Inherit the Dead, Page 6

  She still didn’t look at Jeeves; her eyes were on Perry, and that secretive smile curved her lips. Jeeves slipped her champagne flute into her hand. “Thank you,” she said briefly.

  Perry reached for his own glass and nodded his thanks to the butler. He couldn’t help but think of the movie Clue.

  What do butlers do?

  They butle, of course.

  “Will that be all, mum?” Jeeves asked.

  “Yes, please, and see that we’re not disturbed. Mr. Christo and I have a matter of some importance to discuss,” Lilith said.

  Jeeves left them, closing the door to the studio behind him.

  Lilith took a sip of her champagne and paused to enjoy the taste. “Do drink up, Perry. Once a bottle of champagne is opened . . . well, you know.”

  Not exactly—at least, not in the case of Lilith Bates.

  “So,” she asked, and her tone was like warm honey, “just what is the matter of importance we need to discuss?”

  “Angelina Loki,” he said.

  He didn’t think that he really took her by surprise, but he was astounded by the knife’s edge glitter that came into her eyes.

  “Oh?”

  Everything about her that had been relaxed, sensual, and sinuous as a cat seemed to change.

  “She’s one of your best friends, isn’t she?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

  “She’s disappeared.”

  “Oh, I doubt that she’s disappeared; I mean, people don’t just disappear, do they? Of course, you may be using that word in an abstract way . . . rather like abstract art. What you see is that she’s disappeared, but of course, she hasn’t really,” Lilith said.

  “So you know where she is?” he asked.

  “Me? No! Goodness, no!” She’d sipped her champagne so delicately before; now she chugged the contents of the flute.

  “Have I upset you?” he asked her.

  “No, I mean, I’m quite certain the little minx is just fine, it’s just that—well, as you said. She is one of my dearest friends.”

  She rose—rather she unwound herself—in full grace again and walked a few feet into the room, her empty glass forgotten in her hand. “Why are you looking for her?”

  “Her mother is distraught; she needs to find her.”

  Lilith laughed. It was a dry and brittle sound. She spun on him. “That battle-ax? The only thing that causes her distress is discovering a new wrinkle! Trust me: if that woman is trying to find Angel, Angel’s better off wherever she may be.”

  “Ah. I take it you don’t much like her.”

  Moving more like a wooden figure, stiff and disjointed, Lilith reached into the ice bucket for the bottle and poured herself more champagne.

  “No, I don’t much like her. And that family’s money is wound up into more trusts than you could ever imagine.”

  “And you know this from Angel?”

  “She may have mentioned it. I just, well, I just assume in a wealthy family like that . . . ”

  “That there are financial trusts. Did Angel have one?”

  “I . . . assume so. She never seemed to worry about money.”

  “And she’ll have more coming after her mother dies?”

  “I suppose. But I wouldn’t know about that. How would I?”

  “So Angel never said anything to that effect?”

  “No.” Lilith’s lips tightened around the word, as if she were lying.

  “I see.”

  “Julia Drusilla is a gorgon. She has the mothering instincts of a cub-eating papa bear.” She stopped speaking and spun on him. “Oh, I see—private eye. You’re being paid to find her for that witch who calls herself a mother.”

  “I’d never bring harm to Angel,” he said.

  Lilith sniffed and turned away from him. He saw that there was a wavering mirror that reflected one of her canvases.

  She was looking at her own image in it.

  “Could you tell me how well you do know the family?” he asked her.

  “We run in the same social circles,” she said, as if that should explain all.

  “So you don’t really know her?” he asked.

  Lilith moved slightly, arching her back as if she had a crick in it. She was gaining control; once again, her movement as sensual and sinuous as that of a cat.

  “Angel came to one of my art showings. She loved my work; she bought a painting. We began to talk about art . . . music . . . life. Then she called me a few weeks later. Poor dear, she loves both her parents, of course, the way children always do, but her father has freed himself from that dreadful woman. You must understand: Angel is a child of beauty—a child of nature. She’s young, impetuous . . . ”

  “Young and beautiful,” Perry agreed.

  Lilith brought her free hand to her face as she studied her skewed image in the mirror.

  Beautiful. Young and beautiful.

  He thought then that as rich and beautiful as Lilith was herself, she saw her own youth slipping away. She had everything she wanted, perhaps, except for the youth that might make Angel more desirable than she was herself. He couldn’t really judge her age, but he believed she was in her mid-thirties.

  She was still young, but she was, he realized, one of those women who wanted to be the most beautiful, who thrived on the adulation of men.

  And needed it. Any little slip in her hold on her perfection would be painful, and in comparison to a young woman just at the first flush of legal adulthood . . .

  She spun around again. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to forgive me. Julia Drusilla has donated large sums of money to many charities I’m associated with over the years.”

  “So you do know her.”

  “Like I said, we have, at times, moved in similar circles, but know her, not really.” Lilith forced a smile. “She provided for Angel—all the right things. The right clothing, the right schools . . . so much right that she never saw the person her daughter was becoming. She wanted to make a Mini Me out of Angel, and that’s just not Angel.”

  “Tell me about her?” Perry asked quietly.

  Lilith set her glass on the table and moved—sailed—across the floor to a bank of wall electronics. “Tell me, Perry—do you dance?”

  The strains of something Latin came on the air.

  “I move my feet to music,” he said. “I’m not so sure about what you’re playing.”

  She smiled. “Ah, Perry, it’s just a rumba. Back, side, forward, side, back. The dance, of course, is all in the foot and hip movements. So many people hear Latin music and want to sway their shoulders all over. It’s a sensual dance . . . all about the subtlety of music. You’re not very subtle are you, Perry?”

  “I try to be straightforward.”

  “Come dance with me.”

  He stood, feeling a little awkward. His illustrator mother had taught him a great deal about art, though she hadn’t been a dancer.

  “Come to me, Perry, please, come to me.”

  She stretched out her hands to him, closing her eyes. She began to move to the music herself. Her shoulders did not move, but her hips swayed evocatively with each step.

  She could be, he was convinced, his path to Angel.

  He stepped forward.

  “Now, take me in your arms, Perry. A man always leads in such a dance, but you’re learning, so I will back lead you. You don’t grip a woman as if she were a fence, Perry. You are firm in your hold; gentle and yet forceful as you move so that a woman understands just what it is you want her to do.”

  He tried not to step on her feet. The basic step was easy; he got it quickly enough. She was extremely correct in her stance but didn’t seem to care that her partner was not so majestic.

  “Will you help me?” he asked, her perfume in his nose. “Please. I won’t let any harm come to Angel; I just need to speak with her myself.”

  She’d held her head away from him at an angle—as was proper with the dance, he was certain. A slight smile curled
the marble beauty of her face.

  “Did you think I was hiding her here somewhere, Perry?”

  “No, but I think you could tell me where to find her. I’m afraid for her, Lilith. She’s missing, and no one seems to know where—”

  “Lift your arm just so on the back step, and I can turn . . . ” Lilith said.

  “Please,” he said.

  “Angel is, as you said, young and beautiful,” she told him.

  “Did you hear me? I’m afraid she may be a victim, that she may be in trouble, that . . . ”

  She paused for a minute, drawing back. A look of real concern tugged at her features.

  “Dead?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know and won’t—not until I’ve searched everywhere.” Perry tried not to think it. He tightened his grip on Lilith’s thin waist.

  “Young and beautiful means men,” Lilith told him.

  “A particular man?” he asked.

  Spinning in his arms, Lilith came to a dramatic pause with her back against him. His chin rested on her head. She inhaled, waiting for the next count of music, and when it came seemed to move again with regret.

  “She could have her pick of men,” Lilith said.

  “But was there one special man?” he asked. To his amazement, he was getting the hang of it. They weren’t going to be calling from Dancing with the Stars anytime too soon, but he could at least move as she wanted and concentrate on his questions at the same time.

  “So, she was seeing many men?”

  “She went through men with total disdain and absolute ease,” Lilith said. She moved her head close to his in a calculated dance movement. “In fact, quite bluntly, she went through men like toilet paper.”

  “Then, she might have angered someone?” he asked.

  Again, Lilith spun around, stopping right in front of him. “No, not really. They would always drool after her, hoping that she would come back.”

  “What kind of men?” he asked.

  She grinned. “Oh, the very rich kind. Some, mere boys. Most, high-powered. Stockbrokers, doctors, lawyers, an actor or two.” She moved against him, looking up at him. “Most,” she said in a silken whisper, “were a lot like you. Tall, well built . . . muscular.” Her fingers trailed down his arm.

  “Can you give me some names?” he asked, fighting an involuntary chill.

  She stopped moving. The music seemed to go on, out of sync.

  She looked at him hard and seemed to tire of her game. But she was judging him again. And he was grateful to see, she seemed to judge him well.

  “What about you, Perry?” she asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Let’s see . . . a man like you. Well . . . ”

  “Did Norman Loki call you about me?”

  “No. After you called me, well, forgive me but I googled you and skimmed a few articles. Is that such a bad thing?” She smiled. “I see you made some mistakes in your misspent youth. You lost the woman you loved, did you not? You probably didn’t appreciate her when you had her and now . . . You have a child, yes? You look back at the past, and you believe if you run hard enough, you’ll find a future.”

  “I’ve been bad places,” he told her. “I don’t know where I’m running to now.”

  “You’re honest. I like that.”

  “Will you help me? Is Angel really your friend?”

  She turned away from him and walked back to the table, elegantly picking up her champagne glass and studying its contents, as if it would give her answers.

  “Yes, I really consider Angel a friend,” she said after a moment. She looked his way again. The music ended.

  Outside, the winter wind suddenly seemed to buffet against the glass of the studio windows; a skeletal branch slapped against the wall.

  “Winter,” she said. “So cold and bitter. I like summer much better, you know. Of course, I could spend winter in the city. Or Barbados,” she mused.

  At the moment, Perry wished to hell he was in Barbados, too.

  “Maybe Angel has opted for a warmer climate,” she said.

  “Tell me about Angel’s men, Lilith.”

  “There’s one,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “I always warned her to be careful,” Lilith said, walking to the window to look out at the cold gray day. “I told her to be careful about whom she was meeting, and that, even if she was just going to be amused and then toss them away, she should make sure others knew about them. Oh, I loved to hear her talk! She would tell me about this one or that one . . . ” She paused, looked at him, and flashed a smile. “It sounded sometimes like we were in a men’s gym room, her language could be so graphic. ‘He has huge feet . . . but never go by that old wives’ tale!’ she told me about Larry, the yacht broker. And ‘Big things come in small packages—sometimes!’ That was in reference to James, the cyber heir her father wanted her to date. Sadly, she said he had the stamina of a dead dog. I warned her . . . so often . . . you must understand. She’s passionate. She’s a true Renaissance woman. She is Bohemian. She will do what she wants when she chooses, and, of course . . . that’s hard on her blue-nosed mama. And her father . . . Norman!”

  It sounded almost as if she spit out the last.

  “Ah. So you don’t care much for Norman Loki, either?” he asked.

  “Maybe Angel uses men because she saw how her father used everyone,” Lilith said. “As far as I’m concerned, Norman Loki is a prick who believes that he can use anyone. The poor child . . . on the one hand, her bone-thin mama bear, and on the other, Norman the snake.”

  “But her father claims to have no knowledge of her whereabouts. He seems as distressed as her mother.”

  Lilith sniffed.

  Perry waited and then asked, “Do you believe that Angel might be with Larry, the yacht broker, or James, the cyber heir?”

  “No, they were safe. They were the kind of men she should have been playing with,” Lilith said. She spun on him. “Don’t judge her. You have to understand the beauty of her soul. Men have done what they will through the ages. Angel . . . she doesn’t hurt them, she gives. She allows them to entertain her; she gives them the pleasure of her company.”

  Perry stood his ground and fought for patience.

  “So?”

  “You know, I would never speak to the police like this,” she told him.

  “I’m grateful, truly grateful, that you’re speaking to me. But help me, please, Lilith.” Perry spoke softly, his eyes on her, trying hard to keep her engaged and on his side.

  Lilith sighed. She walked over to the stereo control again. This time she played a very slow Sinatra number.

  “Dance with me again. Let me lie against your chest. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  He really felt like a male escort then. But if that’s what it took.

  He walked over to her and took her in his arms. She eased her head against his chest as he held her and they moved slowly, doing little more than just shuffling their feet.

  “This is nice,” Lilith said. She arched her body against his. The scent of her perfume was subtle; the tease of her hair against his chin was both evocative and oddly sad.

  He pulled away from her slightly. “You’re Lilith Bates,” he said quietly. “Talented. Beautiful. You can have anyone you want. You don’t need to try to prostitute a private eye who is trying to help your friend.”

  “Ah, so you’ll go only so far!” she said, breaking away from him.

  “Lilith—”

  She sat down on the settee, glaring at him. “Yes, I can get many men myself,” she told him.

  “But?”

  “But they’re not real,” she said softly. “Oh, they’re flesh and blood, but they’re always playing a game. Who is in the paper, who has made the most money, who is in the midst of scandal! Where lies the promise for the royalty of the future!” She smiled at him. “Don’t answer me—I’m not looking for an answer. Sit down and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  He came o
ver to join her and sat at one end of the settee. He could see that, outside, an icy rain was falling again. It seemed ominous.

  “It’s the tattoo boy, that’s who it is!” she said, though she seemed sorry the moment she’d said it, a hand to her mouth and her eyes looking away from him.

  “The tattoo boy?”

  “Oh, yes, Angel could have anyone. And you know what happens when you can have anyone?”

  “What?”

  Her lips curled in that bittersweet smile of hers. She picked up her glass of champagne and refilled it. “Drink!” she told him.

  Obediently, he drained his glass. He watched her as she refilled it.

  “Don’t worry, Perry Christo. I am not seducing you. I prefer not to drink alone—though, certainly, I will do so.”

  He sipped his champagne, watching her.

  “When you can get whoever you want, you want that one person out of a million who plays hard to get.”

  “And in Angel’s case, that was this tattoo boy?”

  Lilith nodded. It was clear now that she couldn’t stop talking. “He’s really a no-good grease monkey. A mechanic, can you imagine!”

  Well, he could, actually, but he understood that Lilith couldn’t, her remark so biting it seemed almost personal.

  “So Angel fell for a mechanic . . . who wanted nothing to do with her?” Perry asked, fishing.

  “Oh, I didn’t say he wanted nothing to do with her. The two had an affair—a love affair—a passion that ran hot and deep, and was carnal and sweaty and . . . quite wonderful, I’m sure.” She smiled, but it was forced, and her eyes weren’t smiling at all. “She told me about his tattoos—all of his tattoos. And his body is quite extensively covered in art, if you know what I mean.”

  So Angel had been dating a hot sweaty mechanic who provided amazing sex.

  “Did he leave her?” Perry asked.

  “Well, of course, he couldn’t really leave her, because he was never really with her. He could infuriate her—she’d go to see him, and he’d want to spend a night with his hot, dirty friends, drinking at the dive bar on the very wrong side of town and picking up loose one-hour stands. Well, fifteen-minute stands, from what I understand. Angel would go away furious, swearing she’d never see him again. Then she’d go back to his wretched garage and he’d see her, walk over to her, just about throw her up against a car . . . and she would be all over him again.”