by Anne Stuart
He answered the phone on the third ring, just before the answering service would get it, knowing who it was.
“Did you get rid of her?” Jackson Dean Meyer barked into the phone.
“For now. You didn’t tell me you wanted me to do anything permanent,” he said lazily.
There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line. “Is there something permanent you could do?”
“I suppose I could find a hit man if you think it’s necessary….”
“I don’t find that amusing, Coltrane,” Meyer said icily. “I’m not in the habit of murdering my children.”
No, only your lovers, he thought calmly, eyeing his drink. “Then she’s going to keep after you until you give her what she wants. You know what women can be like.”
“She always was a stubborn bitch. Just like her mother,” Meyer snapped. “What is it exactly that she wants?”
“She wasn’t particularly clear about that, but I imagine it’s something along the lines of you loving your son and me being at the bottom of the ocean.”
Meyer’s dry chuckle sounded faintly asthmatic. “Made a good impression on her, did you? I warned you she could be difficult. What are you planning to do about her?”
“Take her out to dinner tomorrow night.”
“You won’t get her into bed. She’s the prude in the family.”
“Why would I want to get her into bed?” Coltrane took another sip of his Scotch. The ice had melted, watering the drink down slightly, and the sharpness danced against his tongue.
“To keep her occupied. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed she’s a good-looking woman. Can’t hold a candle to Rachel-Ann, of course, but she’s still pretty enough even with that hair of hers. And last I heard you weren’t involved with anyone.”
Coltrane had no doubt that Meyer knew exactly who he’d been sleeping with over the last year and how long each relationship had lasted. His employer’s efforts at surveillance were laughably blatant, and Coltrane always fed him just enough to keep him satisfied.
“You want me to marry her, boss?” he drawled. “Or just shack up with her?”
“Don’t push me, Coltrane,” Meyer said. “I want you to distract her. I’ve got too much on my plate right now. Getting the Cienaga estate shouldn’t be causing these kinds of problems, and I don’t need the Justice Department breathing down my neck. You were supposed to give them stuff to distract them. Send them off on another tack.”
“I took care of it.”
“Goddamned bureaucrats don’t seem to have a realistic idea of how things are done out here. And where the campaign contributions come from. Get them off my back, Coltrane.”
“It’s been done,” Coltrane said soothingly. Indeed, it had. The Justice Department investigations of Jackson Dean Meyer’s covert business practices had gone from one investigator to an entire team. And Meyer hadn’t the faintest idea how little time he had left.
“I don’t want to waste my energies distracted by inconsequentials,” he said.
Inconsequentials like your children, Coltrane thought, but didn’t say it out loud. There was a limit to how much leeway Jackson Meyer would give him. The man was convinced he needed Coltrane for all his little schemes to fall into place, but he needed his sense of omnipotence even more.
Meyer was going to find out that his trust in both Coltrane and in his own invulnerability were sadly misplaced. And while it would be the icing on the cake for him to lose his children at the same time, it hadn’t taken Coltrane long to realize Meyer had really lost them years ago.
“All right, boss,” he drawled. He was the only person who called Meyer “boss,” the only one who could get away with that faintly mocking tone. “I’ll sleep with your daughter. Hell, I’ll sleep with both your daughters, but I draw the line at your son.”
Meyer chuckled humorlessly. “He’d be too easy for you. And you keep away from Rachel-Ann. She’s fragile right now, and I don’t want you interfering with her. She won’t be a problem—she’s never been any trouble to me, unlike the other two. My fault for marrying their mother. You just keep Jilly busy until this deal is finished. Then you can dump her. You know it’ll be worth your while.”
It was a good thing Meyer couldn’t see the slow smile that curved Coltrane’s mouth. “That’s what I like about you, boss. Your sentimental streak.”
“Fuck you, Coltrane.”
“Yes, sir.” But Meyer had already slammed down the phone, certain that he was going to get his own way. Coltrane would sleep with his daughter to keep her occupied while Meyer did his best to deal with the unexpected financial calamity that was bringing his empire down around his ears.
Little did he know he was asking the fox to guard the henhouse.
Jilly never entered her bedroom without making a great deal of noise. It was the master bedroom, the largest, most elegant of the massive rooms in the old mansion, but no one had argued with her when she’d chosen it for her own. Dean preferred his sterile haven, and Rachel-Ann was too superstitious to care.
Not that Jilly believed in ghosts. La Casa had been in the family since before she was born, and she’d spent enough time there to have run across a ghost or two if they’d actually existed. Dean had tried to scare her when they were younger, telling her elaborate stories of the murder-suicide pact and the ghosts who roamed the halls, but for some reason he’d never succeeded. If there were any ghosts in La Casa de Sombras then they were benevolent ones, no matter how harshly they died.
But even so, she didn’t fancy walking in on one, unannounced. Clearing her throat, she rattled the doorknob before pushing it open and flicking on the light switch. No shifting shadows, no dissolving forms. Just the same bizarre room it had always been.
It looked like a cross between a bordello and a Turkish harem, with a totally peculiar touch of chinoiserie. It was whimsical Gothic horror, from the elephant-footed stools to the ornate, gilded, swan-shaped bed, and Jilly loved every tacky inch of it.
She filled the huge marble tub, stripping off her clothes and sliding into the scented water, letting it engulf her as she closed her eyes. It had been a long, miserable day, one for the books, and not only had she not accomplished a damned thing, she might have made things worse. She’d certainly added to her own discomfort. She didn’t want to go out to dinner with Coltrane—she’d done her best to keep her distance from all the sharklike young men her father employed. He was everything she despised—ambitious, aggressive and too damned good-looking. He knew it, too, which was probably why Dean found him irresistible. Dean always had a weakness for smug, clever, pretty boys, especially those who were unattainable.
Rachel-Ann would probably find him just as enticing. He wasn’t as outwardly dangerous as the usual losers her sister surrounded herself with, but he was gorgeous enough to make up for it. They’d make a stunning couple.
The water had grown cold in an astonishingly short amount of time. Jilly pushed herself out of the deep, marble tub, grimacing at her reflection in the mirror. There were too damned many mirrors in this house—everywhere she turned she got an unwanted glimpse of herself. She had no idea who had installed all of them in the first place, the silent movie star who’d built the house or Brenda de Lorillard, who’d died there. As someone singularly devoid of vanity, Jilly found them unnerving.
Particularly when Rachel-Ann was convinced the place was haunted. Every now and then Jilly would catch her reflection in the mirror, but she wouldn’t be looking at herself. She’d be looking for a ghostly image of someone long dead.
It was a cool night, and she pulled on cotton sweats rather than close her windows. She liked the fresh air infusing the house. It swept away the cobwebs and the trace of mildew. Oddly enough it could never rid the house of the smell of fresh tobacco smoke, or the faint note of perfume that lingered, a scent she half recognized from her childhood. It must have been her grandmother’s. Probably Julia Meyer had dropped a bottle and the stuff had penetrated into the woodwork. Jilly
rather liked the scent. It made her think her grandmother was watching over her, somehow. Even if Grandmère hadn’t been much more than an adequate guardian in life.
She heard the slam of the door echoing through the vast house. It was odd how certain sounds carried—she always knew when Rachel-Ann came home. She brought a nervous energy with her that spread throughout the place, like the charged air before a thunderstorm.
Jilly held very still, listening vainly for the sounds of voices. Nothing. Rachel-Ann was alone, thank God. Had been alone for the last three months. It was aiding her uncertain temper, but it was a step toward recovery.
A moment later she heard a crash and the sound of running footsteps. By the time Jilly was out in the hall Rachel-Ann was halfway up the stairs, thin and ghostlike, her flame-red hair trailing behind her as she raced up the remaining steps, an expression of pure terror on her pale face.
She went straight into Jilly’s arms with a grateful sob, shivering. She was so slight, so fragile, so small, and Jilly wrapped her strong arms around her, making soothing noises. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” she said. “Did you trip over something? I heard a crash.”
“I don’t know! Something must have broken, but I didn’t see what.” Her voice was soft, panicky, but entirely sober.
“Don’t worry about it,” Jilly said in her calmest voice. There wasn’t much left of value at La Casa to break. “What frightened you?”
Rachel-Ann pulled away, staring at her sister in momentary confusion. Her green eyes were huge, staring, but she didn’t look drugged. Jilly breathed a silent sigh of relief. “I don’t know,” her sister said finally. “They were watching me. I could feel them. They watch me all the time. I know you don’t believe me, but they’re there, I can sense them.”
“Are they?” Jilly had learned from past experience that Rachel-Ann hated to be patronized. “You want to come in and tell me about it?”
“Not in that room,” she said, looking toward the master bedroom with an expression akin to horror. “I don’t know how you can sleep in there, knowing what happened.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Jilly said.
“I do. They were watching me a few minutes ago.” Rachel-Ann’s usually soft voice was high-pitched with strain. She’d lost a lot of weight recently, weight she couldn’t afford to lose, and she looked like a frail, red-haired sparrow, lost and frightened.
“Then we’ll go into your room, and I’ll sit with you until you fall asleep.”
Rachel-Ann’s mouth twisted into a smile that was both bitter and longing. “Always the good sister, Jilly. Don’t you ever get tired of us?”
“Never.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine in my room. They never come in there. I’ve seen to that.”
“Rachel-Ann, there are no ghosts—”
“Humor me for once, Jilly! They’re there. The only way I can make them go away is to drink, and I’m not ready to pay that price. Just let me go to bed and I’ll be fine in the morning. They don’t usually bother me in the daylight.” Rachel-Ann grimaced. “Don’t look at me that way. I’m not crazy. This house is haunted.”
“Did you talk to your therapist about the ghosts?” Jilly asked.
“What, and have him think I’m crazy?” Rachel-Ann’s laugh was only slightly hysterical. “The ghosts are in this house, not in my mind. But don’t worry about it. They leave you alone for some reason. Be grateful.”
“Maybe I just don’t have enough imagination.”
“Maybe you’re just too levelheaded,” Rachel-Ann said wearily. She gave Jilly a quick hug, and the tremor in her slender arms was pathetic. “See you in the morning, darling. Not too early.”
“I’ll be glad to sit with you….”
“No need,” she said, suddenly breezy. “I’ll be fine.”
Jilly watched as her sister skirted the hallway, putting as much distance between herself and Jilly’s open bedroom door as possible. A moment later she was in her own suite of rooms, the door shut tightly behind her.
Jilly stayed where she was, wondering whether she should go after her. She hadn’t been inside Rachel-Ann’s rooms since her sister had come back from her most recent hospitalization—it was a matter of honor that she wouldn’t search for empty bottles or pill containers. Rachel-Ann said she had a way of keeping the ghosts out, and Jilly couldn’t even begin to guess what that was. Or whether it would work to keep other, more resourceful demons at bay.
She had no idea what time it was—probably after eleven. It had been a piss-poor day. She’d accomplished nothing and only managed to unnerve herself with her abortive visit to her father’s office.
And she’d met Coltrane. A treat she could have happily done without. She was going to have to find a way to either get rid of him, or get him to help her. And he didn’t look like the kind of man who made an effort to help anyone unless there was something in it for him.
She reached up and pulled the pins out of her thick hair, letting it fall down her back in a heavy mass. She’d figure out what to do about Dean and his problems in the morning. At least for tonight she could rest easy, assured that her sister and brother were safe in their own beds, and that Rachel-Ann’s specious ghosts couldn’t come into hers.
“You scared her,” Brenda said in a cross voice. “Haven’t I told you the girl’s fragile? She always has been, ever since she was a child. She reminds me in many ways of myself when I was that age.”
“Honeybunch, you died before you reached that age,” Ted said with a particular lack of tact. “And you were as fragile as an elephant in labor. The girl’s too easily spooked if you ask me.”
“She can see us.”
“So can a lot of people. They don’t turn into raving drunkards because of it,” Ted said. “Most of them figure it’s a trick of the light or something. That girl’s the only one who’s gone around the bend, and if she wasn’t so busy throwing things at us she’d realize we’re just worried about her. We’re perfectly harmless.”
“Perfectly,” Brenda murmured, leaning over to kiss him. “And besides, she shouldn’t be drinking. If we hadn’t shown up when we did she would have taken that drink instead of throwing it at us.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Ted shrugged. “She’s poured them before and then left them. It doesn’t really matter. We terrify the poor girl, and it’s not as if we can sit down and explain it to her. We’ll just have to be a little more circumspect. We don’t need to feel guilty.”
“Guilty,” Brenda said in a hollow voice. “No, we wouldn’t want that. Let’s go for a walk, darling. We can sit on the terrace and watch the stars.”
He tucked her arm in his, smiling down at her fondly. “It sounds heavenly, darling.”
“Heavenly,” Brenda echoed. A place she was never going to see. “Any place with you is heaven,” she said.
And Ted leaned down and kissed her.
4
By late the next afternoon Jilly was in a thoroughly bad mood. If Wednesday had been bad, Thursday was even worse, and the evening didn’t look like it was going to be any improvement. She’d gotten up early, as always. She’d never needed much sleep, and the ornate, swan-shaped bed was more oppressive than comfortable. For years she’d thought about buying a new mattress and box spring, but the swan bed was custom-made and of no standard size, and she couldn’t justify spending so much money on a mattress when she spent so little time there. And as Dean had callously pointed out, the mattress had to at least date from after 1951. The previous one would have been soaked with blood.
Jilly shivered, rubbing her arms in the warm evening air as she sat on the deserted terrace at La Casa. Would it have been too much to ask, to have a good day for once, just to make the ordeal of this evening easier? But no, her job wasn’t overburdened with good days, and today was one of the worst.
Working as an historic preservationist in Los Angeles was a classic exercise in futility, and she’d known that going into it. Los Angeles was based on mon
ey and power, and history and aesthetics were commodities of little value. In the three years Jilly had worked for the Los Angeles Preservation Society she’d watched landmark after landmark be turned into rubble and then transformed into Bauhaus boxes. The best she could preserve were memories.
Today was particularly bad. She’d spent the day scrambling over debris at the Moroccan Theater, snapping pictures with the digital camera, taking notes, taking measurements. In a few more days it would be gone, its last reprieve used up. And at one point Jilly sat in one of the dusty, plush velvet seats and wept, not sure if she was weeping for the building or her own life.
Dean and Rachel-Ann were gone by the time she got home in the middle of the afternoon, and chances were they wouldn’t be back until late. Just as well. Handling Coltrane was difficult enough—she didn’t want to have to worry about her siblings at the same time.
She’d showered the dust and rubble off her body, made herself a tall glass of iced tea and wandered out on the terrace to watch the sun set over the huge expanse of overgrown lawn. She loved the terrace, the old iron furniture, the flagstones, the stone columns weathered and chipped from the years, the towering palms surrounding them. But down in the middle of the lawn, some two hundred yards away, lay the dank, algae-covered pool, and Jilly could never look at it without shuddering.
It was past time to get someone in to drain it again, she thought idly. It hadn’t been used in years. As a child she’d had an unexpected dread of it, even though she spent all her free time in her friends’ pools. Maybe it was the trees looming overhead, or the odd patterns in the tiles, or maybe an excess of teenage imagination. Whatever it was, Jilly had stayed away from the pool most of her life.
When they’d inherited the house she’d had it drained, but each year it would fill again, water seeping in from a crack in the lining. There was no way she could afford to hire heavy machinery to come in and bulldoze it, so it just sat there, dank and malevolent, with only the wild tangle of rosebushes to shield it.
