Shadows At Sunset

“Fortunately I’m not very irritating,” he said, deliberately setting himself up for her hoot of disbelief. “Tell me about the place. Give me your best tour guide impersonation, and then we’ll talk.”

She wanted to get rid of him, she made that perfectly clear, and he still wasn’t quite sure why. He’d been his charming, unsettling best with her, and most women were reluctantly fascinated by him. She was fascinated, as well, but more along the lines of someone caught in the gaze of a snake. Maybe she was more intuitive than she gave herself credit for, despite her inability to see ghosts.

Coltrane didn’t believe in ghosts. When he was younger he used to try to see his mother, floating over him like some sort of guardian angel. But his mother was no restless spirit—he would have known by now if she were. His mother was at peace, no matter how she’d died. He was the one with the restless spirit, seeking answers, seeking resolution.

“All right,” she said finally. “Follow me.”

It took an effort to keep his eyes off her sexy butt and on the overgrown path leading up to the main house. She was rattling off details in a monotone, and he let them filter into the back of his efficient memory, to dredge up later if and when he needed them. Built by the Greene brothers, site of Hollywood parties, witness to the infamous Hughes-de Lorillard suicide pact, home to a roaming band of dopers in the sixties and seventies. Nothing he hadn’t heard before, though she didn’t seem to realize her father had been part of that pack. He listened with half an ear for any inconsistencies as they turned the corner and reached the edge of the extensive terrace, the house looming over them in the shadows.

He stopped dead, her words no more than a meaningless hum in the back of his head, like an annoying insect.

The stone railing was crumbling. Weeds grew up beneath the flagstones, the stucco on the house was cracked and streaked with water marks. The slate roof was missing several tiles, and the furniture on the terrace was rusting, broken, derelict. The house looked like a grand duchess turned hooker, out on the streets, her finery faded and torn. A magic castle for a lost princess. But suddenly he knew with a certainty his mother wasn’t the only Coltrane who’d lived there, decades ago.

He realized Jilly had stopped talking, and he tore his gaze away from the house to find her staring at him, a curious expression on her face.

“Not what you were expecting?” she said. “There’s been barely enough money to keep it from falling to pieces entirely. I don’t know how much longer I can keep it together.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who admits defeat.” He was amazed at how calm his voice sounded.

“I’m a realist, Mr. Coltrane. Not a fool.”

“Just Coltrane.” And if she was a realist then he was an altar boy. She was as idealistic and starry-eyed as anyone he’d ever met, at least when it came to what she loved. Which was old houses in general, and this old house in particular. “Let’s go inside.”

He was half expecting her to refuse, but after a moment she nodded, leading the way in. It was just as well—he wasn’t about to leave without finally going through the place. Not since that cold wave of shock had washed over him when he first looked up at the house.

He’d lived here. No one had ever told him—as far as he’d known he’d spent the first thirteen years of his life in Indiana. He’d simply assumed that picture had been taken before he was born, before she’d met his father.

Wrong. He’d lived here, and he had no conscious memory of it. Just a weird, certain knowledge that this place had once, long, long ago, been his home.

The smell of the place was so damned familiar, another blow. He was glad Jilly’s back was to him—he wasn’t certain he could manage to keep his expression imperturbable. He knew the hallway, knew the long, curving staircase, and he followed her wordlessly as she cataloged the details of the house in a rapid, bored voice that slowly, reluctantly turned to warmth and fascination. She loved this house, he thought, loved it with a lover’s passion. She would be an easy woman to use—her heart was on her sleeve. She loved the house, her brother and her sister, and all he’d have to do would be to apply a little pressure on one of those three things to get her to do what he wanted.

They wandered through drawing rooms, dining rooms, salons and breakfast nooks. Whoever had built this place had spared no expense, and the thing rambled for what seemed like acres. It was sparsely furnished, the few shabby pieces looking like lost remnants of a once grander time. “Brenda de Lorillard hired a set designer to decorate this place,” Jilly was saying, “and unfortunately she picked someone who’d done a lot of work for Cecil B. DeMille. Some of it looks more like an opera set than a house.”

She was right—it was gloriously tawdry, from the Italianate wallpaper to the gilt-covered furniture. The huge kitchen was a monument to impracticability, with not even a dishwasher in sight. There seemed to be no air-conditioning in the house, but the place was comfortably cool, anyway. He wondered if that was because of the supposed ghosts.

“What about upstairs?” he said, when her chatter had finally wound down.

“Bedrooms,” she said.

“That’s logical. Is that where it happened?”

She looked startled. “Where what happened?”

“The murder-suicide? Or does this place hold other scandals, as well?” He knew the answer to that, but he wasn’t sure whether she did.

“The master bedroom. Trust me, there’s nothing to see. All the blood was cleaned up.”

“Show me, anyway.”

“No. It’s my bedroom now and I don’t like strange men traipsing through it.”

“Why?”

“I like my privacy.”

“And you don’t have any problem sleeping in a murder scene? A haunted one?”

“I told you, I don’t believe in ghosts,” she said.

“Don’t believe in them? Or just don’t see them?”

She glowered at him. She had a very impressive glower. “I’m getting tired of this.”

“And I’m getting hungry. Show me the murder scene and then I’ll ply you with fast food. Unless you’ve changed your mind and want to go someplace better.”

“I told you I don’t want to go anywhere with you,” she snapped.

“But then your brother’s left to sink or swim on his own.”

She didn’t say a word; her expression was withering enough. But Coltrane wasn’t easily cowed—he was getting more reaction out of Jilly Meyer than most people usually got, he was certain of it. And he knew just how much to push, and when to back off.

“All right,” she said. “You can ogle the murder scene, and then we talk.” She turned and headed out into the hallway, and he followed after her, taking the steps two at a time until he caught up with her, walking beside her. Now that he’d regained his equilibrium he was more curious to see her reaction. Did she really sleep in a room where a murder occurred and not mind it? Would he recognize the room himself?

He almost laughed when he saw it. It was absurd, the ultimate in faded kitsch, from the swan-shaped bed with its filmy draperies to the voluptuous, oversize furniture that littered the room. There was a dressing table that looked as if it had seen no use at all. He stepped past her, walking into the room, looking out the French doors, across the wide balcony that ran the length of the house to the overgrown lawn below. He could see the dark rectangle of a lichen-covered swimming pool halfway down the row of trees, and an odd, stray shudder passed over his body.

He turned to glance at Jilly, who still stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, a stubborn expression on her face.

“Are you certain they died here? In that bed?”

“It’s common knowledge. Hollywood loves its scandals, and this was one of the best ones.”

“So Brenda de Lorillard killed her married lover and then herself, right? Any reason ever surface?”

Jilly shrugged. “Maybe he was growing tired of her. Men have a habit of doing that, you know.”

“Do they?” He kept the grin from his face, but just barely. Someone needed to teach Jilly Meyer a few more effective defenses. She was as vulnerable as a kitten, spitting and scratching and pathetically easy to manipulate.

“How many other bedrooms?” he asked curiously, changing the subject.

“Seven. Rachel-Ann’s in one, Dean’s got his own apartment behind the kitchen. The rest are closed up.”

So there was plenty of room for him. Assuming he didn’t move right in with Rachel-Ann. He smiled briskly. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go find some food.”

For a moment she didn’t move, staring at him across the room.

“I don’t like you,” she said abruptly. “And I don’t trust you.”

“I know,” he said with unexpected gentleness.