Stone arrived at 1010 Fifth Avenue late in the afternoon, and was allowed access by the front-desk man. “Is Mrs. Baker in?” he asked.
“No, sir,” the man replied, “she moved out a lot of stuff this morning and said she wouldn’t be back.”
“Did she leave her key?”
“No, sir.”
Stone went upstairs and used Vanessa’s key to let himself in. “Hello?” he called.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice said, then the maid came into the foyer. “Hello, Mr. Barrington,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Is Betty here?”
“No, sir. She moved out this morning, said she was going back to her own place. I’ve been cleaning all day, getting the place ready to be shown.”
“Please go on with your work,” Stone said, then he called Vanessa’s cell number.
“Hello?”
“I’m in. Are you upstairs?”
“Yes.”
“You can come down now. The maid is here cleaning.”
“I’ll be right there.” She hung up.
Stone took a look around the place: it seemed very clean and less cluttered with bric-a-brac.
Vanessa let herself in. “Brenda?” she called, and the maid came out of a bedroom and greeted her warmly. “You can go on cleaning,” Vanessa said. “There won’t be any buyers looking today. And, Brenda?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“My visit here is just between us. I don’t want Mother to know where I am or what I’m doing.”
“I understand, Ms. Baker.” She went back to work.
The house phone rang, and Vanessa picked it up. “Yes? Please send him right up.” She hung up. “It’s the locksmith.”
“Tell him what you want done,” Stone said. “I’ll have a seat in the library.”
He went into the room and found an interesting book.
An hour later, Vanessa came into the room and handed him some keys. “These are for you—both apartments; they’re marked. Brenda will start working upstairs tomorrow and will dust in here each day. I’ve called my Realtor, and she’ll be here in a few minutes. Her office is just around the corner. I’m expecting my decorator friend in an hour or so.”
“I’m happy here,” Stone said. “If there’s anything you want to take to my house, we’ll just put it in the trunk of the car.”
Stone went back to his reading. After a few minutes, he heard the house phone ring, and after that, the doorbell. Vanessa came into the library with a middle-aged woman in a Chanel suit. “Stone, this is Margot Goodale, my Realtor. Margot, this is my friend Stone Barrington. He’s also my attorney and can speak for me.” They left the room.
Finally, Vanessa came back alone and made them both a drink. Margot says we’ll ask six million nine and take six and a half.”
“That’s what Peter paid for the penthouse,” Stone replied.
Vanessa sat down in a neighboring chair. “Somehow I feel I’ve crossed a river in my life,” she said. “Mother is out of my hair, now, and I want to keep it that way.”
“I’ll do what I can to help,” Stone said, “and I’m happy to have you stay on with me as long as you like.”
“I’m going to take you up on that,” Vanessa said. “I’d rather be there than in London or L.A. right now.”
“Good. I take it from your earlier conversation that you want me to represent you?”
“I’d like that very much.”
“I’m pretty much in the advice business these days,” Stone said. “When you have a need for actual legal work, like selling this apartment, I have a small group of lawyers at Woodman & Weld who handle that sort of thing. It’s run by another partner, Herbert Fisher; you’ll meet him eventually. If I’m ever out of touch, call my secretary, Joan, and she’ll connect you with Herb.”
“Good to know.”
The decorator arrived, and Vanessa introduced her as Jean Swift. “Stone is both my friend and my attorney,” Vanessa said to her. “You can always speak freely with him.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jean said.
Vanessa excused herself for a moment.
“Something I think you should know, Stone,” Jean said. “I’ve had a couple of calls from people looking for Vanessa—one a man, the other a woman, both with accents I couldn’t place.”
“Might they be Russians?”
“They might very well be.”
“Did either of them leave a number?”
“The man did. It’s one familiar to me, the Pierre Hotel.”
“I know that one,” Stone replied. “Don’t tell Vanessa just yet. She needs a few days to get settled before we bother her with such news.”
Vanessa came back and took Jean away, along with two large totes containing catalogs and photographs. Stone went back to his book. He could hear the two women moving about the apartment. He was dozing in his chair when they returned.
“All right,” Jean said. “I have my list of what furniture and art you want moved upstairs, and I’ll get that done tomorrow.”
“Good,” Vanessa said. “Hang the pictures as you see fit.”
“And I’ll place the orders for the things you chose from the catalogs.”
“Wonderful.” The two woman air-kissed and Jean left.
“Sit down, and let’s talk for a moment,” Stone said.
Vanessa sat.
“Jean told me she’s had a couple of calls from people looking for you—a man and a woman. The man left the number of the Pierre and a suite number. He said his name was Smith, but I doubt that very much.”
“What do you want me to do about them?”
“Ignore them. I gave Jean my number and asked her to refer any such calls to me.”
“That’s fine with me.”
“She said that both people had foreign accents, and that they might be Russian.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Vanessa said.
“Neither do I,” Stone said. “Do you have any experience with firearms?”
“Yes, I had a boyfriend once who was a gun nut. He got me a carry license.”
“Do you own a gun?”
“Yes, but I have no idea where it is.”
“I’ll give you something small and light to keep with you.”
“Perfect,” she said. “What do you think these calls mean?”
“I think they mean that Yevgeny Chekhov is looking for you,” he said. “I wonder why.”
Vanessa gave him a big shrug.