Hot Mahogany (Stone Barrington 15)

Eleven Water Street turned out to be a large brick and limestone house in the Federal style, perhaps even the period. The door was answered by a middle-aged woman in a black housemaid’s uniform. They gave their names and were escorted into a spacious ground-floor drawing room.

“Mrs. Strong will be down directly,” the woman said, then left them.

Stone had expected the house to be something elegant but seedy, but there was no peeling paint or worn upholstery. The room was immaculate and beautifully furnished. Stone took a chair and watched Barton roam the room like a panther, looking closely at a piece here, a piece there.

Barton then joined Stone, taking the sofa next to him. “It’s a treasure trove,” he half whispered. “There’s at least ten million dollars at auction in this room.”

A door opened, and a tall, slender, beautifully dressed woman swept into the room, moving like someone half her age. She was perfectly coiffed and made up, and Stone wouldn’t have thought she was a day over seventy. He and Barton were immediately on their feet.

“Mildred! How good to see you!” Barton said.

She allowed herself to be kissed on both cheeks. “Barton, you look well.”

“May I present my friend, Stone Barrington?”

She extended a hand. “How do you do, Mr. Barrington.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Stone replied, receiving a firm handshake.

“Would you like a glass of sherry, or shall we go straight in to lunch?” she asked.

“Whatever is convenient,” Barton said.

“Let’s have lunch,” Mildred said, leading the way toward the rear of the house, outside through French doors and down a staircase into a garden, looking south over Narragansett Bay, where a table had been set for three.

Barton held her chair for her, and they sat.

“Mr. Barrington, would you pour the wine?” Mildred asked.

“Certainly,” he replied, “and please call me Stone.”

“And I’m Mildred.”

Stone took the bottle from the ice bucket next to him and glanced at the label. It read Montrachet 1955. Good God! he thought. He poured a little for Mildred Strong.

She tasted it. “Oh, very nice,” she said. “Caleb was an avid collector of wine. I’ve hardly been able to put a dent in his cellar since he died, twenty-five years ago.”

Stone sipped the wine. It was a deep golden color and tasted of honey and pears. “This is perfectly wonderful, Mildred.”

“Are you a collector of wines, Stone?”

“I have a very nice cellar in my house in New York, but only a few good cases, I’m afraid.”

“It is so nice not to have to shop for wine,” she said. “Caleb has already done it for me.”

The maid appeared with bowls of chilled asparagus soup.

“So, Barton,” Mildred said, “what brings you to Rhode Island?”

“It occurred to me that I haven’t done the shops in Newport for a couple of years, and I thought I’d see what I could pick up for my own place.”

“From what I hear, you don’t spend much time in

your shop,” she said.

“That’s perfectly true; I have a woman who runs it for me, while I scour the countryside for good pieces.”

“And that’s why you’ve come to see me, isn’t it?”