The Collector (19 page)

Luke stretched out his legs. “We have the video.”

“Won't this be fun?” Lila scooted forward, flipped open the lid on the built-in cooler, rooted around. “Anybody want a ginger ale?”

A
sh sat under the pergola shaded by thick twists of wisteria. He needed to go back inside, deal with everything and everyone, but for now, for a few minutes, he just wanted some air, some quiet.

For all its size, the house felt close and crowded and too full of noise.

From where he sat he could see the trim lines of the guesthouse with its colorful cottage garden. Oliver's mother had yet to come out, instead closing herself in with her sister-in-law, her daughter and what his father called—not unkindly—her gaggle of women.

Just as well, he thought, and there was time enough for her to cling to those women and their comfort before the funeral.

He'd done his best to create her vision of that memorial. Only white flowers—and it seemed like acres of them. Dozens of white chairs arranged in rows on the long sweep of the north lawn, a white lectern for speakers. The photos she'd selected of Oliver framed in white. The string quartet (Christ!) instructed to dress in white as all the mourners had been instructed to wear black.

Only the piper would be allowed color.

He felt, and thankfully his father agreed, a mother should be given anything she wanted in the planning of a child's funeral.

Though he'd hoped for small and private, the event would host over three hundred. Most of the family and a few friends had arrived the day before, and were currently scattered all over the ten-bedroom house, the guesthouse, the pool house, the grounds.

They needed to talk, to ask questions he couldn't answer, to eat, to sleep, to laugh, to cry. They sucked up every drop of air.

After more than thirty-six hours of it, Ash could think of nothing he wanted more than his own studio, his own space. Still, he smiled when his half sister Giselle, the raven-haired beauty, stepped under the shading vines.

She sat beside him, tipped her head onto his shoulder. “I decided to take a walk before I drop-kicked Katrina off the Juliet balcony into the swimming pool. I'm not sure I could kick quite that far so a walk seemed smarter. And I found you.”

“Better idea. What did she do?”

“Cry. Cry, cry, cry. She and Oliver barely spoke, and when they did it was to insult each other.”

“Maybe that's why she's crying. Lost her insult buddy.”

“I guess they did enjoy getting on each other's nerves.”

“Hard on you.” He put an arm around her.

“I loved him. He was a fuck-up, but I loved him. So did you.”

“I'm pretty sure I used those exact words to describe him to someone. He loved you, especially.”

Giselle turned her face, pressed it to Ash's shoulder for a moment. “Damn him. I'm so mad at him for being dead.”

“I know. Me, too. Have you seen his mother?”

“I went over this morning. I talked to Olympia a little. She's leaning hard on Angie, and someone gave her a Valium. She'll get through it. So will we. I'm going to miss him, so much. He always made me laugh, always listened to me bitch, then made me laugh. And I liked Sage.”

“You met her?”

“Hell, I introduced them.” Giselle pulled Ash's pocket square out of his breast pocket, used it to dab at her eyes. “I met her last year in Paris, and we hit it off reasonably well. We had lunch when we were both back in New York. Well, I had lunch. She had a leaf and a berry. Half a berry.”

Expertly, she refolded the pocket square, damp side in, tucked it back in the breast pocket. “She invited me to some party, and I decided to take Oliver—I thought they'd enjoy each other. They did.

“I wish I hadn't taken him.” Giselle turned her face into Ash's shoulder again. “I know it's stupid, you don't have to tell me, but I wish I hadn't taken him. Would they both be alive if I hadn't introduced them?”

Gently, he brushed his lips over her hair. “You said I didn't have to tell you that's stupid, but I'm compelled to.”

“He was into something bad, Ash. He had to be. Someone killed him, so he had to be into something bad.”

“Did he say anything to you? Anything about a deal? A client?”

“No. The last time I talked to him—just a few days before . . . before he died, he called me. He said everything was great, tremendous, and he was going to come see me. I could help him look for a place in Paris. He might buy a flat in Paris. I thought, That's never going to happen, but wouldn't it be fun if it did?”

She straightened up, blinked away threatening tears. “You know more than you're saying. I'm not going to ask—I'm not sure I'm ready to know, but you know more than you're telling the rest of us. I'll help if I can.”

“I know you will.” He kissed her cheek. “I'll let you know. I've got to go check on flowers and bagpipes.”

“I'll look in on Olympia. Guests will be arriving soon.” She rose with him. “Get Bob to help you. Bob's a rock.”

True enough, Ash thought, as they parted ways. And he'd already tapped Bob—stepbrother, mother's side—to monitor the alcohol intake on a select few.

He didn't want anyone ending up in the koi pond.

L
ila decided “compound” was far too military and restrictive a word for the Archer estate. Yes, the walls stood high and thick—but the stone glinted with regal dignity. Yes, the gates loomed—sturdy and locked—but with gorgeous ironwork surrounding the stylized
A
. Bold orange tiger lilies speared up around the base of a charming gatehouse.

Two black-suited security guards checked credentials before passing the limo through. And maybe that part seemed to fit “compound.” But that was all.

Tall, graceful trees rose over velvet lawns. Lush shrubberies, artistic plantings mixed among the green along the arrow-straight drive, and all led to the massive house.

It should've been almost too much, she thought, but the creamy yellow stone added a friendly vibe and its subtle U shape softened all. Pretty balconies, the hipped roofs on each wing, lent it a welcoming charm.

She spotted a little topiary—a dragon, a unicorn, a winged horse.

“Current wife,” Luke said. “She goes for the whimsical.”

“I love it.”

The driver stopped in front of the covered portico. Thick vines covered with purple blooms big as saucers twined up columns, tangled over the balconies. Touches like that, she thought, turned the house from intimidating into approachable.

Still, if she'd had a do-over, she'd have bought a new dress. Her all-purpose black—now in its fourth season—didn't seem quite good enough.

She hoped the hair helped, maybe added a faint air of dignity since she'd fussed it into a loose chignon at the base of her neck.

Once the driver helped her out, Lila simply stood, admiring the house. Moments later a blonde streaked out of the massive front door, paused for a beat at the base of the trio of portico steps. Then launched herself at Luke.

“Luke.” She sobbed it. “Oh, Luke.”

Behind her back Lila exchanged lifted-eyebrow glances with Julie.

“Oliver! Oh, Luke!”

“I'm so sorry, Rina.” He rubbed his hand over the back of her black dress with its flirty lace bodice and abbreviated hemline.

“We'll never see him again. I'm so glad you're here.”

Very glad, Lila assumed, by the way the woman clung several seconds after Luke tried to untangle himself.

About twenty-two, Lila gauged, with a long, straight spill of blond hair, long, tanned legs and flawless skin where perfect crystal tears slid as if they'd been choreographed.

Unkind, she told herself. All true, but unkind.

The blonde wrapped her arms around Luke's waist, molded herself to his side, gave both Lila and Julie a long, assessing look.

“Who are you?”

“Katrina Cartwright, this is Julie Bryant and Lila Emerson. They're friends of Ash's.”

“Oh. He was on the north side, doing things. I'll show you around.
Guests are arriving. All these people,” she said with a faraway look as another limo cruised toward the house, “to honor Oliver.”

“How is his mother?” Luke asked.

“I haven't seen her today. She's cloistered in the guesthouse. Devastated. We're all devastated.” She kept a proprietary grip on Luke as she led the way along a paved path. “I don't know how we'll go on. How any of us will go on.

“We've opened a bar on the patio.” She gestured carelessly to the white-skirted table manned by a white-jacketed woman.

Beyond the generous patio the lawn stretched. Rows of white chairs faced an arbor dripping with roses. Under its arch sat a high table holding an urn.

All bride white, Lila thought, including the easels that held enlarged framed photos of Oliver Archer.

A quartet sat beneath a second arbor playing the quiet and classical. People dressed in funeral black mixed and mingled. Some had already hit the bar, she noted, and carried cocktails or wine. Others sat, talking in muted voices.

One woman wore a hat with a brim as round and wide as the moon. She dabbed at her eyes with a snow-white hankie.

Through a pretty stand of trees she saw what must have been a tennis court, and to the south the tropical blue waters of a swimming pool glinted in the sun. A little stone house nestled near it.

Someone laughed too loud. Someone else spoke in Italian. A woman in a white uniform moved silent as a ghost to take up empty glasses. Another brought the hat woman a flute of champagne.

And to think she hadn't wanted to come, Lila thought. It was all marvelous, like theater, like something out of a play.

She wanted to write about it—surely she could work some of it into a book—and began to commit faces, landscape, little details to memory.

Then she saw Ash. His face was so tired, so sad.

Not a play, she thought. Not theater.

Death.

Thinking only of him now, she walked to him.

He took her hand. For a moment he just stood, holding her hand. “I'm glad you came.”

“So am I. It's . . . all sort of eerily beautiful. All the white and black. Dramatic. From what you've told me, he'd have liked it.”

“Yeah, he would. Olympia—his mother—was right. Hell, Rina's got Luke. I need to get her off. She's had a crush on him since she was a teenager.”

“I think he can handle it. Is there anything I can do?”

“It's done. Or will be. Let me get all of you a seat.”

“We'll find seats. You have things to do.”

“I need to get Olympia, or send someone to get her. I'll be back.”

“Don't worry about us.”

“I'm glad you came,” he said again. “I mean it.”

He had to make his way through guests, those who wanted to offer condolences, those who just wanted a word. He started toward the house—he'd cut through, he decided, go out the side—then stopped when he saw Angie.

She looked exhausted, he realized. Weighed down carrying her own grief and trying to shoulder some of her sister-in-law's.

“She wants Vinnie.” Angie pushed a hand at her curly cap of hair. “Have you seen him?”

“No. I've been handling some things so I must've missed him.”

“I'll try his cell again. He should've been here an hour ago. Two.” She sighed a little. “He drives like an old lady, and won't use the hands-free. So if he's still en route, he won't answer.”

“I'll look around for him.”

“No, do what you have to do to get this started. She's got her guts up now, but it won't last long. If he's late, he's late. You should have the funeral director get people seated. Your father?”

“I'll get him. Is ten minutes enough time?”

“Ten minutes. We'll have her here.” She took her phone out of the little purse she carried. “Damn it, Vinnie,” she muttered as she strode away.