“TELL ME ABOUT THE WILKESES,” STONE SAID. “WHAT Tare their first names?” They were driving up North County Road. To their right, usually behind high hedges, were houses that fronted the beach.

“Frank and Margaret,” she said. “He founded a chain of fast-food restaurants in the Midwest, and later, he bought some other companies. He’s very rich.” She pointed. “The house is the next one.”

Stone pulled up to a wrought-iron gate, which was tightly shut. A section of hedge prevented the house from being seen from the street.

“I think I’m uncomfortable just ringing the bell,” Callie said.

Stone handed her his cell phone. “Tell them we’re in the neighborhood, and we’re calling at the suggestion of Thad Shames.”

Callie made the call, chatted brightly with Mrs. Wilkes for a couple of minutes, then hung up. “Okay,” she said, “they’ll see us.”

Stone pulled up to the gates, reached out the window, rang the bell and the gates opened. The driveway was longer than Stone had expected, and they emerged in a cobblestoned circle with a fountain in its center. The house was an old one, in the Florida Spanish style, and appeared to have been carefully restored. Stone and Callie got out of the car and rang the front doorbell.

The door was answered by Margaret Wilkes, dressed for golf in a plaid skirt and polo shirt. “Callie, come in,” she said. “How nice to see you.”

“Mrs. Wilkes, this is Stone Barrington, a friend of Thad’s.”

“How do you do?” Stone said, and shook her extended hand.

“Please come back to the terrace,” she said. A houseman appeared from the rear of the house. “Bobby, please bring us a pitcher of lemonade.”

Frank Wilkes rose from a wicker sofa on the rear terrace to greet them, and introductions were made. The terrace overlooked a large pool and a garden, with the Atlantic beyond. Both the Wilkeses were charming and unpretentious.

After the lemonade had been served, Stone got to the point. “Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes . . .”

“Please, Frank and Margaret,” Wilkes said.

“Thank you. I’m here, on Thad Shames’s behalf, to inquire about a Mr. Paul Bartlett, of Minneapolis. You know him, I believe.”

“Yes, of course,” Wilkes replied. “For several years.”

“May I ask just how many years?”

“Well, let’s see: He had a design business in Minneapolis, and he and his partner made a presentation to us, oh, a little over two years ago. That’s when we first met. We hired them to redesign all our paper products—plates, sandwich cartons, the hats for the counter people, that sort of thing. Why do you want to know about Paul? Is he in some sort of difficulties?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. It’s just that he bears a resemblance to someone I used to know and that Thad is interested in. We only want to know that he’s who he says he is.”