“That’s because you don’t know your women long enough to get around to gift giving, before they dump you.”

“Once and a while, if I’m a little out of sync, a birthday pops up. Or Christmas.”

Genevieve returned to the table and sat down. “Eliza is getting married to her doctor next Sunday afternoon,” she said to Stone, not too casually.

Stone snorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said.

“You can see it next Sunday afternoon; she asked me to invite you. She’s not sending out formal invitations.”

Dino spoke up. “I think you should send her a wedding gift – something nice from Tiffany.”

“If I did, she’d just have to return it when she calls off the wedding.”

“You doubt her commitment?” Genevieve asked.

“Gen, less than a month ago, she was telling me she’d rather perform major abdominal surgery on herself than marry a doctor.”

“Things change.”

“Like wedding plans.”

“This particular doctor is the most brilliant surgeon at the hospital.”

“Good, then she won’t have to perform surgery on herself.”

“Half the celebrities and rich people in this city have gone under his knife.”

Stone turned to Dino. “If I ever need surgery, put me in a different hospital.”

“I’ll just shoot you,” Dino replied.

“Eliza has dangled this marriage possibility before me, looking for some response,” Stone said.

“A response would be nice,” Genevieve replied.

“She’s expecting me to charge down the aisle when the minister gets to the part ‘if any man can show cause why this woman should not marry this man’…”

“How romantic that would be,” Genevieve said. “Shall I tell Eliza to expect you?”

“To charge down the aisle?”

“To come to the wedding.”

“I suppose it would be churlish of me to decline.”

“Very churlish.”

“Well, okay. I’ll send some sort of gift. What would be appropriate?”

Genevieve stared at the ceiling, as if deep in thought. “I don’t think there is an appropriate wedding gift from a man who has disappointed a woman,” she said finally.

“Disappointed? That assumes that I’ve appointed… uh, that I’ve made promises I didn’t keep.”

“Promises are often implied,” Genevieve said.

“That’s right,” Dino said. “Promises are often implied.” Genevieve patted his hand. Dino might finally get laid.

“You stay out of this,” Stone said to him. He picked up a menu. “Let’s order dinner.” He waved his empty glass at a waiter.

Elaine came and sat down. “So, you going to the wedding?”

Stone didn’t look up from the menu. “I’m a victim of a conspiracy,” he said.

“We’re just all concerned about you,” Dino said, his voice dripping sarcasm.

Stone closed his menu. “Am I going to have to dine down the street somewhere?”

Elaine glared at him. “Not unless you want your legs broken,” she said.

A waiter appeared with Stone’s bourbon, then whipped out his pad. “What may I get for you?”

Stone ordered the green bean salad and the spaghetti carbonara and a bottle of the Mondavi Cabernet for the table.

“Elaine,” Genevieve said, “after next Sunday, you’re going to have to put crow on the menu for Stone’s benefit.”

Elaine laughed heartily. “Stone, you don’t think she’s gonna go through with it?”

“I have accepted her invitation to the wedding,” Stone said, “and I will accept whatever she decides next Sunday.”

Elaine laughed. “He doesn’t think she’s gonna go through with it.”

“Of course not,” Dino said.

Stone sipped his drink.

36

Stone got home late that night, having been somewhat overserved at Elaine’s. He reset the alarm system and took the elevator upstairs to his bedroom.

He took off his jacket and reached to hang it up with his other jackets, but something was wrong. His suits hung where he ordinarily hung his jackets. He shook his head, disoriented, then looked around: His jackets hung on the opposite wall, where he kept his suits. He felt slightly nauseated, as if he were on a rolling ship.

He opened the top drawer of the built-in chest of drawers, where he normally kept socks and found shirts. He opened the third drawer, where he kept shirts, and found sweaters. He had begun to sweat. Stone went into the bathroom and threw up.

He blew his nose, splashed cold water on his face and reached for a towel on the ring beside the sink. He found his cotton bathrobe there. The hand towels were lined up on the edge of the bathtub. He did not throw up this time; instead, he got angry.

He went back into his bedroom and looked around. Four oil paintings by his mother, Matilda Stone, that normally hung to his left were on the opposite wall. The nonmatching lamps on either side of his bed had exchanged places. He reached into a bedside table drawer for tissues to mop his brow and found condoms. The bedspread had been reversed. The small rug beside his bed was now at the foot.

He went back to his dressing room and undressed, hanging his clothes on hooks, to be dealt with the next day, then, after trying half a dozen different drawers, he found a nightshirt and put it on. He got into his bed and discovered it had been short-sheeted. He remade the bed, got into it and fell asleep.

He had nightmares.

Stone met Bob Cantor for lunch the next day at P. J. Clarke’s. “How was the Mayflower Inn?” he asked.

“Just lovely,” Cantor said. “Bonnie and I had a fine night there. Good dinner, too. You’re looking a little peaked, Stone. Drink too much last night?”

“Maybe,” Stone said glumly. “You know that circuit board you changed in the Connecticut alarm system?”

“Yes.”

“Change the one in my Turtle Bay house, too.”

“Uh-oh, somebody get into the house?”

“Yes, and more.”

“What?”

“Whoever got in rearranged my bedroom and dressing room. Helene is over there now, trying to straighten everything out. It’s a mess.”

“I’ve got a circuit board in the van,” Cantor said. “I’ll do it as soon as we leave here. You got any idea who’s behind these two break-ins?”

“My best guess is Harlan Deal.”

“The guy we met at the inn? Why would he do that?”

“It’s about a woman.”

“Carla?”

“Yes.”

“I know her.”

“I didn’t know you were a music buff.”

“It’s not that. I installed a security system in her grandfather’s house last year and met her there a couple of times.”

“Her grandfather’s house?”

“You remember, you sent me out there.”

Stone was feeling nauseated again and asked the waiter for a beer. “Bob, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You recommended me to her grandfather.”

Stone raised his beer. “Hair of the dog,” he said, then drank deeply. “Who is her grandfather?”

“Eduardo.”

“Eduardo who?”

“Your friend, Eduardo Bianchi.”

“What?”

“Yeah, you sent me to him.”

“Not that, the part about grandfather.”

“Well, she’s his granddaughter. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“That’s impossible; she’s Swedish.”

“Half,” Cantor said. “Her father was Eduardo’s son.”

“He has a son?”

“Had. He caught a number of bullets when Carla was about to start music school at Juilliard. She stopped using her last name after that.”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“My old man knew the family, and so did I. Eduardo’s son, Alberto – Carla’s father – was a couple of years ahead of me in school. I knew him to speak to, that’s all. My old man didn’t want me making friends with mafiosi.”

“Who was her mother?”

“Her, I didn’t know. Somebody Alberto met in the city, I heard. Swedish immigrant, apparently.”

Stone spent a few sips of his beer trying to reorient himself. His world seemed to have been shaken and stirred.

“How do you know Carla?” Cantor asked.

Stone told him the story.