The Collector
Page 16

“That’d be good.” And would give him a bit more time. He followed her through, past a dining area. “Workstation?”
“Laptop goes anywhere. I try not to spread out too much. You can forget things, and that’s annoying for the client.”
“So you write here, about teenage werewolves.”
“Yeah—how did you know?” She held up a hand. “Google. You can’t escape it. And since I did the same with you, I can’t whine about it.”
“You’re a military brat.”
“You actually read the bio. Was. Seven different schools by the time I graduated from high school, so I sympathize with Kaylee—my central character—for wanting to stay put through high school.”
“I know the feeling. Divorce can uproot the same as military orders.”
“I guess it can. How old were you when your parents divorced?”
“Six when they split—officially.” He stepped outside with her, into the heat and the appealing scent of sun-warmed tomatoes and some spicy flower.
“So young, but I guess any age is hard. Just you?”
“A sister, Chloe, two years younger. Then we inherited Cora and Portia when our father remarried. They had Oliver, but split when he was a baby. Our mother remarried, and there was Valentina—step, then Esteban, and so on, down to Rylee, she’s fifteen and might’ve read your book, and the youngest, Madison. She’s four.”
“You have a four-year-old sister?”
“My father’s current wife is younger than I am. Some people collect stamps,” he said with a shrug.
“How do you keep them all straight?”
“I have a spreadsheet.” He smiled when she laughed—and again had the image of her in a red dress whirling in front of a campfire. “No, seriously. When you get an invitation to a college graduation or somebody’s wedding, it’s good to know if you’re related to them. Who’s the gardener?”
“The amazing Macey. I call her that because she’s pretty close to perfect. I’d like to be her. She has one of your paintings.”
“The people who live here?”
“No, sorry. My thoughts are like buckshot sometimes. Sage Kendall. Julie told me, realized she knew her—a little—as a client, and that she bought one of your pieces. A woman playing the violin in a meadow. I know the piece because I’d told Julie if I had a wall, I’d have bought it. I probably couldn’t have afforded it, but if I’d had a wall and could’ve afforded it, I’d have bought it. It’s wonderful. Now it’s sad, because she must’ve thought it was wonderful, too. Screw water.” She set the bottle aside. “Do you want a glass of wine?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Good.” She rose, went inside.
Ash lifted the glasses again. Oliver might have nudged his latest girlfriend to buy the painting. Bragging rights again. Or she might have bought it thinking it would please Oliver. Who knew?
“Did you ever see anyone else in there? A visitor, a repairman, anyone?” Ash asked when she came back with two glasses of red.
“No, and I remember wondering about that. Everyone else I watched had someone. A little party, or friends over, a delivery. Something at some point. But not them. They went out a lot, nearly every night. And they both went out most days, not usually together. I figured they were going to work. Then again, they might have had someone over when I wasn’t looking. I know it seems like I just sat here trained on the building, but honestly I might take a look in the morning, then in the evening. Or if I was restless, late at night.”
“A place like that, you entertain. Oliver liked having parties, having people over, and he’d have wanted that in that kind of space. So why didn’t they?”
“A lot of people get out of the city in the summer, which is why I’m usually really busy in the summer.”
“Yeah, and why didn’t they?”
“Didn’t he work?”
“He worked for an uncle on his mother’s side. Antiquities—acquisitions and sales. If he was still doing that. Mostly he lived on his trust fund when he could get away with it. But I think he’d been working for Vinnie—the uncle—for nearly a year now. I think it was working out, at least that’s the family buzz. Oliver finally found his place. And now . . . I’ll have to talk to Vinnie.”
“It’s hard. Especially with such a big family. So many people to tell or talk to about it. But it has to be a comfort, too. I always wanted a brother or sister.”
She paused a moment because he was staring at the boarded-up window again.
“Did you talk to your father?”
“Yeah.” Because that depressed him, Ash sat, studied his wine. “They’re in Scotland for a few weeks. They’ll come back to Connecticut when I let them know the arrangements.”
“You’re making them?”
“Looks like it. His mother lives in London now. This flattened her. Losing a child has to flatten you, but . . . She loves her daughters, but Oliver was the center for her.”
“Is someone with her?”
“Portia lives in London, and Olympia’s married again. Rick—no, that was her first husband, before my father.” He rubbed a space between his eyebrows. “Nigel. Decent guy, from what I can tell. He’s with her, but she’s shattered so it ended up I should do what needs to be done for a private service, probably on the compound.”
“You have a compound.”
“My father does. The press is already getting ugly, so it’s just as well they all stay away until it’s time.”
While you’re in the middle of it, she thought. “Are reporters after you?”
He drank some wine, deliberately relaxed his shoulders. “Half brother, one of several halfs and steps. It hasn’t been that bad, especially since I keep a fairly low profile otherwise.”
“Not so low when you were dating the dancer.” She smiled a little, hoping to lighten what must be a terrible weight. “Google and Julie.”
“Well, that was mostly about her.”
“Do you think so?” She sat back. “Successful artist with deep, deep family pockets and a swashbuckling air.”
“Swashbuckling?”
Now she shrugged, pleased she’d amused him. “That’s how it strikes me. I think it was just as much about you, and I hope the press leaves you alone. Do you have anyone to help you?”