself as a lapsed agnostic.”

She laughed. “Good choice. If you were Catholic and I were your confessor, what would you confess?”

“Impure thoughts.”

“Oh, good. And what penance would you think appropriate?”

“Forty lashes with your hair.”

She looked appreciative. “I should get it cut, shouldn’t I?”

“No, at least not until I’ve done my penance.”

Then Stone realized someone was standing at their table.

“Oh,” Edie said, “Dr. Hon!”

“You’ve been following us, haven’t you?” Stone asked.

“Of course not, but may I join you?”

“Not unless you have the ecclesiastical authority to do so,” Stone replied.

“I fear my degrees are in science, not divinity.”

“Then we will not require your services,” Stone said. “Now, if you will excuse us.” He made a shooing motion with the back of his hand.

Dr. Hon looked sheepish. “Well, it was worth a try.”

“Good evening,” Stone said with finality.

“That was rude,” Edie said when he had gone.

“It was, wasn’t it? I’d like to have been ruder, but it was the best I could do without taking a swing at him.”

“I thought you did very well. After all, he kept us apart for one evening already. He’s nothing if not persistent; I hope he doesn’t come back.”

“Don’t worry, I’m armed.”

She looked at him in mock alarm. “With what?”

“A little Colt.380 semiautomatic.” He patted his chest under his arm.

“And for what reason?”

“A jealous husband.”

“I can’t say that surprises me.”

“That is a slur on my character. I do not dally with married women. She came to me as a client, sort of, and her husband misunderstood.”

“What does ‘sort of’ a client mean?”

“Well, I met her in a luggage store, when she broke a heel and fell into my lap. I offered her a lift home, got her to her apartment in a wheelchair, and arranged a house call from a doctor. While we were waiting for him to show up, she learned that I was an attorney, and she asked me to suggest someone to represent her in a divorce. She also asked me to recommend a Realtor, as she was looking to buy an apartment and to sell her old one.”

“And what was the upshot of all that?”

“Her ankle is better, she is divorced, and she has just moved into a new apartment. And sold her old one.”

“My, you do give good advice, don’t you?”

“I endeavor to — it doesn’t always work that quickly.”

“I’m beginning to think I should have opted for the professional relationship with you.”

“Oh, no, it would have ended badly.”

“Why?”

“Because I would still have wanted the personal relationship. If you had taken advice from me under those circumstances my judgment would have been clouded, and you’d have dismissed me and ended up married to a man who was interested only in your money and, because of that, broke.”

“You’ve been listening to Swifty Whitehorn, haven’t you?”

“If I had not, we wouldn’t be sitting here about to order the chateaubriand and an excellent cabernet.”

“Is that what we’re having?”

“Unless you are not a carnivore.”

“I am, order it.”

They had finished their dinner and were on coffee.

“Are you really armed?” she asked.

“Really.”

“Do you always go armed?”

“Only when there’s a jealous husband about.”

“Does that happen often?”

“I try to avoid the circumstance.”

“Doesn’t it feel unnatural to have a weapon concealed on your person?”

“It does not. I was once a police officer and, thus, always armed. One becomes accustomed to it.”

“ You were a police officer?”

“A homicide detective, for most of my career.”

“How long did your career last?”

“Fourteen years, then they asked for their badge and gun back.”

“Why?”

“They attributed my exit to a knee wound, suffered in the line of duty, but that was just an excuse. The truth is: I was a pain in the ass, and they were sick of me.”

“Then it is their loss,” she said, leaning over and kissing him. “Enough of this chitchat,” she said. “Why don’t you show me where you live? I’m still looking for clues to your character.”

Stone waved at a passing waiter. “Check!”

Edie Beresford stood in the middle of Stone’s living room and turned 360 degrees, slowly. “I like the pictures,” she said, “they show good judgment.”

“I’m afraid they say nothing at all about my judgment,” Stone replied. “They were painted by my mother, so all they demonstrate is maternal loyalty. However, I like them, too.”

“Who was your mother?”

“Matilda Stone.”

“I remember that name. She has some work in the American Collection at the Met, doesn’t she?”

“She does.”

“Is the piano in tune, or is it there just as an objet d’art?”

“Both,” Stone replied.

“Then play me something.”

Stone sat down, opened the keyboard, and played some Gershwin.

“Very nice. Tell me about the rest of the house.”

“My study is over there. Would you like a brandy?”

“Yes, please.”

He took her into the room, seated her, lit the fire, and poured them both a Rémy Martin. “This room is very much you,” she said, looking around. “Who was your decorator?”