“It’s in the heart of town, in a little cul-de-sac off Worth Avenue, right across the street from the Everglades Club. Anyone can tell you.”
“I expect I can find it.”
“Twelve-thirty, then, in the garden?”
“Fine. How will I recognize you?”
“I’ll recognize you,” she said. “See you tomorrow.” She hung up.
Stone replaced the phone in the arm of the chair. Winston Harding. Sounded faintly familiar, but he couldn’t place the man. Hard to tell much about Mrs. Harding from her voice, even her age. He pictured her as in her fifties, but she could be younger, he supposed. Or older.
He settled back into his chair and returned his attention to the Times. Soon, he dozed off.
5
STONE WAS WAKENED BY A SLIGHT JAR AND THE SCREECH of rubber on pavement. He opened his eyes to see airport buildings rushing past the airplane’s windows as the pilot deployed the thrust reversers.
“You slept very well,” Callie said. She was back in her seat.
“It’s one of the things I do best,” he replied.
“I guess I’ll have to figure out the other things for myself,” she said, with a little smile.
The airplane taxied to a stop in front of a terminal, and the copilot came out of the cockpit and lowered the airstair door. A lineman entered the airplane, and the copilot showed him where the luggage was stored.
Stone followed Callie down the stairs to a waiting car, a Jaguar XK8 convertible, top down. The lineman was stowing their luggage in the trunk and behind the seat.
“Hop in,” Callie said.
Stone got into the passenger seat, and a minute later they were out of the airport, rolling east. The temperature was in the mid-seventies, and the sun was shining brightly.
“Quite a difference from New York, huh?” Callie said.
“Where are we now?” Stone asked.
“We’re in West Palm, and in a couple of minutes we’ll cross onto the island of Palm Beach, if traffic isn’t too screwed up on the bridge. They’re replacing it, and it’s taking forever.”
Traffic was screwed up on the bridge, and it took forever before they were waved across and Callie was able to drive quickly again. They passed between a double row of very tall royal palms.
“This your first trip here?” she asked.
“Yes, it is. In fact, the only place I’ve ever been in Florida is Miami—twice, both times to pick up people in handcuffs.”
She looked at him. “What kind of lawyer are you?”
“One who used to be a cop.”
She made a few quick turns and suddenly, they were on the beach, driving past huge, ugly stucco mansions. “Thought I’d give you a little tour on the way to the house,” she said. “That’s Mar a Lago over there—the home of Marjorie Meriwether Post, now owned by the awful Donald Trump. He’s turned it into a club. Some of these palaces have tunnels to the beach.” She turned down Worth Avenue. “This is the shopping heart of Palm Beach,” she said. “All the famous stores are here.” They drove past Saks Fifth Avenue, Ralph Lauren and dozens of smaller shops.
“Where is the Everglades Club?” he asked.
“Down at the end. Why do you ask?”
“I have a lunch date for tomorrow at a place called Renato’s, which is supposed to be across the street.”
“Here comes the Everglades Club on the left,” she said, “and on the right is a little alley full of shops, and Renato’s is at the end.”
“What’s the Everglades Club?”