“That’s right,” Stone replied, surprised.

“Guess you’ll be needing a charge account.”

“Don’t mind if I do; can I have an application?”

“Don’t need an application.”

“How about my address?”

“Know your address.”

Stone picked up a map of the area, signed for the tools, and went back to his car, figuring that he had a lot to learn about small, New England towns.

He spread out the map and recognized a familiar name: New Preston. He’d heard something about antiques there. Following the map, he drove up a hill, down another, crossed a highway, and came to an attractive village. An hour later, he’d bought two lamps, three pictures, all local landscapes, and a shopping bag full of small items.

He continued along the road and came to a large lake—Lake Waramaug, the map said. He followed the winding road around the lake, enjoying the sun on the water and the views of the hills, and ended up back where he started. He drove back to Washington and had lunch at the Pantry, a restaurant and kitchen supply shop, where he bought a few more things for his kitchen, plus a couple of cheeses from a large display.

Back at the house he hung the pictures, plugged in the lamps, and started looking for things to fix with his new tools. He didn’t find much. The place was newly renovated, and everything appeared to have been taken care of.

He fixed himself a lunch of bread and cheese, then stretched out for a nap on the living-room sofa, to await the arrival of the reputedly evil Dolce.

44

STONE WAS AWAKENED BY A NOISE RESEMBLING the start of the Indianapolis 500. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, wondering what the hell was going on. The noise died, and he heard a car door slam; by the time he got to the front door, Dolce was standing there, her arms full of things. A bright red Ferrari was parked next to Stone’s car.

“Is this the Barrington mansion?” she asked, peeking inside.

“It is,” Stone replied. “Won’t you step inside, madam?”

“Try mademoiselle,” she said, coming into the house, “or better yet, signorina.”

Stone took her packages inside, while she went back to the car. She returned with an armful of flowers and a large vase. “I suspected the place would need brightening,” she said, handing him the vase. “Fill that two-thirds with tepid water.”

Stone did as instructed, and she quickly arranged the flowers and set them on the living-room coffee table. “There; makes all the difference, doesn’t it?”

“It certainly does. What’s in the packages?”

“Housewarming gifts,” she replied. “Open.”

Stone opened the packages and found two beautiful oils, a Venetian scene and a landscape he didn’t recognize, with a Roman ruin prominently featured.

“They’re beautiful,” he said, kissing her. “Where’s the landscape?”

“Sicily, where else?”