The Collector, Page 20

  you want answers. I don’t have answers to give you. I didn’t know Oliver, and I don’t know who killed him.”

  She set down the champagne she hadn’t touched. “I should go.”

  “You persuaded Ash to ask you here today, into our home. I’m told you’ve spent considerable time with him since your chance meeting at the police station the day after Oliver’s death. That Ashton has already begun painting you. That’s quick work, Ms. Emerson.”

  She got slowly to her feet, as did he. “I don’t know you,” she said carefully. “I don’t know if it’s your nature to be insulting. Since I don’t, I’m going to chalk it up to shock and grief. I know what death can do to the people left behind.”

  “I know you’re a woman of no fixed address who spends her time living in other people’s homes while she writes fantasy stories for impressionable teenagers. A connection to Ashton Archer, with his name, his resources, would be quite a step up for you.”

  Every ounce of sympathy died. “I make my own way, take my own steps. Status and money don’t drive everyone’s train. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Trust me,” he said as she started out of the room, “whatever game you’re playing, you won’t win.”

  She stopped for one last look at him, so handsome and polished, so broken and hard. “I’m sorry for you,” she murmured, and walked out.

  Blind with anger, she made a wrong turn but quickly corrected. She needed to get out, get away. She hated that Spence Archer had managed to make her feel both guilt and fury but knew she needed to chew on both—somewhere else.

  Anywhere out of this huge and amazing space, full of people with their strange and convoluted relationships.

  Screw his enormous and gorgeous home, his expansive lawns and pools and fricking tennis court. And screw him for trying to make her into a gold-digging social climber.

  She made her way outside, remembered Luke had the driver’s information, and the driver had her damn luggage in the trunk. She didn’t want to talk to Luke or Julie or any damn body. She found one of the parking attendants, asked him for the number of a cab company, one that would take her into New York.

  She’d leave her luggage—it would just go with Julie anyway. At some point she’d text Julie, let her know, ask her to haul her things up to her apartment for the night.

  But she wouldn’t stay here feeling humiliated, attacked and guilty one minute more than absolutely necessary.

  She spotted the cab cruising down the long drive, squared her shoulders. She made her own way, she reminded herself, paid her own way. Lived her own way.

  “Lila!”

  She turned at the open door of the cab to see Giselle hurrying toward her.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes, I have to go.”

  “But Ash was just looking for you.”

  “I have to go.”

  “The cab can wait.” Giselle took Lila’s arm, firmly. “Let’s just go back and—”

  “I really can’t.” Just as firmly, Lila took Giselle’s restraining hand, gave it a squeeze. “I’m very sorry about your brother.” She got into the cab, closed the door. And sat back once she told the driver to go, trying not to think just how big a dent the cab fare back to the city would make in her budget.

  Giselle retraced her steps, double-time, and found Ashton just outside the guesthouse talking with a visibly upset Angie.

  “You know it’s not like him, Ash. He doesn’t answer the phone—at home or his cell or the shop. I’m afraid he had an accident.”

  “I’m going to head back soon, but in the meantime let’s have someone check the house.”

  “I could call Janis, ask her to get the spare set of keys from Vinnie’s office at the shop. I talked to her already today. She hasn’t seen him since she left work yesterday.”

  “Let’s do that first. And I’ll drive you back.”

  “I hate to leave Olympia, but I’m really worried. I’ll call now, and tell Olympia I have to go.”

  “You’re not the only one leaving,” Giselle said when Angie went into the guesthouse. “Your friend Lila just left in a cab.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I don’t know for certain, but I do know Dad went in to talk to her, and the next thing I saw, she was piling into a cab. She looked pissed. Holding on to it, but seriously pissed.”

  “Goddamn it. Stay with Angie, will you? I need a few minutes to take care of this.”

  He pulled out his phone as he took the long way around to the main house in order to avoid the bulk of the guests. The call went straight to Lila’s voice mail.

  “Lila, tell the cab to turn around and come back. If you want to go, I’ll drive you back. I’ll handle it.”

  He shoved the phone into his pocket as he went in through the morning room, and spotted his mother.

  “Have you seen Dad?”

  “I think I saw him going upstairs a minute ago, maybe to his office. Ash—”

  “Not now. Sorry, not now.”

  He went up the stairs, turned to the west wing, passed bedrooms, sitting rooms and finally, beyond the master suite, came to his father’s private office.

  Years of training had him knocking first, even if it was perfunctory, before he opened the door.

  Spence held up a hand as he sat behind his massive oak desk, one that had been Ash’s great-grandfather’s.

  “I’ll call you back,” Spence said into his phone, set it down. “I have a few things to deal with, then I’ll be down.”

  “I take it one of the things you felt you needed to deal with was Lila. What did you say to upset her?”

  Spence leaned back, laid his hands on the padded leather arms of his chair. “I simply asked her a few pertinent questions. I think we’ve had enough drama for the day, Ash.”

  “More than. What pertinent questions?”

  “It’s questionable, don’t you think, that this woman—one who just happens to be connected to the manager of the gallery that displays your work—should be the one witness to whatever happened in that apartment the night Oliver was murdered?”

  “No.”

  “And this connection of hers was once married to a man you’re particular friends with.”

  Ash saw, clearly, where this rocky path would lead. He didn’t want to make the trip, today of all days. “Connections happen. This family is living proof of it.”

  “Are you aware Lila Emerson was once the mistress of Julie Bryant’s husband?”

  Temper he’d hoped to avoid began to bubble in the blood. “You misuse the term ‘mistress’ in this case, but I’m perfectly aware Lila was once involved with Julie’s ex. And since you are, I’m now also aware you hired investigators to dig into Lila.”

  “Of course I did.” Spence opened a drawer, took out a file and a CD. “A copy of the report. You’ll want to read it for yourself.”

  “Why did you do this?” Struggling to keep his temper on the leash, he stared at his father—recognized the impenetrable wall he faced. “She called the police. She talked to me, answered questions for me when she didn’t have to, when a lot of people wouldn’t have.”

  As if that proved his point, Spence jabbed a finger on the desk. “And now you’re buying her clothes, spending time in her company, preparing to paint her, bringing her here, today of all days.”

  Impenetrable, Ash thought again, but grieving, too.

  “I don’t owe you an explanation, but considering today of all days, I’ll say this. I bought a costume selected for the painting, as I often do. I spent time in her company because she helped me, and because I enjoy her. I asked her to come here for my own reasons. I approached her—at the police station and thereafter. I asked her to pose for me, and pushed through her reluctance. I pressured her to come today because I wanted her here.”

  “Sit down, Ashton.”

  “I don’t have time to sit. There are things that need to be done, and standing here trying to reason with you isn’t getting them done.”

>   “Have it your way.”

  Spence rose, walked to a carved sideboard, poured himself two fingers of whiskey from a decanter.

  “But you will listen. Women of a certain ilk have a way of making a man feel he’s making the choices and decisions when in fact they’re leading him. Can you really be sure, first and foremost, she had nothing to do with what happened to Oliver?”

  He lifted his eyebrows, and the glass, as if in toast before sipping the whiskey.

  “She who happened to witness this model falling because she was spying on their apartment through binoculars?”

  “You can say that when you paid investigators to spy on her?”

  Spence walked back to the desk, sat. “I protect what’s mine.”

  “No, in this case you’re using what’s yours to attack a woman who’s done nothing but try to help. She came here because I asked her to, and left because, it’s becoming clear, you insulted her.”

  “She wanders around like a gypsy, barely makes a living. She had an affair—that we know of so far—with a married man considerably more well-off financially than herself.”

  More exhausted than angry now, Ash slid his hands into his pockets. “Do you really want to moralize about sleeping around? From where you sit?”

  Temper snapped into Spence’s eyes. “I’m still your father.”

  “You are, but that doesn’t give you the right to insult a woman I care about.”

  Spence leaned back in the chair, swiveling it slightly side to side as he studied his son. “Just how involved are you?”

  “My business.”

  “Ashton, you’re simply not factoring in the reality. There are women who target a man for his status, his portfolio.”

  “And how many times have you been married—so far? How many mistresses have you paid off?”

  “You’ll show respect.” Spence surged to his feet.

  “But you don’t.” Fury battled back so fast and hard he had to clamp it down. Not here, he ordered himself. Not today.

  “It’s clear now this was never about Oliver. The police report and that report on your desk would have satisfied you Lila had nothing to do with Oliver or what happened to him. It’s about me and my relationship with Lila.”

  “The gist remains the same,” Spence pointed out. “And you’re in a vulnerable position.”

  “It may be you figure having multiple wives, mistresses, affairs, canceled engagements and flings makes you an expert. I don’t see it that way.”

  “It’s a parent’s job to steer their children away from mistakes they made themselves. This woman has nothing to offer, and she’s used a tragedy to gain your trust and affection.”

  “You’re wrong, on all counts. You should remember it was Oliver who needed your approval and your pride. I appreciate it when I get it, but I don’t live for it the way he did. You crossed a line.”

  “We haven’t finished here,” Spence said when Ash turned to go.

  “Wrong again.”

  He let raw temper carry him out, down the stairs and nearly out of the house before his mother caught up with him.

  “Ash, for God’s sake, what’s going on?”

  “Other than Dad hiring investigators to pry into Lila’s life, then taking swipes at her so she called a cab and left, Oliver’s all-white memorial and Vinnie among the missing, it’s just your typical Archer get-together.”

  “Spence—God, I should’ve known. I left that poor girl alone with him.” She shot one fulminating glare toward the staircase. “You’ll fix it with her—I like her, if that matters.”

  “It does.”

  “What’s this about Vinnie?”

  “I don’t know yet. I have to get back to Angie. She’s worried.”

  “I’m sure she is. It’s not like Vinnie. I’d go over to the guesthouse, but Krystal just headed that way,” she said, referring to her ex-husband’s current wife. “She’s being very decent to Olympia, so I’ll keep my distance and avoid raising her hackles.”

  “For the best.”

  “I could speak with Spence.”

  “Don’t—”

  “Probably for the best, too.” She hooked an arm through his, slowing him to a walk and—he knew—deliberately cooling his temper. “Do you want Marshall and me to take Angie back to the city?”

  “I’ll do it. Thanks, but I need to get back anyway.”

  “When you see Lila, tell her I’d love to have lunch sometime.”

  “Sure.” He paused when Luke and Julie crossed his path.

  “We heard Lila left,” Julie began.

  “Yeah, a little dust-up, we’ll call it. If you see her before I do, tell her . . . Tell her I’ll tell her myself.”

  “I should go.” Julie looked at Luke. “She’s staying with me tonight, so I should go.”

  “Then we’ll go. Want a lift back?” Luke asked Ash.

  “No, I have something to do. I’ll be in touch.”

  Smoothly, Monica transferred to Luke and Julie. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Nobody did it better than his mother, Ash thought, and slipped away under the pergola, then back into the sun. He relished the quiet, just for a moment, considered trying Lila’s phone again. But his own signaled.

  Hoping she’d returned his call, he checked the display, frowned at the name. “Janis?”

  “Ash, God, Ash. I couldn’t . . . couldn’t call Angie.”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Mr. V, Mr. V . . . The police . . . I called the police. They’re coming.”

  “Take a breath. Tell me where you are.”

  “I’m at the shop. I came to get the keys for Mr. V’s apartment. In his office. Ash . . .”

  “Take a breath,” he repeated when she broke down in sobs. “You have to tell me what’s happened.” But the squeezing fists in his belly already had. “Just say it.”

  “He’s dead. Mr. V. In the office. Somebody hurt him. And there’s a man there—”

  “A man?”

  “He’s dead, too. He’s lying on the floor, and the blood. I think somebody shot him. Mr. V, he’s tied to his chair, and his face is all . . . I don’t know what to do.”

  Emotion had to wait. Now the unthinkable had to be handled, and quickly. “You called the police?”

  “They’re coming. But I couldn’t call Angie. I couldn’t, so I called you.”

  “Wait outside for the police. Go outside and wait for the police. I’m on my way.”

  “Hurry. Can you hurry? Can you tell her? I can’t. I can’t.”

  “I’ll tell her. Wait for the police, Janis—outside. We’re on our way.”

  He ended the call, simply stared down at the phone.

  Had he done this? Had he caused this by asking for Vinnie’s help?

  Lila.

  He called her number. “Answer the damn phone,” he snapped at her voice mail. “Listen to me. Vinnie’s been killed. I don’t know what happened yet, but I’m on my way back to New York. Go to a hotel. Lock the door and don’t open it for anyone. And the next time I call, pick the fuck up.”

  He shoved the phone in his pocket, pressed his fingers to his eyes. And asked himself how to tell Angie her husband was dead.

  Twelve

  She didn’t want to talk to anyone—and her phone kept burping