The Collector
Page 28

“Sorry. It’s Lila. I just wanted to—”
“I’m in the studio.”
“Oh, well, I—”
Something buzzed, something clicked. Carefully, she tried the tongue knob on the big door. When it opened, she assumed it equaled invitation.
Carefully she stepped in, closed the door behind her. Something clicked again, definitely. She started toward the stairs, turned and walked to the big grate of the elevator.
Who wouldn’t want to ride in it? she asked herself. Stepping in, she dragged the gate closed, then punched three, and grinned as it groaned and creaked its way up.
She could see him through the grating when the elevator clunked to a stop. At an easel, sketching on a canvas.
No, not a canvas, she saw as she muscled the grate open. A really big sketch pad.
“I had to go out. I’ve got errands to run. I brought coffee. And a muffin.”
“Good.” He didn’t spare her a glance. “Put it down, stand over there. Right there.”
“I went to the police. I wanted to tell you.”
“Stand over there and tell me. No, put this down.”
He came over, snatched the takeout bag out of her hand, set it on a crowded worktable, then just pulled her over in front of the wide ribbon of windows. “Angle this way, but look at me.”
“I didn’t come to pose—and besides, you said tomorrow for that.”
“Today’s good. Just look at me.”
“I didn’t say I’d pose for you. In fact, I’m not really comfortable—”
He made a shushing sound—as terse as his greeting through the intercom. “Be quiet a minute. It’s not right,” he said, long before the minute was up.
Relief sighed through her. She’d felt, even for that half minute, like a pinned butterfly. “I told you I wouldn’t be any good at it.”
“No, you’re fine. It’s the mood.” He tossed down his pencil, narrowed his eyes at her. Her heart beat a little faster; her throat went dry.
Then he shoved his hands at his hair. “What kind of muffin?”
“Oh, ah, it’s French apple. It sounded fabulous. I went by Luke’s bakery on the way back from the police. Then I thought I should just come by here and tell you.”
“Fine. Tell me.” He rooted through the bag, came out with two coffees and the oversized muffin.
When he bit into the muffin, she frowned.
“It’s a really big muffin. I thought we’d share.”
He took another bite. “I don’t think so. Police?”
“I went there, and I caught Fine and Waterstone just as they were leaving. But they held up so I could tell them about your theory, then about the perfume here.”
Watching her—too much, as he had been with the pencil in his hand—he gulped down coffee.
“And they said they’d look into it in a way that made it pretty clear they thought you were wasting their time.”
“They were polite about it. It ticked me off. Why doesn’t it tick you off?”
“Because I see their point. Even if they believed it, which is low on the scale, what does it give them to go on? Nothing. I’ve got nothing, you’ve got nothing. Whoever broke in here, and into Julie’s, has probably figured that out by now. Whatever Oliver and his girlfriend were involved in, we’re not. I’m going to ask the relatives, see if he told anybody what he was up to. But that’s unlikely, not if it was illegal or sketchy, and it was probably both.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. Maybe he bragged about whatever it was—bits and pieces to this sib or that sib. I might be able to piece something together.”
He broke what was left of the muffin in half, offered it.
“Gee, thanks.”
“It’s good. You should’ve gotten two.” He grabbed the coffee before he crossed the studio, then yanked open double doors.
“Oh, my God! It’s the costume department!” Delighted, Lila hurried over. “Look at all this. Dresses, scarves, baubles. And really, really skimpy lingerie. I did theater in high school—well, briefly because my father got transferred, but the costumes were the most fun.”
“None of these are right, but this is close enough for now.” He pulled out a soft blue sundress. “Wrong color, wrong length but the shape’s close from the waist up. Put it on, take off your shoes.”
“I’m not putting it on.” But she touched the skirt—the soft, fluid skirt. “It’s really pretty.”
“Wear it for an hour, give me an hour, and it’s yours.”
“You can’t bribe me with a . . . it’s Prada.”
“It’s yours for one hour.”
“I have errands, and Thomas—”
“I’ll help you with the damn errands. I have to pick up my mail anyway. I haven’t picked it up in days. And Thomas is a cat. He’ll be fine.”
“He’s a cat who likes a pal around.”
Prada, she thought, touching the skirt again. She’d bought a pair of black Prada pumps, convincing herself they were serviceable. And on sale. In fact she’d fought a vicious war at Saks’s annual shoe sale on the eighth floor to win them.
Labels don’t matter, she reminded herself, while a sly little voice whispered, Prada.
“And why do you have to pick up your mail?” She asked as much to distract herself from Prada as innate curiosity. “Don’t they just bring it?”
“No. I keep a box. One hour, and I’ll run the stupid errands for you.”
“Great.” She beamed out a smile, tiny dimple winking. “I need several items in the personal female hygiene department. I’ll give you the list.”
He simply aimed an amused look out of those sharp green eyes. “I have sisters, a mother, a small bevy of stepmothers along with countless aunts and female cousins. Do you think that bothers me?”
“An hour,” she said, defeated. “And I keep the dress.”
“Deal. You can change in there. And take your hair out of that thing. I want it down.”
Following his direction, she went into a roomy bathroom, white and black like his kitchen, but with a triple mirror. The sort that made her want to shed a few tears in every department store dressing room.