Стюарт Вудс - Class Act

Tara flipped through the paper until she found it. “It’s about butter production,” she said.

“I’ll bet there’s a lot you don’t know about butter production,” Stone replied.

After the Times , lunch was served: a lobster salad and a chilled bottle of Far Niente chardonnay. After that, people tended to drift off, Tara with her head on Stone’s shoulder.

Eventually, lights appeared along the southwest coast of England. Shortly after that, the airplane gave a jerk, waking Tara.

“What was that?”

“The landing gear coming down.”

“Is it supposed to do that?”

“It’s mandatory before landing. Do this.” He pinched his nose and blew, clearing his ears.

“Who’s landing the airplane?”

“That tiny blonde you saw when we boarded.”

“Where are we?”

“Approaching the runway at Windward Hall.”

“What’s Windward Hall?”

“A very nice house.”

“Where is it?”

“Dead ahead.” They touched down, rolled out, and stopped. The engines died, and the stewardess opened the cabin door. A Range Rover and a golf cart with a truck bed awaited them at the bottom of the airstairs.

They got into the Range Rover, and Bob hopped on the golf cart, next to the driver. The caravan moved off, toward the well-lighted main house in the distance.

“Is that a movie set?” Tara asked, pointing at the house.

“No, it is a country house in the county of Hampshire, in the south of England.”

“Whose is it?”

“Mine.”

“Oh. I guess we’re there then.”

“We are there. Are you disappointed?”

“To the contrary, I’m very impressed. And hungry.”

“Dinner will be served as soon as you’ve unpacked and freshened up.”

“You don’t seem to have any luggage, except your briefcase.”

“I have a wardrobe here. It’s not necessary to bring things from New York.” He led her upstairs to the master suite, and showed her to her dressing room and bath. “I’ll see you in the library as soon as you’re done,” he said. “Bottom of the stairs, then right.”

Ten minutes later she joined the others as Stone was tending bar. “Scotch?” he asked.

“Laphroaig, if you have it.”

“We have.” He poured the drink and handed it to her. She took a seat and looked around the paneled room, stocked with leather-bound volumes. “Have you read all these books?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

They sat down before the fire and sipped.

“Now that the mystery of our destination is solved, here’s another: Why are we here?”

“To keep Stone from being murdered in the street,” Dino replied. He raised his glass. “I give you Stone, not dead.”

They all drank.

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?”