Stuart Woods - Insatiable Appetites

“About three years ago.”

“When did you become more than just friends?”

“About three months after we met. Evan was very paranoid about being gay. He had worked in politics for years and had given large donations to his party, but he knew he’d be ostracized if he came out or was discovered. He wouldn’t visit me more than once a week, and when he did, he always bought some object or picture and left carrying it. His house is full of things he bought from me, and they were, without exception, the finest pieces I had to offer. He was my best customer — our relationship apart — and his taste was superb.”

Joan came in with the copies Stone had asked for.

Stone handed the letter from Hills to Willard. “He left this here on his visit yesterday.”

Willard read the letter carefully, then read it again.

Stone handed him the will. “And this.”

Willard read it and began to cry.

Stone was taken aback; Willard didn’t look like the sort of man who would allow himself to be seen weeping. He pushed a box of tissues across the desk, and Willard took a handful, dabbed at his face, and blew his nose noisily.

“I’m sorry for my conduct,” he said.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Stone replied.

“You see, Evan knew that the income from the shop and the apartment kept me operating pretty close to the line. All I have beyond that is my disability pension from the military.” He held up the will. “This changes everything for me.”

“I expect it does,” Stone said, handing him Hills’s financial statement.

Willard read it and began to weep again.

Stone was in his study watching the news when Joan came in. “Is Mr. Willard all settled in?”

“Yes. Helene is making him some dinner. What a very nice man he is!”

“He charmed you pretty quickly, didn’t he?”

“He certainly did. He’s also very handsome.”

“I wouldn’t let that go to your head.”

“Oh, I know he’s gay. I could tell, but women love gay men.”

“Because they’re harmless?”

“Because, in my experience, they’re sympathetic and understanding,” she said. “He’s quite broken up over his loss, you know.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“I hope you were sympathetic.”

“Of course I was. I offered my condolences and gave him tissues.”

“Did you really?”

“And shelter from his enemies.”

“Who are his enemies?”

“That has not yet been determined.”

“Has it been determined whether his enemies are real or imagined?”

“If Evan Hills was run down deliberately, he has enemies. If he wasn’t, he may still have enemies, real ones.”

There was a tap at the door, and Stone looked up to see Bruce Willard standing there.

“Come in, Bruce. May I call you that?”

“Of course.”

“And I’m Stone. Would you like a drink?”

“I could use one.” Willard took a seat on the sofa.

“Joan? As long as you’re here?”

“I’ll drink some of that awful whiskey you like so much.”

Stone went to the bar. “One Knob Creek, coming up. Bruce?”

“The same, please, rocks.”

Stone poured and distributed the drinks.

“Sit down, Joan.”

She sat, taking the other end of the sofa from where Willard sat.

“I understand you have an antiques shop, Bruce,” she said.

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you have a specialty?”

“It’s pretty eclectic. I do very well with Georgian silver.”

“I love Georgian silver.”

Maybe I should leave the two of them alone, Stone thought. The phone rang. “Stone Barrington.”

“It’s Carla.”

“Hi, there.”

“I had a very nice lunch with Bruce Willard.”

“So I hear.”

“You talked to him?”

“We’re having a drink at my house now.”

“Do you mind if I join you?”

“We’d be delighted. Where are you?”

“In a cab from the airport.”

“Then come straight here. We’ll have dinner here, too.”

“See you in twenty.” She hung up.

“That was Carla. She’s coming here. Why don’t we all have dinner?”

“Thank you,” Willard said.

“Joan, will you call Helene and tell her we’ll be four? And would you please bring me that tape I was going to send to Carla?”

Joan went to the phone on the desk and called downstairs. “Helene wants to know what you’d like.”

“Something Greek,” Stone said.

“Something Greek,” Joan said into the phone. “Got it.” She hung up. “Forty-five minutes — she was already halfway there.” Joan left the room and came back with the tape.

Carla arrived in time for a second round. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said to Bruce, accepting a martini from Stone.

“Small world,” he replied.

“I have news,” Carla said. “We’re running in the Sunday paper, and it’s a spread in Section A.”

“Great,” Stone said.

“I hope so,” Bruce replied.

Stone gave Carla the tape. “Here it is.”

“Good, now we can publish quotes. There’s still time to get some in, we don’t close until tomorrow night.”

“I suppose I should be relieved,” Bruce sighed.

“Look at it this way, Bruce,” Stone said. “After the story runs, no one will be trying to stop you from saying whatever you were going to say. No one will feel any need to harm you.”

“Then it’s a pity it didn’t run sooner,” Bruce said. “Evan might still be alive.”

They had finished dinner and were on coffee and brandy when Carla’s cell phone went off, and she excused herself from the table.

“There must be some problem with publication,” Bruce said.

Carla returned. “The publisher got a call from a billionaire fund-raiser, he wouldn’t say who, trying to talk him out of publishing our piece. Somebody has talked about our pub date.”

“Oh, God,” Bruce said, “this is never going to end.”

“He told the man in no uncertain terms that he was publishing,” she said, “and they’re sending a messenger over here for the tape. Stop worrying, Bruce, my paper doesn’t get pushed around.”

“Would this be the same billionaire who hosted the infamous meeting?” Stone asked.

“That’s my supposition,” she said. “Tomorrow, I’ll ask for permission to publish the name of the caller, and I’m likely to get it.”

Bruce polished off his brandy and set his glass down. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day, and I’m going to turn in.”

“Tomorrow morning, dial three on the phone and ask Helene for breakfast.”

“Thank you,” he said, rising, “and good night to you all.”

The phone buzzed, and Stone picked it up. “Yes? Someone will be right there.” He hung up. “Carla, that’s your messenger at the door.”

Carla grabbed her purse and went upstairs.

“I think that’s my cue to go home,” Joan said.

“Sleep well.”

“I always do. A clear conscience will do that for you.” She left the table and went upstairs.

Stone followed her and ran into Carla.

“That’s done,” she said. “May I use your phone? I forgot to call my usual hotel.”

“This is practically a hotel,” Stone said. “Take a guest room.” Before she could protest, he got her bag from the study and led her to the elevator, then he installed her in a bedroom.

“I’m just down the hall, if you need anything,” he said. “And dial three for breakfast.”

“Thank you, Stone.” She kissed him on the cheek, brushing the corner of his mouth.

“There are robes in the closet,” he said. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

He closed the door behind him and walked down the hall to the master suite. He undressed, got into bed, and turned on the eleven o’clock news. A couple of reports in, a photograph of a black SUV with a smashed front fender came onto the screen.