The Collector
Page 48

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?”