Worst Fears Realized (Stone Barrington 5)

“Well, let’s see what you accomplished, then: first, now Warkowski knows everything we know, right? Second, in the event that Warkowski does know where Mitteldorfer is and is communicating with him, now Mitteldorfer knows we’re looking for him.”

“He’ll know that when the Times story comes out. But you’re right; I shouldn’t have told Warkowski that we knew about the investing. I thought it might help his memory, but it didn’t.”

“Something else, kiddo: if he does talk to Mitteldorfer, he’s going to tell him that you’re in Washington, Connecticut, and I thought you didn’t want him to know that.”

Stone winced. “Okay, I was stupid.”

“I believe I mentioned that earlier in our conversation.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

“Mitteldorfer is going to rub it in, if he finds out where you are. You’d better watch your ass.”

“I will, but Warkowski doesn’t know I have a house here; for all he knows, I’m just visiting for the weekend, as he is.”

“I hope you’re right, pal. And I hope you survive the weekend with Dolce.”

“Is there anything else I need to know about her?”

“I told you all you had to know to avoid trouble; the rest, you’re just going to have to learn for yourself.”

“Okay, Dino; I’ll talk to you later.”

“Good luck, Stone; you’re going to need it.”

Stone called about the newspapers, then got dressed and drove down to the Depot. He went into the Washington Supply, the hardware store, and bought a toolbox and an assortment of tools for the house.

“Guess you’re Stone Barrington,” the man at the counter said.

“That’s right,” Stone replied, surprised.

“Guess you’ll be needing a charge account.”

“Don’t mind if I do; can I have an application?”

“Don’t need an application.”

“How about my address?”

“Know your address.”

Stone picked up a map of the area, signed for the tools, and went back to his car, figuring that he had a lot to learn about small, New England towns.

He spread out the map and recognized a familiar name: New Preston. He’d heard something about antiques there. Following the map, he drove up a hill, down another, crossed a highway, and came to an attractive village. An hour later, he’d bought two lamps, three pictures, all local landscapes, and a shopping bag full of small items.

He continued along the road and came to a large lake—Lake Waramaug, the map said. He followed the winding road around the lake, enjoying the sun on the water and the views of the hills, and ended up back where he started. He drove back to Washington and had lunch at the Pantry, a restaurant and kitchen supply shop, where he bought a few more things for his kitchen, plus a couple of cheeses from a large display.

Back at the house he hung the pictures, plugged in the lamps, and started looking for things to fix with his new tools. He didn’t find much. The place was newly renovated, and everything appeared to have been taken care of.

He fixed himself a lunch of bread and cheese, then stretched out for a nap on the living-room sofa, to await the arrival of the reputedly evil Dolce.

44

S TONE WAS AWAKENED BY A NOISE RESEMBLING the start of the Indianapolis 500. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, wondering what the hell was going on. The noise died, and he heard a car door slam; by the time he got to the front door, Dolce was standing there, her arms full of things. A bright red Ferrari was parked next to Stone’s car.

“Is this the Barrington mansion?” she asked, peeking inside.

“It is,” Stone replied. “Won’t you step inside, madam?”