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“I thought you were going to clean up.” Rowena looked at the lump called Arthur Millstone.
“I didn’t want to bring the phone into the shower, dear.”
“Right.” She looked at the address and phone number. “North Carolina?”
“That’s what it says. I’m going upstairs.” Arthur laboriously pushed himself up, using the arms of the chair. He looked like hell warmed over.
Rowena took to the computer and searched for Stillwell Art Center. Then she went to Google Maps. It was too far to drive. Then she checked the airlines. Only one flight per week from Boston. She would have to use the company jet. Randolph was against anyone’s using it for personal transportation. It was a waste of jet fuel. But now he wasn’t around to protest or deny her. Without waiting for Arthur to return from his shower, she phoned the hangar where they kept the Embraer Phenom 100. It could get her to Asheville on one tank and in less than two hours. She got the night dispatcher on the phone.
“Good evening. This is Rowena Millstone calling. I am going to need our jet for tomorrow morning.”
“Hello, Mrs. Millstone. What time will you be departing?”
“Around nine.”
“And what is your destination?”
“Asheville, North Carolina.”
“One moment, please.”
Rowena listened to the insipid music from being placed on hold. It felt like an eternity until the female voice returned.
“OK, Mrs. Millstone. We can get clearance for nine thirty. Your pilot will be Roger Murdock.”
“That’s fine.”
“Please arrive here by nine.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Rowena clicked off the call.
Arthur came back, wearing a similar cashmere robe. His was navy blue. His hair was wet and uncombed. He was a cleaner version of his earlier hot mess.
“Who were you talking to?” He poured himself another scotch.
“The dispatcher at the airport.”
“Why?”
“We’re taking a little day trip to Asheville, North Carolina, tomorrow morning.”
“On no,we’renot.Youare. I am exhausted. I’m sure you can handle the negotiation.”
“We have to find it first, remember?”
“Right. So what’s your brilliant plan?”
“I’m going to a place called Stillwell Art Center. A man by the name of Cullen Bodman bought the contents of the garage. He’s in the restoration business. If we’re lucky, he may not have started working on any of that junk yet.”
“And if we’re not lucky, he found the will, and he’s going to make the connection if you tell him who you really are.”
“Good point. I’ll use some other name. I’ll use Amber’s. He’s never met her, and I can use the same excuse we used on good old George Nelson, except Amber is working on behalf of the Millstones.”
“But, as I said, he’ll make the connection. Why don’t you save yourself the trip and the jet fuel and just call the man?”
“What am I going to say to him? ‘Gotta will I can burn?’ No, this requires some serious investigating.”
“Have it your way, Rowena. But I think you need to be anonymous at first and see if the junk is still there. Take a walk around. Feel it out.”
