Stuart Woods: Insatiable Appetites

“Well, I hope he turns out to be real. I can’t wait to read the story in the Times .”

“Neither can I. Are we ever going to have that dinner we talked about in Paris?”

“Just as soon as you come to New York.”

“I’ll be there the day after tomorrow.”

“Where are you staying?”

“With friends at One Fifth Avenue, in the Village.”

“I’ll have you picked up at six-thirty and brought here for a drink, then we’ll go on from there.” He gave her the address.

“You’re on.”

“So are you.” They hung up. Stone buzzed Joan and asked her to have Fred collect Carla.

“That sounded interesting,” Herbie said. “Who was it?”

Stone swore him to secrecy and told him the story, minus Hills’s identity.

“I think it’s going to be fun, following this story.”

“We can only hope.”

The following day Stone received word from the court that Eduardo Bianchi’s estate had been released from probate, and that the proceeds could now be distributed. Stone was flabbergasted. Probate took weeks or months — in problematic cases, years.

Herbie shook his head. “It looks like Eduardo knows people who, even after his death, want to make life easier for him.”

Stone called Mary Ann and told her the news. She seemed pleased but not surprised.

“Just between you and me, Mary Ann, was influence brought to bear here?”

“Nothing untoward,” she replied, “so don’t worry. Daddy had many friends.”

“I understand. Shall we now distribute the bequests?”

“Good idea. How do we go about it?”

“I’ll make up a list of all of them, and we’ll meet to cosign the checks.”

“Say when.”

“Tomorrow at three, my office?”

“I’ll see you then.”

Stone hung up and turned to Herbie. “The list is your job,” he said. “Do you want your associates to help?”

“I’m way ahead of you,” Herbie said, taking a file folder from his briefcase and handing it to Stone.

Stone read through the document quickly. “It looks as though Eduardo’s influence extends to you. Good job!”

Herbie shrugged. “I can be bought for a Picasso and a Braque. When do we get our pictures?”

“I’ll send Fred out there to collect them from Pietro.” He called the Bianchi house, spoke to Pietro and gave him instructions on wrapping and boxing the three pictures. He hung up. “I’ll have Fred deliver them to you. Office or home?”

“They’ll impress more people at the office,” Herbie said.

The following day, Mary Ann arrived on time. Stone gave her a cup of tea and handed her the document to read.

“All very neatly done,” she said. “And the checks?”

Stone buzzed Joan, who brought the checks, each clipped neatly to a covering letter explaining the disbursement.

“We cosign the checks and the letters,” Stone said, handing her half the stack and taking the other for himself. When they were signed they traded stacks and repeated the process.

“There, all done,” Stone said. “I noticed that there was no bequest to the foundation for the maintenance of the house and property.”

“Papa took care of that when he set up the foundation. There’s more than enough in the endowment to generate the necessary income.”

“Has Dolce discussed with you her moving into the house?”

“She has, and I’m content with her wishes. She’ll pay for whatever alterations she wishes to make and for the renovation of the barn, which has already started, I understand. That building predates the house by a couple of hundred years. It was damaged in a battle of the Revolutionary War. It should make a beautiful studio.”

“Would you like me to overnight the disbursements or have them delivered by messenger?”

“By messenger, I think. I’ll deliver Ben’s to him.” She stood and picked up Ben’s folder. “Well, it looks as though we’re all done. Thank you for handling everything so expeditiously, Stone.”

Stone stood to walk her out. “There only remains the investigation into the forged paintings,” he said.

“Where are we on that?”

“The audit of Raoul Pitt’s gallery is nearly completed. If we don’t come up with an explanation of what’s happened, we’ll have to turn it over to the NYPD’s art squad.”

“Whatever it takes,” Mary Ann said.

“Oh, I sent my man, Fred, out to the house to pick up the three paintings that Eduardo bequeathed to Herb Fisher and me. Pietro is packing them.”

“That’s fine, one less thing to worry about.”

“Does Dolce know about the forgeries?”

“Yes, and she was angry about it. She’ll be anxious to hear how the investigation is going.”

They said goodbye, and Stone asked Joan to messenger the letters and checks to the heirs. They were on their way in half an hour.

Fred arrived with Stone’s picture, having already delivered Herbie’s to his office. Joan came in with a box cutter and cut away the wrappings, and Stone set the painting on the back of the sofa, switched on all the lights, and regarded his new treasure.

“I think I’ll keep it,” he said.

Dolce was tidying up her apartment in anticipation of the arrival of her guest when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“I’m in a cab,” Father Frank Donovan said. “Twenty minutes, according to the driver.”

“I’ll have a drink waiting,” she said. They hung up, and she went into the kitchen and opened the package from the liquor store: two bottles of Bushmills Black Label Irish whiskey.

She took them to the bar and filled the ice bucket from the machine.

All was ready when the bell rang. She opened the front door and threw herself into his arms. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she said, then looked him up and down. “And in civvies!”

“I didn’t want the doorman to think I’m visiting to hear your confession,” Frank said. He handed her a thick envelope. “They asked me to deliver this to you.” He set his suitcases inside the door and closed it behind him.

She led him into the living room and tossed the envelope onto the sofa without looking at it, then went to pour them a drink.

“What a beautiful place,” Frank said, looking around.

“There’ll be more pictures on the walls in a day or two,” she said. “I asked the convent to pack up all my work and air-freight them to me. Do you know, I’ve got more than sixty completed canvases, not counting the ones that weren’t good enough.” She handed him his drink and poured herself one, then sat on the sofa, where she encountered a lump.

“What’s this?” she asked, pulling the envelope from beneath her.

“It’s what the doorman asked me to deliver.”

She ripped it open and read the covering letter, then looked at the check. “It appears I’m now a very rich woman,” she said, waving the check. “Papa’s estate has been probated.”

“I congratulate you,” he said, clicking his glass against hers.

“Goodness,” she said, fanning herself with the envelope. “This is going to take some getting used to.” She took a swig from her drink. “I hope you have no duties but me while you’re here.”

“Oh, I’ll have to suit up and swing by the archdiocese at some point. A courtesy call, to justify spending a week in New York.”

“We have a week!”

“We do.”

“Whatever will we do with ourselves?” she asked, kissing him and tugging at his necktie.

“We’ll think of something,” he said, kissing her back and scratching a nipple through her silk blouse.

Stone’s doorbell rang, the signal from Fred Flicker that his guest was on the way up. Stone slipped into his jacket and went downstairs in time to greet Carla Fontana in the living room.