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Authors: Nelson DeMille
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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.
However, I’ve nearly exhausted all the legal maneuvers that I learned at Harvard Law, and I can’t forestall a tax sale or foreclosure on this potentially valuable property for much longer. I don’t normally do legal work for free, but William Stanhope hasn’t offered to pay me for my services, so I guess I’m making an exception for my father-in-law. Not only is it true that the rich do not pay their bills promptly, but when they do finally pay, they like to decide for themselves how much they owe.
Lester seemed to be reading my dark thoughts because he said, “I trust your father-in-law appreciates all you’ve done.”
“I’m sure he does. However, he has lost touch with the new realities here regarding land use and environmental concerns. If he can’t sell the whole estate intact, he wants it subdivided and sold to developers. Even if I could get the two hundred acres divided, there’s the house to deal with. William has the idea that a developer will either tear down the old house or offer it to the new residents as a clubhouse or some
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.
However, I’ve nearly exhausted all the legal maneuvers that I learned at Harvard Law, and I can’t forestall a tax sale or foreclosure on this potentially valuable property for much longer. I don’t normally do legal work for free, but William Stanhope hasn’t offered to pay me for my services, so I guess I’m making an exception for my father-in-law. Not only is it true that the rich do not pay their bills promptly, but when they do finally pay, they like to decide for themselves how much they owe.
Lester seemed to be reading my dark thoughts because he said, “I trust your father-in-law appreciates all you’ve done.”
“I’m sure he does. However, he has lost touch with the new realities here regarding land use and environmental concerns. If he can’t sell the whole estate intact, he wants it subdivided and sold to developers. Even if I could get the two hundred acres divided, there’s the house to deal with. William has the idea that a developer will either tear down the old house or offer it to the new residents as a clubhouse or some
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