The Collector (32 page)

Furnishings with silver or mirror finishes paired with hard reds, blues, greens of chairs and sofas, the same colors echoed in the slashes and strokes of the art framed in silver on the white walls.

Not a soft edge anywhere, Lila thought.

“I couldn't work here,” she murmured to Ash. “It would give me a constant headache.”

A woman—again in white, short and snug—hurried toward them. She had a tumble of ice blond hair and eyes so eerily green Lila credited tinted contacts.

“You must be Ashton!” She grabbed Ash's hand, then leaned in for the European double-cheek buss. “I'm so glad you could join us! I'm Miranda.”

“It was nice of you to ask us. Miranda Swanson, Lila Emerson.”

“Aren't you as fresh as a strawberry parfait? Let me get you both a drink.” She circled her finger in the air without looking around. “We're having Bellinis. Of course, we can get you anything else you like.”

“I'd love one.” Lila beamed at her, very deliberately. She felt a little pang of sympathy.

She judged the woman to be about the same age as Ash's mother, but Miranda had sculpted herself down to a sharpened stick, one that appeared to run on nervous energy and whatever frothy substance she had in her glass.

“You have to come meet everyone. We're all very casual here. I was delighted when your mother called, Ashton. I had no idea she was here, spending some of her summer.”

Lila took a glass from the server's tray. “You have a gorgeous spot.”

“We just love it. We completely redid the house when we bought it last year. It's lovely to get out of the city with all the heat, the crowds. I'm sure you know just what I mean. Let me introduce you to—”

Earl Grey took the opportunity to poke his head out of the corner of the straw bag.

Miranda's mouth dropped open, and Lila held her breath, half expecting a scream.

Instead, there came a squeal.

“Oh, it's a little puppy! She's like a little toy.”

“He. This is Earl Grey. I hope you don't mind, but I didn't want to leave him home alone.”

“Oh, oh, he's precious. Just precious.”

“Would you like to hold him?”

“I'd love it.” Miranda gathered the dog in her hands, immediately lapsed into lisping baby talk.

Lila just slanted a look toward Ash, and smiled. “Is there anywhere I could take him for a little walk outside?”

“Oh, of course! I'll show you. Want to go for a walkie?” Miranda cooed, rubbing noses with Earl Grey, then giggling when he lapped his tiny tongue on her face.

This time Lila just batted her eyes at Ash as she followed the besotted Miranda back out the front door.

Bellini in hand, Monica wandered over to her son. “That's a clever girl you have.”

He leaned down to kiss his mother's cheek. “I don't know if I have her, but she's pretty damn clever.”

“My son knows how to get what he wants, and always has.” She kissed his cheek in turn. “We need to mingle a bit, but then we're going to find a nice quiet spot in this ridiculous house for you to tell me just why you wanted an intro to Miranda Swanson.”

“Fair enough.” But he glanced toward the door.

“I think Lila can handle her end of things.”

“So she's always telling me.”

“Quite a contrast for a man who's gotten used to handling too much for too many. Let's be social.” She took his hand, strolled with him into the gathering in the main living area. “Toots, I don't think you've met my son.”

Toots? Ash thought, then resigned himself to the social hour.

Outside, Lila walked a wide white path between sharp blades of ornamental grasses and thorny rosebushes. And waited for her opportunity.

“Biff and I travel so much I never thought about getting a dog. So much trouble. But now . . .” Miranda held the leash while Earl Grey sniffed the grasses. “I'd love to have the name of your breeder.”

“I'll get that for you. I really appreciate you inviting us tonight, and being so understanding about Earl Grey. I didn't realize until Ash mentioned it, you knew his half brother Oliver.”

“Who?”

“Oliver Archer, he handled the estate sale through Old World Antiques for you.”

“Oh! I never put that together. He did mention he was Spence Archer's son. I'd forgotten. Such a bother, all that estate business, and he was so helpful.”

“I'm sure he was.”

“Biff and I just couldn't see the point in keeping that old house, and all the
things
. My grandmother collected everything.” She rolled her eyes. “You'd think it was a museum, full of stuff, musty old place.”

“Still, it must've been hard, selling off family things.”

“I prefer living in the now. Antiques are just old things somebody else already used, aren't they?”

“Well . . .” In a nutshell, Lila supposed. “Yes, I guess they are.”

“And so much of it's heavy and dark, or gaudy. Biff and I like clean and modern. Oliver—I remember him, of course—was a huge help. I should invite him out for a weekend this summer.”

“I'm sorry, I thought you knew. Oliver was killed a couple weeks ago.”

Instant shock and distress flew into her eyes. “That's terrible! Oh, he was so young and good-looking. That's tragic. How did it happen?”

“He was shot. It was all over the news.”

“Oh, I try never to listen to the news. Always so depressing.”

“There is that,” Lila agreed.

“Shot.” Miranda gave a shudder. “A mugging, a robbery, I guess.”

“Something like that. You sold him an egg.”

“There's a good boy, going pee-pee. A what?” She glanced back at Lila. “An egg? Why would I sell anyone an egg?”

“A decorative egg. An angel with a chariot.”

“How odd. I don't remember— Oh, wait. Yes, I do. God, it was so
gaudy
and old-fashioned. It had all these papers with it written in some strange foreign language. But Oliver was taken with it, and asked if I'd consider selling it to him outright. I didn't see the harm.”

“The papers were actually for two eggs.”

“Really? Well, as I said, that old place was full of things. Biff and I are more minimalist.”

“Ash learned about it—he's handling his brother's estate. You know what that's like.”

Miranda rolled her eyes wearily. “An enormous eater of time and energy.”

“Yes. And in going through all the papers, he learned Jonas Martin Junior lost the second egg in a poker game. To Antonio Bastone.”

“Bastone?” Something bright came into her face. “Was that it? There's some family legend about that—some treasure wagered away. My grandfather—Jonas Martin—was the black sheep with a weakness for gambling and women.”

“Do you know the Bastones?”

“I dated Giovanni one whirlwind summer when we were in Italy—I wasn't quite eighteen. I was wild for him, probably because my father didn't fully approve due to this poker business.”

“Where in Italy, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Florence, at least we spent a lot of time in Florence. The Bastone villa is in Tuscany. Giovanni married some Italian model and had a herd of children. I haven't seen him for years now, but we still exchange cards at Christmas. A woman only has one first love.”

“It's a lucky woman to have an Italian first love with a villa in Tuscany. Did you ever talk about the egg his grandfather won from yours?”

“We had much more important things to talk about—when we talked. I should get back—I could stay out here with this little sweetie all night.” She gathered Earl Grey up in her hands. “Do you think he's finished?”

“Yeah, I'd say we're finished.”

By the time they circled back to the house, Lila steered the conversation into empty small talk by dropping the name of clients who also had a house in East Hampton. They parted ways when Miranda introduced her—as Leela—to two couples on the east terrace.

She let it go, decided Leela was a trust fund baby who dabbled in fashion design. She entertained herself with that persona for a few minutes, then excused herself to hunt for Ash.

He scooped her up from behind, an arm firm around her waist. “There you are. You have to see the view from the second floor.”

“I do?” she asked as he carted her briskly to the glossy white staircase.

“Yes, because my mother's there, and I'm under orders to bring you up. I had to fill her in,” he added quietly.

“Did you?”

“I mostly filled her in. You can keep her entertained while I hunt up Biff Swanson and see what I can find out about the egg.”

“That's not going to be necessary. Mrs. Crompton. It's nice to see you again.”

“Monica. Let me see your ploy.”

“My ploy?”

“The famous Earl Grey.”

At the sound of his name, the dog poked his head out of the bag, gave one cheerful yip.

“I'm more inclined toward big, sturdy dogs, but he's certainly cute. And he has a very happy face.”

“That's his charm for me. Happy face.”

“First”—she took Lila's arm, led her farther away from a small group of guests—“I'm going to apologize for Ashton's father.”

“There's no need for that.”

“I wouldn't have left you alone with him if I'd known where he'd gone in his head. And as I had two children with him, I should have known, or guessed. His current wife and I don't have much in common, or any particular liking for each other, but she would've been appalled if she'd known how he treated a guest in their home. As would Oliver's poor mother, and Isabella—Spence's third wife. So on behalf of all the formers and the current, I'm sorry you were treated so shabbily.”

“Thank you. It was a difficult day for everyone.”

“A horrible day that went from awful to even worse. Ash has told me what's going on, or as much of what's going on as he's decided to tell me. I'm going to say I was terribly fond of Vinnie. He and Angie, their family, are all part of mine, and a welcome part. I want to see the people responsible for taking his life, for breaking Angie's heart, caught and punished. But I don't want it at the risk of my son, or a young woman I'm already fond of.”

“I understand. Basically we're just gathering information right now.”

“I'm not Oliver, Mom,” Ash put in.

“And thank God for it.” The breeze caught at her hair, fluttered the
golden red waves. “Among countless other differences, you're not greedy, entitled or stupid. Oliver was, and often all at the same time. It's ridiculous to say not to speak ill of the dead. We're all going to be dead eventually. What would we talk about in the meantime?”

Lila let out a quick laugh before she could swallow it. “Ash says he's going to take care of me—and while he's trying to do that, I'll take care of him.”

“Both of you make sure you do.”

“And since you're filled in, I can tell you—both—my ploy hit the jackpot. Condensed version. Miranda didn't have a clue about the egg Oliver bought—she just saw it as old-fashioned and gaudy. To her, it was just more clutter in an old house she didn't want.”

“The Martin estate is one of the most beautiful homes on Long Island,” Monica told her. “It's been let go far too long, as Miranda's grandmother—her father died several years ago—has been ill for a long time. I've been to parties there, back in the day. I was pregnant with you, Ash, the first time I went there.”

“It's a small, incestuous world. What about the Bastone connection?”

“In the vein of small, incestuous worlds, Miranda had her first love affair with Giovanni Bastone one long-ago summer in Tuscany. The Bastones have a villa there. It has to be near Florence, as she said she and Giovanni spent a lot of time there. And she vaguely recalls a family legend about Jonas Martin—the black sheep in his time—losing a family treasure in a wager with Antonio Bastone—one of the reasons her father wasn't happy about her dating the young Bastone. He—Giovanni—married a model, and they have several children.”

Monica sent her a look of pleased approval. “You got all of that by walking the dog?”

“I did. I also got that she had no idea what happened to Oliver, and even knowing he was killed, hasn't connected it to the egg. She's a very nice woman. Kind of silly, but nice. I have to remember to get her the
name of Earl Grey's breeder, because she wants her own. When I do, I think I could get Giovanni Bastone's contact information. But we should be able to find it ourselves.”

Satisfied, Lila snagged another drink from a passing server. “Don't you just love cocktail parties?”

“I do.” Monica tapped her glass to Lila's. “Poor Ash tolerates them only when he can't find a way out. He's already thinking exit strategy here. Give it another thirty minutes,” she advised. “See and be seen, then slip out. I'll cover for you. And you.” Monica slipped an arm around Lila's waist, as her son often did. “We absolutely have to have a long, long lunch the next time I'm in New York.”

Thirty minutes, Ash thought, and checked his watch before leading his women back downstairs.

W
hen they got back to New York, Ash decreed—though he felt no man should walk a dog the size of a hamster—it was his turn to take Earl Grey out and about. Fine with that arrangement, Lila foraged through her kitchen supplies. A few samples of party finger food had only sharpened her appetite. By the time Ash returned, she had her comfort favorite—mac and cheese—ready to serve and was already busy checking Facebook for any responses.

“You made mac and cheese.”

“From a box. Love it or leave it.”

“The blue box, right?”

“Of course. I have my standards.”

He got a beer from the fridge. Driving meant he'd had to get through the cocktail bullshit on a single beer. He'd more than earned his second of the night.

“That blue box was the only thing I could make when I got my first place. That and Eggos,” he remembered, with some fondness. “I'd toss one or the other together if I worked late. Nothing tastes as good as mac and cheese at three in the morning.”

“We could wait and see if that still holds true, but I'm hungry now. Oh, Jesus! Ashton, I got a hit.”

“A hit on what?”

“My Facebook trolling. Antonia Bastone answered. In response to my query—are you related to the Antonio Bastone who played poker with Jonas Martin in the 1940s? She writes back: ‘I am the great-granddaughter of Antonio Bastone who was a friend of the American Jonas Martin. Who are you?'”

He stuck a fork in the bowl of mac and cheese. “Antonia could be a forty-year-old man with a beer gut hoping to score with some naive girl playing on the Internet.”

Her head still bent toward her laptop screen, she merely lifted her eyes. “Who just happened to pick that name for a cover? Have a little faith—and get me a fork. If we're going to eat out of the serving bowl, I want my own fork.”

“Picky.” He ate another bite first. “God, this takes me back. I remember making this after a long night with . . . a fork,” he said, and went into the kitchen.

“That memory involved mac and cheese and a naked woman.”

“Maybe.”

He brought back a fork and a couple of napkins.

“Just FYI, I have memories of naked men.”

“Then it's all good.” He sat. “Okay, the middle-aged beer gut's a stretch. She answers the American—possible she got that because she checked your page, then assumed. But yeah, it's likely you hit. You're handy, Lila. I wouldn't have gone with the dog or the social media. You scored on both.”

“I'd say it's just luck, but false modesty's so irritating. How much should I tell her, Ash? I never thought I'd get anything this quickly, so I haven't thought of the next step, not clearly. I can't tell her I'm a friend of the half brother of the man who was killed
because of the Fabergé egg her ancestor didn't win from Jonas Martin. But I need to tell her something, enough of something to continue a dialogue.”

“You're a writer. You write good dialogue—your teenagers sound like teenagers.”

“I know I'm a writer—and thanks—but I haven't plotted this part out.”

“No, you tell her you're a writer, which is true. She can verify that. You're acquainted with Miranda Swanson, also true, who's the granddaughter of Jonas Martin—and remains friendly with Giovanni Bastone. All true. You're researching the family histories, particularly the Martin/Bastone connection and the wager, for a potential book. Not true, but plausible.”

“That's pretty good plotting on the fly.” She dipped into the serving bowl again. “Maybe I will write a book about all this, eventually, so I can go in that direction. I am researching. Okay, that's good. The truth, and the possible truth.”

She typed in a response. “And ending it with: ‘Are you, or any member of your family, willing to talk to me?'” She hit send.

“So now . . .” She dug more enthusiastically into the mac and cheese. “We wait and see.”

“We can do better than that. What's your schedule like?”

“My schedule? I'm here until Monday afternoon, then I have two days before I start a job in Brooklyn, then—”

“Two days might not do it. Can you get someone to cover you in Brooklyn?”

“I could, but—”

“Cover Brooklyn,” he said. “Let's go to Tuscany.”

She just stared at him. “You sure know how to class up the mac and cheese.”

“We'll leave Monday, as soon as you're clear. That's enough time to
pinpoint the Bastone villa—and with some luck get an invitation to visit. No luck, we'll figure something else out.”

“Just . . .” She wagged her hands in the air. “Go to Tuscany?”

“You like to travel.”

“I do, but—”

“I need to take the next step, and that's verifying the Nécessaire. I can't go without you, Lila. I won't leave you on your own until this is over. You don't like those terms, but that's what they are. So consider it doing me a favor.”

Now, brooding a little, she poked at the orange pasta. “You've got some moves, Ashton.”

“Guilty, but you want to go. You want in. You don't want to be here while I'm tugging the Italian threads.”

There was a cat, and a dog, and an aquarium of saltwater fish—and a garden—in Brooklyn. She'd been looking forward to her two-week stay.

But weighing it against Tuscany, another piece of the puzzle, and Ashton . . .

“I have to cover Brooklyn, to the satisfaction of my clients.”

“Agreed.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

L
ila checked on Earl Grey, who rode happily in her straw bag, before she walked into Julie's gallery. She spotted a couple of tourists—browsers, not buyers, by her gauge—and one of the staff talking earnestly to a sharp-faced couple over a sculpture of a woman weeping into her hands.

She wondered why anyone would want something that unhappy in their space, but art spoke to whom it spoke.

She found Julie—as discussed in morning texts—in the back room carefully preparing a painting for shipment.

“Another big score, one I promised I'd prep for shipping personally.” Julie blew a stray curl out of her eyes. “Great bag. When did you get that?”

“Yesterday. Why are you barefoot?”

“Oh, I caught my heel in a grate walking to work—I know better. It cracked, so it's wobbly. I'll get it to the shoemaker this afternoon.”

Lila just opened her bag, dug out her little pack of sandpaper and her super-glue. “I'll fix it.” She picked up the shoe—a very nice peep-toe Jimmy Choo—and got to work.

“The bag,” she continued as she carefully sanded the two bases. “I went to the Hamptons, to a cocktail party, and needed something to carry Earl Grey.”

“You took the dog to a cocktail party in the Hamptons?”

“Yes. This would be better with actual shoe glue, but . . .” Lila gave the newly glued heel a tug. “That should hold. So. Here's a quick update. I need advice.”

She ran Julie through the progress of the day before edging out of the way while her friend unrolled reams of bubble wrap.

“Only you would've thought of Facebook to track down objets d'art, and murderers.”

“She hasn't answered my last message, so all of that might be a bust. But whether she does or doesn't, Ash wants to go to Tuscany—next week. He wants me to go with him.”

“He wants to take you to Italy?”

“It's not a romantic getaway, Julie, which I couldn't even consider when I have jobs booked.”

“Excuse me, it may not be a getaway, but a trip to Italy—to Tuscany—is swarming with romance.” Aiming a stern look, Julie fisted her hands on her hips. “Tell me you're going.”

“That's the advice I'm after—and don't just jump on it. I can get
someone to cover my next job. It'll take a bite out of my budget, but she's really good, and the clients will be fine with it. I want to go because . . . so many reasons. I have to tell him, one way or the other. I'm going over there next. I had to all but push him out the door this morning to Vinnie's funeral, and swear I'd take a cab over there this afternoon.”

“That's a reasonable precaution.”

“Which I'd catch no less than ten blocks away from where I'm working. I'm starting to feel like Jason Bourne.”

She pushed at her hair. “Julie, what am I getting into?”

“I think you're safe with Ash, but it's dangerous. If you're at all nervous or unsure about—”

“Not that part. I can't walk away from that part.” No, she thought, walking away from that wasn't an option. “I've been in it since I looked out the damn window that night. I mean with Ash. What am I getting into?”

“I think it's pretty clear. You're involved, romantically, and looking for problems.”

“I'm not looking for them. Exactly. I like to anticipate, to be prepared. If you're not prepared for the variables, they can bite you in the ass.”

“You know how to enjoy the moment better than anyone I know, until it's personal. You like being with him, you have feelings for him. It's clear it's the same on his end. Why anticipate trouble?”

“He hovers.”

“The situation calls for hovering, if you're asking me.”

“All right, that's fair. He's used to handling the details, and people, and situations. Add that to the way he feels because he didn't handle Oliver's situation. It's intense. He's got a way of making things happen, and . . .”

“And you like to take care of your own details, keep everything loose.” Satisfied with the padding, Julie got out the strapping tape.
“Sometimes tying yourself to someone else's life, managing those details together, is the answer. It's another kind of adventure.”

“You've got stars in your eyes,” Lila accused. “And the moon, too.”

“I do. I've been in love with Luke since I was fifteen. I denied it for a long time, but it's always been Luke.”

“That's romantic.” Lila pressed a hand to her heart. “That's Elizabeth and Darcy romantic.”

“To me it just feels like reality.”

“That only makes it more romantic.”

“I guess it does.” Smiling to herself, Julie secured the padding. “Still, I was doing just fine on my own. I can be happy—and so can you—on my own. I think that's what makes it all the more special, all the more strong, when we can take that step, when we can say okay, this is someone I can trust, and be with, and plan with.”

“You're planning?”

“I was talking about you, but yes. We're taking it slow. Slower,” she said with a smile when Lila narrowed her eyes. “But we tossed away the last twelve years. That's enough waste. You want my advice? Don't toss away something because you're projecting variables and escape hatches. Go to Tuscany, be safe, solve a mystery and be in love. Because you are.”

“I don't know how to feel this way.”

“You'd be the first to tell me, just feel.”

“It changes everything.”

Julie just waved a finger in the air. “And despite the fact that you live somewhere new a couple dozen times a year, change is your phobia. When you're not at the controls. Try something different. Take turns driving.”

“Take turns, go to Tuscany, go sit for a painting I had no intention of doing and now can't wait to see finished. Be in love. Add all that together, baiting a killer with objets d'art seems like child's play.”

“You forgot be safe. I mean it, Lila. And e-mail me every single day while you're gone. Twice a day. We'll go shopping before you leave.”

“I can't afford to go shopping—I'm losing Brooklyn.”

“You're going to Italy. You can't afford not to go shopping.”

That settled that, Lila thought as she left the gallery. She'd just damn her summer budget to hell, go a little crazy. And really, it had been years since she'd gone a little crazy—the contents of her suitcases were beginning to show it.

Live a little, she decided, and opted to walk to Ash's loft, doing some window-shopping along the way. A couple new summer dresses, some cropped pants, some tanks and some flowy tops.

She could recycle some of her going-out-and-about wear to work wear, purge some of her work wear. As long as it fit into her suitcases, she was good to go.

A window display caught her eye—the white, faceless mannequin in the breezy dress with boldly colored swirls, and the strappy wedges in emerald green.

She shouldn't buy green sandals. She should buy a neutral color, something that would go with anything—just like what she had on.

Green could be neutral. Grass was green, and it went with everything when you thought about it.

As she debated with herself, she felt a presence behind her, and before she could step aside, a tiny prick in her side.

“You should be very still and very quiet, or the knife will go much deeper, and very quickly. Nod if you understand me.”