Passion and Scandal

by Candace Schuler

  "Oh, my dear child, heavens no. I have been a resident of the Wilshire Arms since 1947."

  A moment of stunned silence greeted her announcement.

  "This has all been way too easy," Steve said. "It's almost scary, it's been so easy. Everything's just been falling into place as if it were meant to be."

  "Perhaps the lady in the mirror has something do with it," the tiny woman suggested.

  "The lady in the mirror?" Willow asked.

  The woman inclined her head toward the brass plaque on the wall." 'Believe the legend,' " she quoted.

  "What legend?" Steve demanded, his tone a shade peremptory. Willow nudged him with her elbow, giving him a disapproving little shake of her head when he turned to look down at her. He glanced at the little woman in the pink jogging suit. "What's this legend about?" he asked again, making it a request this time, rather than a demand.

  "It's quite a long story," the woman replied. "Please, come to my apartment," she invited them, "and we can all have a nice glass of tea while I tell you about it." She held her hand out, the gesture as gracefully elegant as if they had just been introduced at a ball. "I am Irina Markova."

  "Steve Hart." He reached out to take her offered hand as he spoke, carefully enclosing it in his oversize palm. "And this is Willow Ryan. We're both very pleased to meet you, Ms. Markova." And then, without thinking, he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her fragile fingertips. It seemed to be the only appropriate response to the way she had presented it to him.

  Irina Markova's green eyes beamed her approval. "The young people here call me Madame," she said regally. "You may do the same."

  * * *

  "Although there are many rumors, the true identity of the lady in the mirror is not known," Madame Markova said as she poured a small amount of strong black tea into each of three small glasses fitted into silver filigree holders. "She is said to have lived here in the 1920s when the Wilshire Arms was still a magnificent private residence but how the poor lady died remains a mystery." She added hot water to each glass from the ornate brass samovar sitting on the small lace-draped table beside her chair, handing them to her guests as each one was filled.

  Steve accepted his a little awkwardly, holding the whole thing, saucer and all, cradled in his palm. He looked distinctly uncomfortable sitting on Madame Markova's shawl-draped, red velvet settee, surrounded by lace-covered tables and delicate china bric-a-brac. Willow watched him from under her lashes, smiling when he lifted the tea glass by the rim to drink because his finger wouldn't fit through the delicate silver handle. He glanced up over the edge of the glass as he sipped, catching Willow grinning at him, and gave her a dirty look.

  "According to the legend, the circumstances of her death were deeply tragic," Irina said, unaware of—or ignoring—the byplay between her guests. "She is said to haunt the mirror in apartment 1-G, revealing herself only infrequently, and then only to someone whose life is about to change in some significant way. Her appearance foretells the attainment of your greatest dream or predicts the occasion when your greatest fear will come to pass." Irina Markova slanted a glance across her teacup at Steve. "I see by your expression you do not believe it."

  "No offense to you, Madame, but it sounds like a load of bull... ah, manure to me."

  "And if I told you that I, myself, have seen the lady? It was on the very night Errol Flynn and I became lovers."

  "And was that the attainment of your greatest dream or the occasion of your deepest fear?" he asked, deadpan.

  Irina Markova let out a peal of delighted laughter and shook her head at him. "A lady does not kiss and tell," she admonished him.

  * * *

  "These girls, they did not live here long, I think," Irina said as she looked at the pictures Willow had handed to her after the tea and tiny almond cakes had been set aside. "A month." She shrugged. "Maybe two. But this one, yes." She tapped her finger against Donna Ryan's smiling face. "I remember her very well. A great beauty. Superb bones. I was a makeup artist for many, many years with Xanadu Studios," she told them proudly, "so I know how important good bones are for true beauty. All of the young men in the building pursued her from the day she and the other girl moved into Wilshire Arms." Madame glanced up, her sharp green eyes narrowing as she stared into Willow's face. "You have a bit of her look around the eyes, although the angle is not so sharp."

  "She was my mother."

  Irina Markova nodded, as if that explained something she'd been wondering about.

  "Do you happen to remember whether she dated anyone in particular while she lived here?" Willow asked. "Anyone in these pictures?"

  "Ah, back then, who could tell?" Irina shrugged and rolled her eyes. "There was all that ridiculous talk of free love and sexual liberation. I saw her with all these young men at one time or another, but to say she was the special sweetheart of any one of them...? I could not even begin to guess."

  "What about the guys in the pictures?" Steve urged. "Do you remember anything about any of them?"

  "Oh, my heavens, yes," Irina said. "I remember these young men very well. Very well, indeed. This one with the dashing mustache is Ethan." She sighed and pressed her lips together. "He was not my favorite of the boys."

  "Oh?" Steve said encouragingly.

  "Too arrogant and full of himself. A failing of many young men, I'm afraid." She looked up, giving Steve a teasing smile. "But perhaps he grew out of it."

  He smiled in silent acknowledgment of her gentle gibe. "And the others?"

  "These two, here, they were brothers," she said, pointing them out as she spoke. "This one is Jack. He was the younger. And this one—" The bright light in her eyes dimmed slightly for a moment. "This one is Eric."

  Steve and Willow sought each other's eyes over the old woman's head. Eric? Another man with the initial E to add to the mystery surrounding her mother?

  "He is dead now," Irina said sadly. "A suicide, the police said, but I was never convinced of that. I have always preferred to believe it was an unfortunate accident. Although... there was talk that he had seen the lady in the mirror, so perhaps the police were right."

  "Suicide?" Willow echoed, struggling to keep the disappointment out of her voice. "When?"

  "Not long after these pictures were taken, I should think. It happened in the summer of 1970. In June. Or perhaps it was July." She shook her head. "My memory is not so good as it once was. You should ask Mr. Mueller if it is important that you know about this. Or, perhaps, you could contact young Jack Shannon. I'm sure Mr. Mueller could give you his forwarding address."

  "I doubt any forwarding address he might have would be any good after all this time," Steve said.

  "It has only been a few months since young Jack and his new bride moved out of apartment 1-G. I am quite sure Mr. Mueller will know where they have gone."

  "A few months? You mean he's been living here for the last twenty-five years?"

  "Oh, no. No, a few months only. He went away after his brother died. It is rumored that he joined the army for a time and then roamed the world trying to forget. It was the lady in the mirror who drew him back. She knew he needed to be here to attain his dream." She looked down at the photographs in her hands. "As did Ezekiel," she said, running her fingertip over the youthful face of Zeke Blackstone. "He had lost his dream, too, and needed to come back to the Wilshire Arms to regain it."

  "Now let me get this straight," Steve said. "Are you telling me both those guys have been back here in the last—Did you say Ezekiel?"

  Irina nodded. "It is his given name. He admitted it to me one afternoon when he was feeling a little homesick for his mother, soon after he came out here from New York to be a movie star. She was the only one who called him by his true name and he missed hearing it, I think." She smiled a little at the memory. "I thought it a charming name for a charming young man. A little old-fashioned, perhaps, but so much more melodious than Zeke, don't you think?"

  Chapter 4

  "Three of them", Wil
low said. "Three of them with the initial E. And all of them knew my mother at the right time. All of them may have dated her. Which means any one of them could be my father." She looked up at Steve. "What do we do now?"

  "We talk to the manager," Steve said, "and see if he can add anything to what Madame Markova told us."

  He put his hand under her elbow again, politely ushering her across the pebbled concrete surface of the courtyard. Irina Markova had told them that if Carl Mueller was back from his errand at the hardware store, they would most likely find him in apartment 1-G. There had been a persistent leak in one of the bathroom faucets.

  "It is across the courtyard and through the door on the other side," she'd said as she escorted them out of her cozy potpourri-scented apartment. "One-G is the third door on your left after you enter the hallway."

  They found it easily enough. The door was standing half-open, the sounds of metal clanging against metal reverberating into the hall. Steve pushed the door all the way open and stepped back, letting Willow enter ahead of him. They walked down a short hallway and into an empty, airy room. The walls were painted a soft, creamy white. Two tall arched windows, flanked by open slatted wooden shutters, spilled long lozenges of sunlight across the floor. A large mirror, easily four feet wide by five feet high, hung on one wall.

  It had a heavy ornate pewter frame, distinctively Victorian and elaborately cast with dozens of roses and twining ribbons. It should have looked out of place in the elegant simplicity of the room but, somehow, it didn't.

  "Do you think that's the mirror?" Willow whispered.

  "Must be. It's the only one in here."

  Willow hesitated for a moment, then walked over and stood directly in front of the mirror. There was nothing looking back at her but her own reflection—and then Steve's, as he came up behind her. They were a study in contrasts. He was so big and blond and masculine, with a sexy, laid-back Southern California style that suited him right town to the size-twelve Reeboks on his feet. She was slender and dark, a sleek, sophisticated woman in expensive, tailored clothes.

  She had never thought of herself as particularly feminine or fragile—certainly no more so than the average woman—but she looked both standing next to him. It wasn't his height, because he wasn't overpoweringly tall; in her heels, the top of her head came to his nose. It wasn't his physique, either; although that was impressive, his muscles weren't the bulked-up kind so beloved by weight lifters. It was his basic, elemental maleness that made him look so solid and bigger than life. He was totally, unapologetically masculine and he made her feel totally feminine in return. She wasn't quite sure she liked the feeling; it didn't fit in with her image of herself as a modern woman of the world. Willow Ryan didn't lean on anybody, and Steve Hart had shoulders tailor-made for leaning on. Her head had been tilting toward them from the minute she turned her problem over to his capable hands.

  "See anything in there?" he asked, leaning forward to whisper the words in her ear.

  "No," she murmured and moved away from the mirror. And him. "The banging has stopped," she said, as if he couldn't hear it for himself. "Don't you think we'd better let this Mr. Mueller know we're here so we can ask our questions?"

  But Mueller came out of the bathroom before either of them could move to make their presence known. He was a small man, wiry looking, with a shining bald head and a belligerent expression in his pale gray eyes. He was wearing faded green coveralls and carried a length of pipe in his hand. Willow took an instant aversion to him.

  "Who're you?" he demanded, looking back and forth between the two of them. "What are you doing in here? This apartment ain't for rent right now."

  Willow took a step back, unconsciously edging closer to Steve, more than willing to let him handle the manager of the Wilshire Arms. She'd worry about standing on her own two feet later.

  "We're not here to rent an apartment," Steve said. "We'd just like to ask you a few questions."

  "You reporters?"

  "No, we're—"

  "Been a lot of reporters nosin' around here ever since it leaked out about Blackstone renting this place. Damned bloodsucking nuisances, every one of them. Well, he's gone," he said, gesturing at the empty room with the piece of pipe he held in his hand. "Left last month, right after his kid's wedding. So if you're working for one of them tabloids or that 'Hard Copy' program, you can get the hell out of here, right now. I ain't got nothin' to say."

  "We're not reporters, Mr. Mueller," Steve assured him. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet. "I'm a private investigator." He extracted a business card and handed it to Mueller. "Ms. Ryan is my client."

  Mueller studied the card for a moment. "What are you investigating?"

  "Zeke Blackstone, for starters," Steve said.

  "I knew you was a couple of reporters," Mueller said angrily. He tossed the card on the floor in disgust and started to turn away. "Get outta here before I call the cops."

  "And Ethan Roberts," Steve said.

  Mueller turned back around to face them. "Huh?"

  "And Eric and Jack Shannon," Steve added softly, knowing he had him now by the suddenly avid look in the smaller man's eyes. "And their possible connection to a young woman by the name of Donna Ryan."

  "Where'd you get them names?"

  Steve glanced at Willow, silently indicating the pictures she carried in her pocket. Intuitively understanding his intent, she withdrew all eight and handed them to him. Steve sorted through them quickly, selected the one he wanted, and handed it to Mueller.

  The older man was silent for a long minute, studying the picture in his hand. "You want to know about the suicide, don'cha?"

  "We want to know about that summer," Steve said. "Whatever you remember."

  "Why?"

  "The reason is confidential."

  "Then so's my memory."

  Steve flipped his wallet open again. "Would twenty dollars help make it less so?"

  Mueller didn't so much as glance at the money.

  "Forty?"

  Willow reached out and put her hand on Steve's arm. "Mr. Mueller isn't interested in your money," she said. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did. The covetous look in his strange gray eyes wasn't for the greenbacks in Steve's wallet but for the secrets of other people's lives. Mueller wouldn't take money for what he knew but he would trade information for information.

  "Donna Ryan was my mother," Willow said to him. "We think one of the men in that picture is my father."

  "Yeah, I remember her. She was a real looker," Mueller said. "Moved in here with her girlfriend back in May of 1970. Ethan Roberts—the one who's running for senator now—he was the one who told her about the vacant apartment. He was working with her on some TV program... some soap opera thing. Guess he thought he'd have a better chance to score with her if she was close by."

  "And did he?" Steve asked.

  "Who the hell knows?" Mueller shrugged. "It was wild around here in those days. Parties all the time. Kids climbing in an' out of each other's beds like they were playing a game of musical chairs. Didn't have no AIDS to worry about back then. I know she went out with Roberts a couple a times. But I seen her go out with other guys, too, including Eric Shannon. You ask me whether she was sleeping with any of them, I got to be honest and tell you I don't know. She didn't let none of the guys crawl all over her like some of the girls did. Leastways, not in public so's anyone could watch it."

  He pushed open the door to the courtyard and stepped outside. Steve stuck his hand out over Willow's shoulder, stopping the heavy door with his palm before it could close in her face.

  "Now, right here is where Blackstone stumbled over the body that night," Mueller said with relish, pointing to a spot on the concrete courtyard patio where a tub of flowering hibiscus now stood. "The police said the Shannon kid had been dead for a couple of hours by the time Blackstone fell over him. Couple a people actually walked around him while he was lying there like that, thinking he was just was
passed out drunk or on drugs or something. Two kids were lying on a chaise longue right over there, makin' out, and they didn't even notice him. He'd landed on his back, smashed in his skull real good and broke his spine in three places, but you couldn't tell that by just looking at him. And it was dark. With the shadows and everything, nobody noticed the blood."

  He seemed to derive a macabre sort of enjoyment from being the teller of the sad tale. Like an ugly little troll, Willow thought, dispensing his horrid little gems, one by one, and watching to see how they would be accepted.

  "Cops figure he jumped from the third floor. From that balcony up there," he said as he pointed it out. He looked straight at Willow. "That's where your mother and her girlfriend lived," he said, watching her for a reaction.

  "He jumped from my mother's apartment?" She felt Steve's hands settle on her shoulders from behind. They steadied her in some indefinable way, transferring his strength into her just when she needed it most. "Was she there when it happened?" she asked calmly. "Did she see him jump?"

  Mueller shook his head. "Cops figure she was down at the party in 1-G when it happened. She was the one who heard the screaming, though. Called the ambulance, too."

  "There was screaming?" Willow said. "I thought you said no one saw what happened."

  "Girl on the chaise longue with her boyfriend started screeching when she realized they'd been doin' the nasty in front of a dead body." Mueller rubbed his chin with the back of the hand that still held the pipe. "Didn't seem to bother her none when she thought he was just drunk."

  "What was he doing in Donna's apartment if she wasn't there?" Steve asked, steering the conversation back to what he considered a more relevant topic. "How'd he get in?"

  "All he'd a had to do was open the door and walk in. Like I said, it was pretty free and easy here in those days. Nobody bothered much with locking anything up. Cops figured he probably chose her apartment because he knew no one was there to stop him from killin' himself."

  Willow was silent a moment, contemplating that, trying to gather her thoughts, trying to sort out how she would feel if Eric Shannon turned out to be her father—and she'd lost him before she even found him. "Does anybody know why he killed himself?" she asked.