We left Mandy and took a drive to Worth Avenue for a late breakfast and a conversation about what our next move should be. Tara suggested we go back to New York and try harder to retrace Stuart’s steps during the days before he disappeared. I agreed with her, thinking there must be clues we’d overlooked. But Tony held fast to his hunch that Stuart was in Florida and insisted we stay for another day or two.
“There’s a reason he wanted you two to fly down here to look at houses,” he said to Tara. “My guess is that he was scoping out the territory so he’d be ready when it was time to make his getaway.”
“Then why isn’t he with Mandy?” I asked.
“And how will we find him now that he isn’t with her?” Tara added.
“Just give this one more day,” he said. “I have nothing to go on except my gut, but I’ve spent my whole adult life writing about criminals and I know how they think. Stuart’s here somewhere, trust me.”
Tara and I deferred to Tony and said we’d do whatever he thought best.
We finished our breakfast, left the restaurant, and strolled down Worth Avenue en route to our car. As we were passing by antique shops, art gallerys, and one clothing designer after another, Tony bent down to tie his shoelace. Since we had stopped walking momentarily, Tara and I peered into the store window in front of us. The shop sold gourmet foods, and the display in the window captured our attention. A beautiful table had been set with place mats and napkins and silver and crystal, with a dozen or so imported products laid out decoratively among them. There was some pâté, some cheese, some fruit, and a baguette. There were also several one-ounce jars of caviar, six mother-of-pearl caviar spoons, and a bottle of vodka in an ice bucket.
“I know we just ate breakfast,” I said, “but my mouth’s watering.”
“Same here,” said Tara.
“What are we looking at?” asked Tony, now upright.
I pointed to the display in the window.
He pressed his nose against the glass. And then, without a word, he hurried inside the store.
“I guess he’s hungry, too,” said Tara as we followed him.
Tony had more on his mind than food, it turned out. He walked right up to the display, reached in, grabbed one of the jars of caviar, and examined it.
“Well, what do you know,” he said. “My hunch was right on the money after all.”
“Your hunch about Stuart?” I said.
“Here,” he said, holding the jar in front of our eyes. “See for yourselves.”
Upon closer inspection, the jar bore the label of Stuart’s bogus company, Caspian Classics.
“I don’t believe it,” said Tara, shaking her head. “He’s selling his bootlegged stuff down here?”
“Unless this is some bizarre coincidence,” said Tony. “Let’s have a chat with the manager.”
Gerald Franks was a portly man who spoke with an affected faux-British accent. He not only managed the shop but owned it, and had for years.
“We just started carrying Caspian Classics,” he said after Tony introduced himself as Harvey Kraus and began his inquiry. “Black gold has been getting ridiculously expensive, but the gentleman who distributes this brand gives me a break on the price.”
“Interesting,” said Tony. “Any idea where we could find him?”
“Not if you’re trying to compete with me, Mr. Kraus,” he said with a chuckle. “I don’t need anyone cutting into my business.”
“I’m not local competition,” said Tony. “I’ve got a couple of stores in the Chicago area, so I’d like to talk to your man about selling Caspian Classics in my part of the country.”
“Oh. Well then, have at him,” said Gerald, who dug around in his desk for Stuart’s card, then handed it to Tony.
“He doesn’t give his address,” said Tony. “Only a pager number.”
“I know, but it’s the best way to reach Mr. Dunsmore,” said Gerald.
“Mr. Dunsmore?” said Tara, squelching a laugh.
“Yes,” replied Gerald. “Ronald Dunsmore. He’s a very cordial fellow.”
Tony thanked Gerald for the time and the information, and Gerald wished Tony luck with his stores in Chicago. And then off we went.
“No wonder Sergei’s pissed,” I said when we were back out on the street. “Not only did Stuart stop paying him, he elbowed him out of their deal altogether.”
“Cordial my ass,” muttered Tara.
“What now, Tony?” I asked. “Without an address on the card, we’ve got nowhere to go.”
“I’ll call the pager number,” he said.
“And tell him you’re here to hunt him down?” said Tara. “I don’t think that’ll go over well.”
“I’m not here to hunt him down,” he said with a smile. “Harvey Kraus is here to do business with him. Or weren’t you listening to what I told Gerald?”
He dialed the pager number, then punched in his cell number after the voice-mail prompt. The three of us huddled together while we waited for him to call back. When Tony’s phone bleated out the William Tell Overture, we practically jumped.
“Harvey Kraus,” said Tony, altering his voice so Stuart wouldn’t recognize it. He was trying to sound midwestern, but there was still a touch of New York in his speech. “Oh, yes, Mr. Dunsmore. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. Gerald Franks gave me your card. I’ve got a couple of shops like his in Chicago and I’m looking to better my margin on caviar. He said you were the man to talk to…. Yes…. Uh-huh…. Is that right?”
Tara and I were dying of curiosity, since we could hear only one side of the conversation.
“That’d be great,” Tony went on. “I’m in town for another day or so. I could meet with you today, sure. I’m staying at the Breakers. Why don’t we say lunch at one o’clock? I’ll make the reservation in my name…. No, it’s Kraus, not Cross. Harvey Kraus…. Right. Bye.”
Tony hung up and grinned. “We’ve got him—at least for the moment.”
“This is huge,” said Tara. “You proved he’s here. And now that he’s on the hook, all we have to do is reel him in.”
“I think I should reel him in,” said Tony. “You two stay out of it.”
“Not a chance,” said Tara. “I want to see the look on that jerk’s face when he realizes I’m on to him.”
“Me, too,” I said. “I’ve been waiting a long time to watch him squirm.”
At 12:50, the three of us sat down at Harvey Kraus’s table for four and waited. We were all wearing wide-brimmed hats and sunglasses so that Stu boy wouldn’t recognize us right off the bat and bolt. We looked like tacky tourists, but that was sort of the point.
We were giddy with anticipation as we traded possible scenarios of what he would do and say when he realized we’d found him. In fact, we were having a good laugh when I noticed that two men were approaching our table.
“Oh my God. It’s the detectives who interviewed me yesterday,” I said. “I can’t believe they actually followed us here.”
Sure enough, the same two cops to whom I’d blabbed about the Breakers came right over and announced that they wanted to question Tara in connection with her husband’s disappearance.
“I’m not guilty,” she said. “And neither is Amy.”
“If you give us a few minutes, we’ll prove it,” I said.
The cops looked dubious, so Tony took over. He explained that Stuart was very much alive; that his car had merely been in an accident and he’d been too careless to report it; that he’d flown to Palm Beach without telling his friends and family; and that he was, in fact, due to arrive at the hotel shortly. “You can question him yourselves,” he said. “Do whatever you need to do to close the case. But let us have some private time with him first. Or, rather, let these two long-suffering ladies have some private time with him.” He winked at the detectives, then added in a whisper, “There was a love triangle, and they need to sort it out. You understand.”
The detectives nodded at Tony in that manly way men have when the subject of sex comes up, then said they’d be waiting outside the restaurant to interview Stuart when we were done with him.
“Wow. Good job,” I said to Tony as the cops walked out and Stuart walked in. “And not a moment too soon.”
At one o’clock on the nose, he appeared. And he was not the Stuart of old, with the preppy suit and the preppy hair. The new Stuart had gone tropical. He was in a Hawaiian shirt, khakis, and sandals, and he’d dyed his hair a color that was meant to be blond but was an unfortunate orange instead.
He stood at the maître d’s station, where he must have said he was meeting a Mr. Kraus, and was immediately escorted to our table. (Lucky for us, there was a change of shift from the night before, so the maître d’ on duty was not the one who’d thrown us out.) We kept our heads down and our glasses on while he walked toward us. It was only after he slid into the empty seat next to Tony and said, “Mr. Kraus? I’m Ronald Dunsmore” that we removed our hats and glasses, as if in a perfectly choreographed dance, and shouted, “Surprise!”
At first, Stuart seemed too stunned to register a reaction of any kind. He just sat there, his eyes moving from Tara to me to Tony and back. But after a beat or two, he made a move to flee.
Tony was too fast for him. He grabbed Stuart’s hand, stepped on one of his feet, and held him right where he was, only knocking the saltshaker off the table—a far cry from the commotion we’d caused the night before.
“You might as well stay,” said Tony, “because there are two cops at the door who are even more eager to talk to you than we are.”
Stuart froze at the mention of police. “Fine. I’ll stay,” he said. “How did you find me?”
“Your fish eggs smelled,” said Tony. “We just followed the scent.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Caspian Classics. Truffles Magnifique. New Life Organic,” said Tara, ticking off his crooked ventures. “They’re what we’re talking about. I’m sure Sergei, Ho, and Miguel want to talk to you about them, too.”
“Who?” asked Stuart.
“We know everything,” said Tony. “So does Jimmy. How could you steal from your own family?”
“Not that it’s any of your business—and that goes for all three of you—but my family’s been stealing from me for years. I was the rightful heir. I was the one who should have run Lasher’s. Instead, Jimmy got the job and I was the second fiddle. How fair was that?”
The second fiddle. There it was again. The pesky syndrome that had dogged me. Only this time, it was Stuart who was suffering from it. Had that been our common bond when we were together—our mutual insecurity about being the “also ran?” Not exactly a sound basis for a relationship, was it?
“You would have run Lasher’s into the ground,” said Tara. “You almost did.”
“But you’re not going to,” said Tony. “Jimmy doesn’t want the company to go down the toilet, which it will if there’s a criminal investigation.”
“And I don’t want sales of my book to go down the toilet,” Tara echoed, “which they will if you don’t show up at my book party.”
“You’re crazy,” Stuart scoffed. “You’re all crazy. I kissed off that bullshit when I faked my own murder.”
“When you tried to fake your own murder,” I said.
“And to think that you almost let us take the rap for it,” said Tara.
“Whatever,” he said. “I’m in Florida now and I’m starting over.”
“Not before you tie up a few loose ends,” said Tara.
“Why should I?” asked Stuart, whining like the child he was.
“Why should you? The easy answer is that if you don’t, we’ll have you arrested for fraud, larceny, and anything else the prosecutors dream up,” said Tony. “Or we could just tip off Sergei and the other mischief makers to your new state of residence and let them come down here and rearrange your face.”
Stuart didn’t speak for a minute. Our waiter took the break in the action to hand us menus and tell us the specials.
“What do you want from me?” he asked impatiently. “Tell me and get it over with.”
“I want a divorce,” said Tara.
“My pleasure,” said Stuart.
“First things first,” said Tony. “What we want most of all is for you to make things right with your family. Your parents are worried sick about you, although why they should care is beyond me. They don’t have any idea what happened to you, because Jimmy didn’t want to upset them any more than they already are.”
“My bro is such a sweetheart,” he said sarcastically.
“I wouldn’t be so cavalier about him,” said Tony. “He cares enough about preserving Lasher’s reputation that he’s willing to pay off your debts and not press charges against you. Of course, you’ll have to sell the house in Mamaroneck to cover some of the debts.”
“Yeah. Fine. But what’s the catch?”
“That you come back to New York and have a nice long talk with your folks. Tell them they were right to put Jimmy in charge. Tell them it’s taken you a while to face it but now you understand that you’re not cut out for running the company. Tell them you sulked at first, made mistakes, left town to clear your head, but that you’ve gotten yourself together and are starting a new business in Florida. Say you’re sorry, Stuart. Get it now?”
“Yeah, yeah. What else?”
“Put in an appearance at my publication party,” said Tara.
He laughed. “Why in the world would I do that?”
“Tony just told you why,” she said. “It’s either a nice long prison sentence or a half-hour cameo at my party, during which you’ll play the part of the loving husband I wrote about.”
“I’m not that good an actor, hon.”
“No? You fooled your own family. I think you can fool a few reporters.”
“If this party of yours is getting so much publicity, how do I know Sergei won’t find out about it and cause problems?” asked Stuart.
“It’s a private party at her editor’s apartment,” I explained. “Strictly invitation only.”
“And I highly doubt Sergei reads Page Six of the Post,” Tara said dryly. “I don’t know about Ho and Miguel, but he barely spoke English.”
“So let me get this straight,” said Stuart. “All I have to do is go home, make nice to Jimmy and my parents, be irresistible at the book party, and then I can come back to Florida? Free and clear?”
“Don’t forget the divorce,” said Tara. “Once my book tour is over and I’ve hit the best-seller list, I’m filing the papers and you’ll have to sign them.”
“And you’ll have to stop peddling Caspian Classics,” added Tony. “Jimmy won’t drop the charges against you unless you set yourself up in a legitimate business.”
“Caspian Classics is legitimate. A legitimate moneymaker.”
“Sell caviar if you want to,” said Tony. “Sell quail eggs, cow’s udders, who cares what. Just do it legally.”
“Okay. Okay. But I don’t have time to sit here,” he said. “I have things to do.”
“Just two things,” said Tony. “First, you have to talk to the cops outside and tell them your disappearance was just a silly misunderstanding. Then you have to pack. You’ll be on the plane with us tomorrow.”
“I can’t leave tomorrow,” he said. “I need to—”
“Run away again?” Tara said. “I don’t think so. We’re not letting you out of our sight until you show your face at my party.”
“But I have to make arrangements, tell people I’ll be gone.”
“What people?” I said, having been fairly quiet up to that point. “Mandy?”
Stuart turned to me. “What do you know about all this, Amy?”
“I know that you’re selfish,” I said. “You were selfish four years ago and you’re selfish now. The only difference is that Mandy is the one on the short end, not me.”
“What’s with the Mandy stuff?” he said. “She used to be my secretary. Big deal.”
“Oh please,” said Tara. “She’s done a lot more for you than type your letters. We paid her a visit this morning.”
He looked surprised. “You saw her here? In Palm Beach?”
“Well, she wasn’t in China,” said Tara.
“Then I guess she told you about the baby,” he said.
Tara and I locked eyes—it was our turn to be surprised—but it was she who spoke. “The baby?”
“Yeah. We’re expecting. Since you’re so keen on a divorce, I might as well marry her.”
“Now that you mention it, your girlfriend did look rather thick around the middle. I just figured she’d been overeating, given the strain of living with you.”
“Speaking of which,” said Tony, “you and she are moving into her aunt’s house?”
He wrinkled his nose with distaste. “Not right away. We’re renting a condo until the house is habitable. It needs major renovation, as you must have noticed.”
Tara laughed. “You’re such a prince, Stuart. Nothing but the best for you.”
“The best?” He looked at her, then at me, and his expression became uncharacteristically somber. Even regretful. “I had the best and I threw it away.”
As the busboy arrived to refill our water glasses, I couldn’t help wondering whether he meant Tara or if he meant me. Which of us had been his “best?”
Before I could give the question a single second more than it deserved, Tony reached under the table and squeezed my hand, as if to remind me that none of that mattered anymore.