He followed her out the front door to the street, where a number of wooden crates were being unloaded at the curb. “What is this?” he asked.

“You tell me,” Joan replied. “It seems to be wine. I hope to God you haven’t bought a lot of wine. Right now, you can’t afford wines that come in wooden crates.”

Stone took a closer look at the crates. Château Palmer, 1961; Beaune, Clos de Roi, 1959; La Tache, Domaine de Romanée-Conti, 1959; Le Montrachet, 1955. “Good God,” he said.

“How much did all this cost?” Joan demanded.

The truck driver handed him an envelope. “There’s a note,” he said. “Where do you want all this put?”

Stone opened the envelope and extracted a sheet of very fine stationery.

My dear Stone,

I hope you will do me the favor of taking some of Caleb’s wine off my hands. There is so much, I’ll never be able to finish it before… well, before I kick off, as they say. It should be drunk by someone who loves and appreciates it as much as you. Enjoy it in good health!

Mildred Strong

“Don’t worry, Joan; it’s a gift,” Stone said. “Show them where the cellar is, please, and just have them stack it up. Don’t take it out of the crates.” He counted as they moved the crates: There were eight of them, each among the twentieth century’s finest vintages.

Stone sat down to write to Mildred. Joan returned a few minutes later. She came into Stone’s office. “I know the names of some of those wines,” she said. “Shall I call Christie’s or Sotheby’s about auctioning it?”

“Don’t you dare,” Stone said. “I plan to drink every bottle of it.”

“You should live so long,”

“I should,” he said, handing her his note. “Would you mail this, please?”

“Sure, I will, but if you’re ever broke again, and you will be, if I know you, then you’ll have a way to raise money.”

“I don’t want to think about that,” Stone said. He picked up the phone and called Tatiana.

“Hello?”

“I hope it’s not too early to be calling,” he said.

“Are you kidding? I’ve been up since five.”

“Well, be sure to take a nap this afternoon, so you’ll be fresh when I come to take you to dinner.”

“Oh, that would be nice. What time?”

“Pick you up at seven-thirty?”

“Perfect. Where are we going, so I’ll know how to dress.”

“How about La Goulue?”

“I love it there. See you at seven-thirty. Will you come through the back door?”

“That’s the most convenient way.”

“I’ll leave the kitchen door open for you.”

“See you then.” He hung up. The phone rang, and Joan picked it up.

She buzzed him. “There’s a man on the phone named Creighton Adams, says you’ve met. He’s a lawyer in Rhode Island?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll talk to him.” Stone punched the button. “Good morning, Creighton.”

“Good morning, Stone. I’m afraid I have sad news.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Mildred Strong died last night.”

Stone was stunned. “She seemed so well when we met. What happened?”

“It was an embolism. Her doctor had found it in a scan some weeks ago. It was operable, but she refused the surgery. Said she didn’t want to be that sick at this time of her life. So she just carried on until it burst as she was leaving a dinner party last night.”

“She was such a remarkable woman,” Stone said, genuinely sad. “She sent me some wines from her cellar. They arrived only a few minutes ago. I had already written her a note.”

“That was like her: She was given to bursts of generosity, especially after she knew she might die at any moment.”

“Thank you for letting me know, Creighton. I’d like to attend her funeral or memorial service. Will you let me know when that is?”

“Of course. Now to business. I’ve written you a letter that will be delivered tomorrow, but I’ll give you a day’s head start. Please inform your client, Mr. Cabot, that he has ten days to pay the remaining nineteen million dollars called for in his contract with Mrs. Strong. Please tell him that we must be strict about the deadline.”

“Certainly, I’ll tell him,” Stone said. “And thank you again for calling me.” He hung up and sat there a while, thinking of Mildred Strong and her amazing generosity. He was glad to have had the experience of knowing her.

Then something else occurred to him. He hoped Charlie Crow hadn’t heard about her death, yet. It would be like him to stop payment on his half-million-dollar check.

50

Stone dialed Barton Cabot’s cell number, since he didn’t know if He was back in Connecticut yet.

“Hello?”

“Barton, it’s Stone.”

“Good morning, Stone.”

“Not so good; I have sad news.”

“What?”

“Mildred Strong died last night. Creighton Adams called me a couple of minutes ago.”

Silence.

“Barton?”

“I’m here; I’m just stunned.”

“So am I. She seemed so healthy, but Creighton said she’d known for some weeks that she had an embolism, and she elected not to have the surgery.”

“So she knew she was going to die.”

“Yes, but she didn’t know when.”

“That’s why she did the deal with me.”

“Someone once said that the foreknowledge of death concentrates the mind. I guess she wanted to get her affairs in order.”

“I last saw her at five o’clock yesterday, after we’d finished photographing everything. She seemed just fine.”

“She sent me eight cases of her best wine. It arrived this morning.”

“That was sweet of her.”

“It certainly was. There was a note saying that she didn’t think she could drink it before she ‘kicked off,’ as she put it.”

Barton laughed.

“Creighton also gave us verbal notice of the need for you to complete the contract. You have ten days from when we receive written notice, which will be tomorrow.”

“Good God! I hadn’t thought about that! I’m going to have to see my banker while I’m in New York. It’s a good thing we took the photographs; I’m going to have to put together a prospectus to send to a number of museums.”

“Do you anticipate any problem borrowing nineteen million dollars?”

“The furniture will be its own collateral, but I’ll have to borrow twenty million: I’ll have to send a specialist moving outfit to pack and store everything, and it will have to be insured.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to get started, then.”

“Will you call Creighton Adams and tell him the house should be put under guard immediately? I don’t want people taking things out of there.”

“Yes, I’ll do that.”

“Talk to you later.” Barton hung up.

Stone buzzed Joan. “Please get me Creighton Adams.” He sat and waited for her to make the call, then he thought of something.

“Creighton Adams.”

“Creighton, it’s Stone Barrington.”

“Yes, Stone?”

“I’ve spoken to Barton, and he asked that you put the house under guard immediately and for twenty-four hours a day.”

“And who’s going to pay for that?”

“Until the deal is closed, it’s the estate’s responsibility, and you’re the executor, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes.”

“There’s at least twenty million dollars of very fine antique furniture in that house, and you don’t want any of it lost, and I doubt very much if it’s insured for its full value. You’d better get it insured for the next ten days, and I’d use a value of forty million dollars.”

“That’s going to cost a fortune.”

“You can pay it out of the nineteen million you’re getting from Barton. Anyway, it’s only for ten days.”

“I suppose you’re right. I’ll take care of it.”

“Something else, Creighton. Last week Mrs. Strong did some business with a man named Charlie Crow. Are you aware of that?”

“No,” Adams said. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“He’s a New York real estate developer and not the straightest arrow in that particular quiver.”