Shadows At Sunset (5 page)

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.

“Give me a reason why I should.”

“I can't think of one.”

“Are you going to help me?”

Lying was second nature to him. He didn't even hesitate. “Yes,” he said.

And for a moment it looked as if she might make the desperate mistake of believing him.

T
he sky over Los Angeles was streaked with lavender and orange, the smog thickening the sunset into iridescent stripes. Jilly sat on the steps leading down into the tangled garden, an icy bottle of beer in her hand, waiting for Coltrane.

She had no idea what he was doing in the house. He said he'd needed to use the bathroom, and she could hardly dispute it. Nor could she wait outside the door of the ornate powder room with its pink swans and gilt faucets for him to reappear. She went back to the kitchen, took two beers and headed out for the terrace.

Not that she wanted to encourage the man. But it had been a long day, and she needed something from him. She was refusing to go out with him—she could at least offer him a beer without compromising her position.

What could he be doing in there, besides the obvious? Surely she was being paranoid—what possible interest could a stately old wreck like La Casa have for a man like him?

Her beer was half gone by the time he appeared. He'd taken off his jacket, his sleeves were rolled up and his tie was off. His streaked blond hair was rumpled, and he looked good enough to eat. Jilly ignored him.

“I don't suppose you have another beer, do you?” He leaned against the balustrade.

She handed it to him without a word, and he took a long swig of it. She watched the line of his throat, the condensation dripping off the bottle onto his skin, and she turned to concentrate on her own beer.

“So, what are we going to do about your brother?” he asked in a casual tone.

She glanced up at him. “You wouldn't feel like quitting your job and going back to New Orleans, would you?”

“You've been checking up on me.” He sounded faintly pleased, and she could have kicked herself.

“I believe in knowing one's enemy.”

“I'm not your enemy, Jilly,” he said softly.

“Anyone who threatens my brother is my enemy.”

“That's going to keep you pretty busy. Your brother threatens easily. Why don't you let him take care of his own business? If he thinks your father doesn't appreciate him then he should tell him so.”

“Oh, Jackson would just love that,” she muttered. “He'd probably tell him to stop whining.”

“Dean does whine,” Coltrane observed.

She glared at him. She was at somewhat of a disadvantage sitting at his feet, but she wasn't about to move. She didn't want him down on her level, either—she didn't want him anywhere near her.

“I don't think you're going to be able to save him,” Coltrane said. “He's going to have to pull his head out of his computer and deal with life himself.”

Jilly jerked her head around. “I could help if you'd just stop…stop…”

“Stop what?” He seemed genuinely interested.

“Stop being the paragon. Maybe screw up now and then. It's hard for Dean to compete with you around as the golden boy.”

Coltrane looked out over the lawn, an odd expression on his face. “I suppose I'll just have to be less golden.” He glanced down at her. “What do you really want me to do? Short of packing my bags or absconding with the company's assets, I'm at your disposal. You want me to have your father transfer some of the biggest accounts over to him? I can tell him I'm overloaded and need some help. I can tell him your brother's the best man for the job. I have no trouble lying.”

“You're not very nice, are you?”

“Nope. I ordered some pizza. There's a place near here that delivers New York-style pizza that can make a grown man weep. I got enough in case your sister comes home.”

Again she felt that extra shot of unease wash over her. “Why are you so curious about my sister?”

“I told you, I've heard stories.”

“Don't believe the half of them. And I don't like pizza.”

“You're not nearly as good a liar as I am.”

It was true, she'd never been good at lying. “Maybe I don't need your help. Maybe all Dean has to do is stand up to Jackson.”

Coltrane shrugged. “It's possible. Did it work for you?”

“What makes you think I stood up to him?”

Coltrane merely smiled, draining his beer and setting the bottle down on the stone railing. “Did it work?” he asked again.

“No. Jackson likes his children docile.”

“Dean's practically a doormat, and Jackson doesn't seem any too fond of him,” Coltrane said. “There's our pizza.”

She hadn't even noticed the young man coming up the walkway, but the sudden rich aroma of tomato sauce and cheese wafted toward her, and her stomach leapt. She watched as Coltrane traded the pizza for cash, trying to school her wayward stomach.

He came toward her, carrying the box, and Jilly kept a stalwart expression on her face. “Real New York pizza,” he said in a seductive voice. “No sprouts, no broccoli, no goat cheese or tofu. Do you realize how rare this is?”

It took her a moment to find her voice. She could resist a man that gorgeous, she knew she could. Real pizza was another matter.

“I'm not hungry,” she said, her voice wavering slightly.

“Of course not. But then, neither am I. I'm afraid I have to leave.”

She almost dropped her empty beer bottle. “Leave?” she repeated idiotically.

“I know it breaks your heart, but something's come up. We can talk about your family later. Maybe your sister might have an idea how we can help Dean. In the meantime, why don't I just leave the pizza here? Even if you don't like it maybe your ghosts would.”

“I doubt it.”

“Or maybe you'll consider trying it. Have you ever even had an honest-to-God real Italian pizza in your upscale California life?” His words were gently mocking.

“I went to Princeton,” Jilly said. “They have great pizza in New Jersey.”

“But you don't like pizza, right?” He set the box down on the step beside her, then moved away. “Think about what I said. Sooner or later your brother will have to fend for himself. Did he even ask you to go to your father?”

“Not in so many words, but…”

“I rest my case. He doesn't want you interfering. The more you try to fix things for him the worse things will get.”

“Hi, my name is Jilly and I'm a codependent,” she said flippantly.

“If you want my help you know where to find me.”

She waited until he'd disappeared down the pathway beneath the overgrown trees, waited until the sound of his car faded away. Waited until the smell of pepperoni and cheese got too tempting, and then she tore into the box. Much good she was against the forces of darkness, she thought, dreamily shoving the pizza in her mouth. He was right—it was
great
pizza. She could stand firm against any onslaught and then be seduced by food.

“What are you eating?”

Jilly jumped, startled, and looked up at her sister. Rachel-Ann looked pale, sad and as beautiful as always, with her gorgeous pre-Raphaelite curls and her huge green eyes.

“Pizza,” Jilly replied, her mouth still full. “The best pizza I've had in decades. Have some.”

“I'm not hungry.” Despite her words Rachel-Ann sat down on the steps beside Jilly and took the slice she offered. She stared at it for a long moment, as if she'd find the answers to the secrets of the universe in the thick topping. “Besides, I'm a vegetarian.”

“Take the pepperoni off. I'll eat it for you,” she offered generously.

Slowly, almost automatically Rachel-Ann picked off the circles of pepperoni and dropped them in the box. “Where did you get this? You're usually too cheap to call for take-out.”

Jilly didn't even bother to correct her. Due to the complicated terms of Julia Meyer's will, the three siblings had possession of La Casa on equal terms, with money to support it. Rachel-Ann had gone through her share of the money in a record amount of time, but then, cocaine was an expensive habit. Jilly had no idea how much Dean had left, but she expected it wasn't much. Certainly neither of them contributed a penny to the massive upkeep of the old place. “It's my Scots blood,” she said cheerfully. “And I didn't pay for it. Jackson's golden boy had it delivered.”

“Really?” Rachel-Ann's interest perked up, and she took a tentative bite of the pizza. Her eyes closed in a moment of luxuriant bliss. “Is he as gorgeous as they say he is?”

“Yup.”

“Are you sleeping with him?” She seemed no more than idly curious.

“No. I've been here every night, alone. You would have noticed if I was having an affair.”

“I don't pay much attention to those things,” Rachel-Ann said, taking another bite, and Jilly had to concede she was right. Rachel-Ann barely noticed if it was raining or sunny, she was too caught up in the foggy world she was battling to escape. Other people tended to flit through her life unnoticed. “Mmm,” she said. “If he can provide pizza like this maybe I'll sleep with him.”

For some reason Jilly found the notion deeply disturbing. It wasn't as if her sister didn't go through men like a hay-fever sufferer went through Kleenex, and while she'd remained celibate since she'd gotten out of treatment this time, it was unlikely to last. At least Coltrane would be a safer choice than some of the ones Rachel-Ann had made in the past. He wasn't a drug dealer or an addict, as far as Jilly could tell. “I don't think that would be a good idea,” she said in a neutral voice. “I think he's dangerous.”

Wrong words, Jilly thought, when Rachel-Ann's eyes lit up with a trace of their old spark. “Dangerous, gorgeous and he brings pizza? How irresistible.”

“Resist him,” Jilly said sourly.

At least Rachel-Ann didn't bother being coy. There was no question that Coltrane would want her—most any man did. And already he'd seemed far too interested in her older sister. It was fairly easy to guess why.

It was common knowledge that Rachel-Ann was Jackson's favored child. An ambitious man would use that to his advantage. Jackson was clearly disappointed in his own son—maybe he needed a smart and devoted son-in-law to inherit the business. And it didn't hurt that Rachel-Ann was sweet, beautiful and deeply wounded. She'd be dead easy to manipulate. Jackson was a past master at it, and Jilly had already seen enough of Coltrane to know he had a natural talent for it, as well.

Rachel-Ann smiled. “I'm doing my best to resist temptation. Just how pretty is the boy?”

“Too pretty,” Jilly muttered. “We don't need to think about him or talk about him. If I have my way he won't be coming back to La Casa, ever. It's an easy enough matter to order pizza on our own—the phone number's on the box. Even a cheapskate like me has her weaknesses.”

Rachel-Ann's answering smile was listless, and Jilly felt her heart twist.

“Listen, why don't we go upstairs and watch an old movie like we used to? Something trashy and romantic and weepy?”

“I'm not sure if I feel like weeping,” Rachel-Ann said. “And I'm definitely not in the mood for romance. As for trash, I've been living that recently and it's no longer a vicarious pleasure.” She rose, slim and delicate and graceful as always, and Jilly tried to hide the worry that filled her.

“Is there anything I can do, love?”

Rachel-Ann simply shook her head, drifting toward the house like the ghosts she insisted she saw.

Jilly leaned back against the stone railing, watching her go. Coltrane was right about one thing—she needed to learn to let go and let her siblings rise and fall on their own strengths. But right now Rachel-Ann looked so frail and easily crushed that only a monster could turn her back on her.

Hi, my name is Jilly and I'm a codependent. And it breaks my goddamn heart that I can't fix everything.

 

Rachel-Ann moved through the house carefully, keeping her eyes straight in front of her, never glancing to the right or left, or even looking overhead. That was the safest way. She never saw them head-on—it was always a shift in the shadows, a whisper beneath the wind, a hint of perfume on the air or the scent of Turkish tobacco in a house full of nonsmokers.

They didn't want to hurt her, the ghosts of La Casa, she was sure of that. But she had too much going on in her life to make room for them. Back when she was younger she'd see them sometimes, and never think twice about it. But in the past few years she'd grown increasingly unable to deal with them, watching her, judging her, their pale, transparent faces full of sympathy.

They were dead, she reminded herself. A figment of her drug-damaged, overactive imagination. Brenda de Lorillard and Ted Hughes had been buried for close to fifty years—they weren't roaming La Casa, watching her.

By the time she reached her bedroom door she was practically running, and she slammed it shut behind her, leaning against it, trying to control the panicked shudders that washed over her. At least she was safe in here. They never came in here—she didn't need garlic braids or crucifixes to keep them at bay. For some reason her room was the only place she'd never seen them, and she took a deep breath, letting the sense of safety wash over her.