Martin Vandermeer nodded in his ponderous Dutch manner. I don't want to give the impression that I'm cowed by these people; in fact, they're often cowed by me. It's just that when you make a faux pas, I mean really blow it, like saying a Mafia don is a nice chap and suggesting that you would rather have him as a neighbour than a hundred Lester Remsens, well then, you've got to clarify what you meant. Politicians do it all the time. Anyway, I didn't know what these three were so unhappy about; I was the one who had to live next door to Frank Bellarosa.

Randall asked me, with real interest, "Did he have any bodyguards with him?" "Actually, now that you mention it, he had a driver who put his purchases in the trunk. Black Cadillac," I added with a little smirk to show what I thought of black Cadillacs.

Martin wondered aloud, "Do these people go about armed?"

I think I had become the club expert on the Mafia, so I answered, "Not the dons.

Not usually. They don't want trouble with the police." Randall said, "But didn't Bellarosa kill a Colombian drug dealer some months ago?"

On the other hand, I didn't want to sound like a Mafia groupie, so I shrugged. "I don't know." But in fact I recall the news stories back in January, I think, because it struck me at the time that a man as highly placed as Bellarosa would have to be insane to personally commit a murder.

Lester wanted to know, "What do you suppose he was doing at Hicks'?" "Maybe he works there on weekends," I suggested. This got a little chuckle out of everyone, and we ordered another round. I wanted desperately to turn my head toward Beryl Carlisle again, but I knew I couldn't get away with it a second time.

Martin's wife, Pauline, showed up and stood at the door near the bar, trying to get his attention by flapping her arms like a windmill. Martin finally noticed and lifted his great roast beef of a body, then ambled over to his wife. Randall then excused himself to talk to his son-in-law. Lester Remsen and I sat in silence a moment, then I said, "Susan tells me I made an unfortunate remark last Sunday, and if I did, I want you to know it was unintentional." This is the Wasp equivalent of an apology. If it's worded just right, it leaves some doubt that you think any apology is required.

Lester waved his hand in dismissal. "Never mind that. Did you get a chance to look at Meudon?"

This is the Wasp equivalent of "I fully accept your halfhearted apology." I replied to Lester, "Yes, I took the Bronco over the acreage just this morning. I haven't seen it in years, and it's quite overgrown, but the specimen trees are in remarkably good shape."

We spoke about Meudon for a while. Lester, you should understand, is no nature nut in the true sense, and neither are most of his friends and my neighbours. But, as I said, they've discovered that nature nuts can be useful to achieve their own ends, which is to preserve their lifestyle. This has resulted in an odd coalition of gentry and students, rich estate owners, and middle-class people. I am both gentry and nature nut and am therefore invaluable. Lester proclaimed, "I don't want fifty two-million-dollar tractor sheds in my backyard."

That's what Lester calls contemporary homes: tractor sheds. I nodded in sympathy.

He asked, "Can't we get Meudon rezoned for twenty-acre plots?" "Maybe. We have to wait until the developer files his environmental impact statement."

"All right. We'll keep an eye on that. What's the story with your place?" Stanhope Hall, as you know, is not my place, but Lester was being both polite and nosey. I replied, There are no takers for the whole two hundred acres with the house as a single estate, and no takers for the house with ten surrounding acres. I've advertised it both ways."

Lester nodded in understanding. The future of Stanhope Hall, the main house, is uncertain. A house that size, you understand, may be someone's dream palace, but even an Arab sheik at today's crude oil prices would have a hard time maintaining and staffing a place that's as big as a medium-size hotel. Lester said, "It's such a beautiful house. Got an award, didn't it?" "Several. Town amp; Country noted it best American house of the year when it was built in 1906. But times change." The other option was to tear the place down, as Meudon Palace had been torn down. This would force the tax authorities to reassess the property as undeveloped land. The guesthouse is Susan's, and we pay separate tax rates on that, and the gatehouse where the Allards live is theoretically protected by Grandfather Stanhope's will. Lester said, "What sort of people seem interested in the house?"

"The sort who think five hundred thousand sounds good for a fifty-room house." That's what I'm trying to get for it with ten acres attached. The irony is that it cost five million dollars in 1906 to construct. That's about twenty-five million of today's dollars. Aside from any aesthetic considerations about tearing down Stanhope Hall, my frugal father-in-law, William Stanhope, would have to consider the cost of knocking down a granite structure built to last a millennium and then trucking the debris someplace as per the new environmental laws. The granite and marble used to build Stanhope Hall came here to Long Island by railroad from Vermont. Maybe Vermont wants the rubble back. Susan, incidentally, does not care about the main house or the other structures – except the stables and tennis courts – which I find interesting. Whatever memories are attached to the house, the gazebo, and the love temple are apparently not important or good. She was upset the night that vandals burned down her playhouse. It was a sort of Hansel and Gretel gingerbread house, as big as a small cottage, but made of wood and in bad repair. One can only imagine a lonely little rich girl with her dolls playing lonely games in a house all her own.

Lester inquired, "Did you hear from the county park people yet?" "Yes," I replied. "A fellow named Pinelli at the park commissioner's office. He said he thought the county owned enough Gold Coast mansions for the time being. But that might only be their opening gambit, because Pinelli asked me if the house had any architectural or historical significance." "Well," said Lester, "it certainly has architectural significance. Who was the architect?"

"McKim, Mead, White," I replied. Neither history nor architecture is Lester's strong point, but in addition to becoming a nature nut, he's becoming an authority on the social and architectural history of the Gold Coast. I added, "As for historical significance, I know that Teddy Roosevelt used to pop over from Oyster Bay now and then, and Lindbergh dined there while he was staying with the Guggenheims. There were other noteworthy guests, but I think the county is looking for something more significant than dinner. I'll have to research it."

"How about making something up?" Lester suggested half jokingly. "Like maybe Teddy Roosevelt drafted a treaty or a speech at Stanhope Hall." I ignored that and continued, "One of the problems with selling the estate to the county as a museum and park is that Grace Lane is still private, as you know, and that doesn't sit well with the county bureaucrats. Nor would I be very popular on Grace Lane if a thousand cars full of people from Brooklyn and Queens showed up every weekend to gawk."

"No, you wouldn't," Lester assured me.

"Bottom line, Lester, if the county did make an offer, it would only offer a price equal to the back taxes. That's their game."

Lester did not ask how much that was, because he had probably looked it up in the public record or saw it published in the Locust Valley Sentinel under the heading TAX DELINQUENCIES.

The back taxes on Stanhope Hall, including interest and penalties, is about four hundred thousand dollars, give or take. You can look it up. Well, you might be thinking, "If I owed four thousand dollars, let alone four hundred thousand dollars, in back taxes, they'd grab my house and kids." Probably. But the rich are different. They have better lawyers, like me.