The Collector
Page 46

“They’re beautiful. Can I get you some water?”
“Water? No, I . . .”
“Why don’t we go inside now? It’s cooler inside. Thank you,” Angie said to Lila, then with her arm firmly around Olympia’s waist, took her away.
“A friend of Ashton’s?”
Lila recognized the woman who’d given the eulogy. “Yes, from New York. Your eulogy was wonderful. Touching.”
“Touching?”
“Because you meant it.”
Giselle studied Lila and sipped champagne from a flute as if she’d been born with one in her hand. “I did. Did you know Oliver?”
“No, I’m sorry I didn’t.”
“But Ash asked you to come. That’s interesting.” She took Lila’s hand, steered her toward a small group. “Monica? Excuse us a minute,” Giselle said to the others, and drew the redhead who epitomized glamour in full bloom off to the side. “This is a friend of Ash’s. He asked her to come today.”
“Did he? How nice to meet you, even under the circumstances.” Eyes, sharp and green, assessed. “I’m Ashton’s mother.”
“Oh. Mrs. . . .”
“It’s Crompton at the moment. It can be confusing. How do you know Ash?”
“I . . . ah.”
“A story,” Monica stated. “We love a good story, don’t we, Giselle?”
“Oh yes, we do.”
“Let’s find a cozy spot and hear all about it.”
Trapped, Lila glanced around. Where the hell was Julie? “I was just—”
But there seemed little point in arguing when she was being steamrolled, with class and style, toward the big, imposing house.
“Ash hasn’t told me he has a new lady in his life.” Monica opened a door into what Lila assumed was a music room, given the grand piano, and the cello, the violin.
“I wouldn’t say I was—”
“But then, Ash doesn’t tell me nearly enough.”
More than dazzled, Lila found herself steered out of the room, past some sort of dark-paneled game room where two men played pool and a woman sat at a bar watching, beyond some sort of parlor where someone wept, into a spectacular entrance area with lofted ceilings, actual columns, a dual sweep of graceful stairs, dripping chandeliers and beyond a two-level library where someone spoke in quiet tones.
“This will do,” Monica announced when they arrived in the botanical wonder of a solarium with glass walls opening to all the staggering gardens.
“You could put in your three miles of cardio a day just walking from one end of this house to the other.”
“It seems like it, doesn’t it?” Monica sat on a buff-colored sofa, patted the cushion beside her. “Sit, and tell me everything.”
“There isn’t really everything.”
“Has he painted you yet?”
“No.”
Fiery eyebrows rose, lips in a perfect shade of sheer pink curved. “Now you surprise me.”
“He did some sketches, but—”
“And how does he see you?”
“As a gypsy. I don’t know why.”
“It’s the eyes.”
“That’s what he says. You must be so proud of him. His work is wonderful.”
“Little did I know what was to come when I handed him his first box of Crayolas. So how did you meet?”
“Mrs. Crompton—”
“Monica. Whatever happens, I’m always Monica.”
“Monica. Giselle.” Lila blew out a breath, ordered herself to say it fast. “I met Ash at the police station. I saw Sage Kendall fall.”
“You’re the nine-one-one caller,” Giselle said, linking fingers with the hand Monica laid over hers.
“Yes. I’m sorry. This has to be uncomfortable for both of you.”
“I’m not uncomfortable. Are you uncomfortable, Giselle?”
“No. I’m grateful. I’m grateful you called the police. I’m more grateful you talked to Ash, because most people would’ve walked the other way.”
“He just needed to understand what I’d seen. I don’t think most people would walk away from that.”
Giselle, her hand still linked with Monica’s, exchanged an arched look with the older woman. “You forget what I said in the eulogy about ass**les.”
“Then I’m happy not to be one in this case, but—”
“They’ve kept your name out of the media,” Giselle interrupted.
“There’s not much reason for it to be in there. I didn’t see anything that helps.”
“You helped Ashton.” Monica reached out with her free hand, took Lila’s for a moment and linked the three of them together. “He has a need to find the answers, the solution, and you helped him.”
“You need wine,” Giselle decided. “I’ll get you some wine.”
“Please, don’t bother. I—”
“Get us some champagne, sweetie.” Monica kept her hand firmly on Lila’s to keep her in place when Giselle hurried out. “Ash loved Oliver—all of us did as much as he infuriated. He tends to be responsible—Ash, that is. To feel responsible. If he’s doing sketches, asking you here today, you’ve helped him over the first hump.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone you don’t really know. And it turns out we have a mutual friend, so that adds to it.”
“So do your eyes—and the rest of you.”
Monica angled her head, assessing again. “Not his usual type—not that he has a type, per se. But the dancer. You may know about the dancer he was involved with. Beautiful young woman, tremendous talent—with an ego and temper to match. Ash has a temper when the button’s pushed. I think he enjoyed the passion—and I don’t mean sex, but passion. All the drama. But for the short term. Overall, and at the core, he likes his quiet, his solitude. You seem like a less volatile sort.”
“I can be a bitch—when the button’s pushed.”
Monica flashed a grin, and Lila saw her son. “I hope so. I can’t abide weak women. Worse than weak men. What do you do, Lila? Do you work?”
“I do. I write and I house-sit.”
“A house-sitter. I swear I’d do the same at your age. Travel, see how other people live, enjoy the new places, new views. It’s an adventure.”