SARAH WAS LATE. STONE SAT AT THE corner table in the handsome Connaught restaurant, with its glowing mahogany paneling, and sipped a vodka gimlet as slowly as he could manage. The restaurant quickly filled with people, and still Sarah did not arrive. He knew that if she phoned, the front desk would get a message to him, and he wondered why she had not.
Then she came into the dining room, looking flustered. Mr. Chevalier, the maitre d’, showed her to the table, and Stone stood up to receive her, pecking her on the cheek.
“God, I need a drink,” she said, breathless. A waiter materialized at her elbow. “A large Johnnie Walker Black,” she said to him, “on ice.” The waiter vanished and returned with the drink.
“Take a few deep breaths,” Stone said.
“It didn’t work, going out the back way,” she said, pulling at the drink. “I had planned to get a taxi, but they were laying for me in the mews, and I had to duck into the garage and drive my car. I went twice around
“I’m glad you finally evaded them,” Stone said. Then, near the restaurant’s door, a flashgun went off. Some people in the restaurant turned and looked in the direction of the photographer, but Stone noted that others hid behind their menus or napkins. Apparently, not all the couples in the restaurant were married, at least, not to each other.
The flashgun went off again, but two waiters were grappling with the photographer, pushing him into the hallway. He was complaining loudly about freedom of the press and making as big a fuss as possible, but gradually his voice faded as they got him into the lobby, then out the door. Stone saw the man outside a window, jumping up and down, trying to spot his prey, then a police officer appeared and led him away by the collar.
“Apparently, I didn’t lose them,” Sarah said. “I hope to God his pictures don’t come out.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Stone said.
“Did you see the tabloids? They know your name. Apparently, there was a reporter at the inquest, though I didn’t see any photographers. Apparently, there aren’t any newsworthy rock stars or politicians anymore, so they’ve settled on me. I’ve never had an experience like this.” She signaled the waiter for another drink.
“Slow down,” he said. “You’ve still got to drive home, you know.” The waiter came and brought menus.
“I can’t deal with it; you order.”
Stone turned to the waiter. “Surprise us.” The waiter vanished.
“Just keep breathing deeply,” he said. “Don’t rely on the whiskey to calm you down.” He took the drink from her hand and placed it on the table. “Now, would you like to hear about my meeting with Julian Wainwright?”
“Yes, please; I’d like something else to think about.”
“Well, you’ve a lot to think about,” Stone said. “First, let me ask you some questions: Did James say anything to you about making you his beneficiary?”
“No. Well, he mentioned something in passing, like, ‘Of course I’ll have to make a new will,’ but I assumed he meant after we were married.”
“Were you aware of the day he went to sign the will?”
“Yes, because we had seen his solicitor the night before. I knew he was going there.”
“Did you discuss the will at all?”
“No, he just said he was going to see Julian; he implied that he had a number of things to discuss with him. There had been an offer for his companies some time back, and I think they were going to talk about that.”
“Yes, Julian mentioned that.” Stone patted his pocket. “I have the will and James’s financial statement, and I’ll give them to you later, but the thrust of it is that he left three hundred thousand pounds—”
“Good God! He left me three hundred thousand pounds?”
“No, he left that much to his schools and to charities. He left everything else to you.”
She stared at him blankly. “You mean his business?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes welled up a little. “I don’t know anything about running a business; I don’t want it. Tell Julian to take it back.”
“Take it easy, now, that’s not how it works. You don’t have to run the business.”
“I don’t?”
“Remember the offer that James was discussing with Julian?”
“Yes.”
“I asked Julian to investigate whether discussions might be reopened.”
“So you think Julian can sell it?”
“Yes.”
“What a relief!”
“Do you want to know how much it’s worth?”
“Yes, please.”
“The offer was for four hundred and ninety million pounds.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Surely you mean thousand.”
“No, million.”
“But that’s . . .”
“A lot of money.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Of course, there will be taxes to pay and other fees, but you should come out of this with a substantial amount of cash or stock.”
“I think I’d prefer cash,” she said absently, as if her mind were elsewhere.
“And there were other things—James’s house in London and a country house, investments. He was a very wealthy man.”
“I knew he was well off,” she said, “but I had no idea, really. He never talked about it much, the way a lot of businessmen do. I thought he was in it because he loved wine so much, and because his father before him was.”
“And his grandfather and great-grandfather, apparently.”
“He didn’t even mention that.”
“Do you know the two houses?”
“Of course. They’re both in wonderful locations, but they need a complete redoing.”
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.”
Their dinner arrived, and they talked less as they dined. Stone thought the food was sublime, as was the wine Mr. Chevalier had chosen for them. “I don’t think I’ll ever look at a menu here again,” Stone said.
“Stone, I never had a chance to ask you: Why are you in London?”
“A client asked me to come and look into something for him.”
“Something? What thing?”
“I can’t tell you that; client confidentiality.”
“Of course, I should have known. Is it one of those wonky investigation things you get into?”
“Sort of. Tell me, how do you know Monica and Erica Burroughs?”
“I’ve known Monica for years; she sells my work.”
“Of course, I knew that.”
“But I met Erica only recently, when she and Lance came over.”
