“Yes, good morning,” Barton replied. He seemed preoccupied.
“What would you like for breakfast?”
“Oh, just toast and coffee.”
“You sure you wouldn’t like some eggs? Helene does wonderful scrambled eggs.”
“Perhaps just a plain omelette and orange juice.”
“Yes, sir,” Helene said, then went to work.
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation last night,” Barton said.
“And what have you concluded?”
“I think it’s worth a shot, assuming she doesn’t live forever.”
“How old is she, exactly?” Stone asked.
“At that dinner party where I last saw Mildred, another woman there told me she was ninety-six, and that was last year.”
“Well, if she’s ninety-seven and still healthy, she might live another ten years, maybe more.”
“Not unless she’s a freak of nature,” Barton said.
“You could assume that as a downside. How long could you afford to go on paying her?”
“If you can get my stolen secretary back, I could afford to pay her for a long time.”
“Decisions, decisions,” Stone said.
Barton dug into his omelette. “Delicious,” he said to Helene. “Stone, would you draw up a contract for me?”
“What kind of contract?”
“I’d like to say something like this: ‘I, Mildred Strong, agree to sell all the items listed on the attached list to Barton Cabot for the sum of blank, to be pa
id at the rate of blank annually until my death, at which time the residue would become payable to my estate, and Mr. Cabot would take possession of all the listed items. Until my death all the items would remain in my possession in my home. I instruct my executor to honor this contract within ten days of my death, upon receipt of the residue of funds from Mr. Cabot.’ ”
“That’s a pretty good contract right there,” Stone said. “Best to keep it simple, to one page, if possible, and you’d want at least one witness. You’d need to catalogue the goods, of course, and get her to sign the list, as well. How long would an inventory take?”
“To do a thorough job, probably a day or two. I’d want to get any documents she might have to provide provenance.”
“Is she likely to have eighteenth-century receipts?”
“That depends on whether Caleb Strong’s ancestors were sticklers for keeping records. Some of those old New England families never threw anything away.”
“Finish your breakfast and come into my office. I’ll draw up something for you.”
Barton read the document and set it on Stone’s desk. “Perfect,” he said.
Stone tapped a few computer keys, printed out some copies and put them into an envelope. “Here you are,” he said, handing over the envelope. I’ve put in some blank pages for the inventory which, I suppose, you’ll have to do by hand.”
“I suppose,” Barton said. “May I use your phone?”
“Of course,” Stone replied. “There’s one on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Would you like some privacy?”
“No, that’s all right.” Barton took an address book from his pocket, walked to the sofa and dialed a number. “May I speak to Mrs. Strong, please? This is Barton Cabot calling.”