“That’s the one.”
“I get that all the time.”
“You even have that husky voice. Is she your mother?”
“Not unless my parents have been lying to me for the past forty-five years.”
“Did Bob tell you anything about what I need?”
“He said you needed a secretary, maybe for a few weeks. He also said that you should not get to like me too much, because he has no intention of letting you steal me.”
Stone laughed. The phone rang, and he went to the wall set and picked it up. “Hello?”
“Stone? It’s Sarah Buckminster.”
The English accent rang like a bell, and parts of Stone were ringing, too.
“You’re obviously an impostor,” he said. “The real Sarah Buckminster is in Tuscany, probably treading grapes for the new Chianti.”
“She was until yesterday.” Sarah laughed.
“Are you really back?”
“I am.”
“God, it’s been, what…”
“Six and a half years. How the hell are you?”
“I’m extremely well.”
“So am I. Buy me lunch?”
“You bet. The Four Seasons at one? We’ll celebrate.”
“We certainly will. See you then.”
“Bye.” Stone hung up and came back to the table. “Sorry about that,” he said to Joa
n. “An old friend has turned up unexpectedly.”
“You certainly sounded happy to hear from her,” Joan said.
“It showed, huh? I guess I am very happy to hear from her. Now, I was telling you about—” The doorbell rang. “Excuse me again.” He picked up the phone. “Yes?” He heard footsteps going down the front steps. “Hello?” He hung up and turned back to Joan. “Let me see who that is.”
He walked through the living room to the front door. Nobody there. He looked up and down the street but saw no one who looked interested in his house. He closed the door and turned to go back to the kitchen. On the floor of the entrance hall was a small, yellow envelope. Somebody had apparently put it through the mail slot. He picked it up. A Western Union telegram. He walked back into the kitchen, tossed it onto the table, sat down, and picked up his coffee, which was getting cold. “A telegram,” he said, picking up the envelope.
“That’s odd,” Joan replied.
“How so?” he asked, opening the envelope.
“There are no telegrams anymore. I mean, you can send a mailgram, I think, but I thought fax machines put telegrams out of business a long time ago.”
Stone unfolded the single sheet of yellow paper. It was an old-fashioned telegram, with strips of message glued to the paper. It read:
SORRY I MISSED LAST NIGHT. IT WON’T HAPPEN AGAIN.
BY THE WAY, DID YOU KNOW THE POLICE ARE WATCHING YOUR HOUSE?