Shadows At Sunset (4 page)

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.

B
y 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 money 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.

Jilly perched on the wide stone railing, breathing in the scent of roses mixed with the acrid perfume of exhaust from the surrounding city. There was nothing she wanted more than to climb into her huge marble bathtub and stay there until her skin got wrinkled. She didn't want to see anyone, talk to anyone, save anyone. Not tonight. She most particularly didn't want to have to deal with Z. R. Coltrane.

At least she'd found out that much about him, even if she couldn't fathom what Z. R. stood for. It seemed an apt enough name for a Hollywood cutthroat.

Not that she had any particular reason to consider him a cutthroat, apart from her instinctive dislike of all lawyers. She wasn't particularly trustful of good-looking men, either—years in Los Angeles had taught her to be wary, and Alan had finished the lesson. Of course Coltrane didn't look the slightest bit like her former husband. Alan was dramatically beautiful, with long, flowing dark hair, a poet's face, an artist's hands, a butcher's soul.

Coltrane, on the other hand, was a shaggy-haired, bleached California blond, a lawyer, not an artist, a businessman, not a poet. Unlike Alan, he made no pretensions to being a gentle, noble soul. And yet he was a phony, a liar, just as much as her husband had been. What you saw was definitely not what you'd get, or so her instincts screamed at her.

Coltrane was the sort of man who could easily figure out what appealed to certain people and tailor his approach accordingly. If anything, he'd seemed determined to annoy her rather than seduce her into thinking he was harmless.

Bad word,
seduce.
Particularly in connection with him. They'd have a business meeting tonight, a calm, rational discussion of how Dean's situation could be made more tenable at Meyer Enterprises, and then she'd bow out, gracefully, and never have to see Coltrane again. She never went to her father's lavish holiday parties—for all she knew she hadn't even been invited the last couple of years. There was no reason she should ever have to run into one of her father's employees again.

It was all quite simple once you put it in perspective, she thought, sipping her tea and averting her gaze from the swimming pool. She'd let her imagination get out of hand, which was downright silly of her. She'd learned to change what she could and let go of what she couldn't fix. There was a good chance she could at least help Dean. And if she couldn't, she'd simply have to work on backing off and letting him deal with it on his own.

She heard the sound of tires on the overgrown driveway, and her stomach lurched unpleasantly. She didn't recognize the sound of the car. It was just seven o'clock, and her unwanted date must be arriving.

 

Coltrane knew exactly where La Casa de Sombras stood behind its curtain of overgrown trees. He'd developed an odd sort of fascination for it, though in truth it probably wasn't that odd. He knew from the photograph that his mother had spent time there in the sixties, though he had no idea how long or if his father had been there, as well. There'd been no dates on the newspaper photo, and no one to ask. His father had flatly refused to ever discuss his mother. But La Casa de Sombras was part of his family history, a place where some of the answers to his past lay buried, and it had taken a long time to finally get inside. Things were beginning to fall into place.

He'd considered breaking in at some point during his tenure. It would have been a piece of cake—during his hellion youth he'd learned all sorts of skills from the motley group of lowlifes he'd hung around with, and he knew how to break into a house without leaving any mark. He'd chosen not to risk it, relying on his patience. Sooner or later he'd walk in through the front door. He could wait.

But now that the time had come he found he was oddly tense. The last few years of his life, maybe his entire life, were coming down to this night, and all he could think about was Jilly Meyer.

He had to remember that she wasn't the weak link. If anything, she was the strong one, and he wasn't particularly interested in a challenge. He'd already been working on her brother, but it was her fragile older sister who was going to provide the key. He knew it by instinct, instinct bred in him by his Irish mother. Rachel-Ann Meyer was the way to Jackson's heart, and to his destruction.

The ornate gates at the bottom of the overgrown driveway were stuck open, rusty even in a place where it never seemed to rain. He drove slowly up the winding drive, dodging an overhanging tree limb here, a raised hump of grass there. In Los Angeles, one of the most developed areas on earth, there were sport utility vehicles in almost every garage. This was one place where one might actually be needed. He wondered how Jilly managed to avoid the potholes in her gorgeous, low-slung Corvette.

He first caught sight of the huge garage. The slate roof was cracked and damaged—it was a good thing it seldom rained or the place would have been worthless. There were seven garage doors—three of them were closed, three were empty. The Corvette stood in pristine glory in the remaining bay.

He parked directly behind it, blocking her in. There was no sign of anyone around, so he immediately headed over to the red car, letting his hands brush the shining finish like a tender lover's. He'd always thought his dream car was a Gull Wing Mercedes, or perhaps a classic Jaguar XKE. He'd never realized how deeply American he was, after all.

He reached for the door handle, unable to resist, when he realized he wasn't alone. He didn't even jump when he heard her caustic voice.

“I told you, you're not driving my car.”

He kept his hand on the car, letting his fingertips caress it lightly, knowing Jilly was watching. And then he turned and peered at her from beneath his shaggy hair.

“I'm glad you didn't put yourself to any trouble on my account,” he said. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and he let his gaze travel up her long legs. She obviously had no idea how very much her long legs turned him on, or she wouldn't keep exposing them like that. It didn't matter that the shorts were baggy cargo shorts—it was the legs beneath them that got him going.

Rachel-Ann,
he reminded himself.
She is the key. Meyer wouldn't give a damn what happened to this daughter.

“Sorry, I've changed my mind. There's no reason to go out—we can discuss the situation here as well as anywhere. Guess you'll have to rethink your plans,” she said breezily.

“How about McDonald's? I wouldn't have thought fast food was the best arena for negotiations, but I'm game if you are. Especially if we get to eat in the car. That way no one will notice if I accidentally grope you.” He wasn't quite sure why he'd added that—mainly to get a reaction from her, he supposed.

“Yeah, right,” she said, foolishly unconvinced. There was nothing he'd like better than to grope her, if the time and place were different. But for right now she was simply the means to an end. “Negotiations?”

“Isn't that what this is about? You convince me to help your baby brother win Daddy's love and approval? I'm going to be fascinated to hear what I have to gain by doing it, but I'm always open-minded.”

She didn't bother denying it. “Maybe out of the goodness of your heart?”

“I don't think there's much goodness in me. Much less a heart,” he said, giving her his most dulcet smile.

She blinked, a good reaction. He believed in warning people. They seldom believed him—people always tended to downplay his honesty. It was only later when they looked back, battered and bruised, that they realized he'd simply told them the truth.

“You're not going to convince me with that diffidence crap,” she said.

“Convince you of what? I'm telling you the truth.”

“I'm not sure you'd know the truth if it bit you on the ass.”

“I guess you'll just have to find out.” He stepped back from the Corvette, hiding his reluctance. “So, are you going to give me a tour of this place? And don't tell me I can take a bus tour. I want an owner's perspective. Or at least the temporary owner. Your father's the one who'll end up with this place when you finally give it up.”

“That's not about to happen. You're awfully conversant with the legal ownership of this place,” she added suspiciously.

“I'm head of legal services, remember? It's my job to know.” Hell, he didn't usually make slips like that one. He had to be careful with Jilly—she was a lot more observant than her brother. “Anyway, I like old Hollywood legends,” he said. “I also like old houses. I studied to be an architect before I switched to law.”

Her disbelief should have been scathing, but he wasn't easily scathed. “I got my degree in architecture from Princeton,” she said, warning him.

“I know.” He smiled at her. “Want to cross-examine me about architectural detail? You seem convinced I've got something to hide. What you see is what you get.” He held his arms out.

“Not if I can help it,” she muttered. “I don't suppose you'll be willing to leave until I show you the place.”

“As always, you're very astute. And I'm looking forward to meeting your sister.” He liked how casual it sounded.

“Why?”

“I'm curious. As your father's lawyer I've dealt with everything, including your divorce, Dean's traffic accidents, and Rachel-Ann's various…issues.”

“You'll have to stay curious. She's not home tonight. Neither is Dean, for that matter.”

“So we're here alone? Maybe I don't mind not taking you out, after all.”

She looked completely unflustered. “Depends on how you define
alone,
and whether you believe in the ghosts. I never see them, but a lot of other people have. I wouldn't want to irritate them if I were you. Ghosts are notoriously unstable.”

“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.”