The Collector

  “I’m glad you came,” he said again. “I mean it.”

  He had to make his way through guests, those who wanted to offer condolences, those who just wanted a word. He started toward the house—he’d cut through, he decided, go out the side—then stopped when he saw Angie.

  She looked exhausted, he realized. Weighed down carrying her own grief and trying to shoulder some of her sister-in-law’s.

  “She wants Vinnie.” Angie pushed a hand at her curly cap of hair. “Have you seen him?”

  “No. I’ve been handling some things so I must’ve missed him.”

  “I’ll try his cell again. He should’ve been here an hour ago. Two.” She sighed a little. “He drives like an old lady, and won’t use the hands-free. So if he’s still en route, he won’t answer.”

  “I’ll look around for him.”

  “No, do what you have to do to get this started. She’s got her guts up now, but it won’t last long. If he’s late, he’s late. You should have the funeral director get people seated. Your father?”

  “I’ll get him. Is ten minutes enough time?”

  “Ten minutes. We’ll have her here.” She took her phone out of the little purse she carried. “Damn it, Vinnie,” she muttered as she strode away.

  Vinnie could be inside, Ash speculated. He’d look around, tell his father it was time.

  He gave the funeral director the signal, escorted Oliver’s maternal grandmother to a chair himself before heading toward the house.

  He caught sight of Lila sitting on Luke’s left, Julie on the right. And to Lila’s left sat Katrina, her hands gripping Lila’s as his sister poured out some story.

  Full of exclamation marks, he imagined.

  But the image of them lightened him a little.

  Yeah, he was glad she came, he thought one last time, then hurried inside to get his father so they could say their final goodbyes.

  Eleven

  Lila had never experienced anything like it. Despite the oddity of an open bar and a landscape of white, the grief was real and deep. She saw it in the pale and stricken face of Oliver’s mother, heard it in the unsteady voices of those who stood at the white lectern to speak. She felt it weighing down the air while the sun beamed, while the scents of lilies and roses wafted along the fluttering breeze.

  And still, it was a kind of theater, staged, costumed and choreographed, performed by people of striking good looks on an elaborate stage.

  When Ash stepped up to the lectern she thought he could be an actor—the tall, dark and handsome sort. Smooth today, she noted, clean-shaven, perfect black suit. Maybe she preferred the scruff, the carelessly, casually arty of his every day, but he wore the gloss well.

  “I asked Giselle to deliver the eulogy for Oliver. Of all the siblings, she and Oliver shared the closest bond. While we all loved him, will all miss him, Giselle understood him best, and appreciated his eternal optimism. On behalf of his mother and our father, thank you all for coming today to help us say goodbye to our son, our brother, our friend.”

  Was the entire Archer clan gorgeous? Lila wondered as she watched a stunning woman stand. She exchanged a hard hug with Ash, then faced the crowd.

  Her voice didn’t tremble, but remained strong and clear.

  “I tried to think of my first memory of Oliver, but I couldn’t pin it. He was always part of my life, no matter how much time passed without seeing him. He was, in so many ways, the laughter, the fun, the foolishness every life needs.

  “Optimist.” Now she smiled a little, looked over at Ash. “Leave it to you, Ash. Some of us are realists, some are cynics, some are, let’s face it, just assholes. Most of us have a little of all of that mixed inside us. But for Oliver, Ash is right. Optimism ruled. He could be careless, but he was never cruel. And really, how many people can we say that about with honesty? He was impulsive, and unfailingly generous. He was a social creature to whom solitude was a kind of punishment. Because he was so charming, so bright, so beautiful, he was rarely alone.”

  A bird swooped behind Giselle, a bright blue streak that flashed over the white mounds of flowers and was gone.

  “He loved you, Olympia, deeply and sincerely. And you, Dad.” For a moment her eyes shimmered, then like the flash of blue, the shimmer was gone. “He so wanted you to be proud of him, maybe he wanted it too much. He wanted to be and accomplish the spectacular. There was no average or mediocre for Oliver. He made mistakes, and some of them were spectacular. But he was never hard, never cruel. And yes, always optimistic. If any of us had asked him for anything, he would have given it. It wasn’t in his nature to say no. Maybe leaving us, so terribly, while he was still young and bright and beautiful was inevitable. So I won’t search for that first memory of Oliver, or linger on the last. I’ll just be grateful he was always part of my life, that he gave me the laughter and the fun and the foolishness. Now we’ll have a party, because there was nothing Oliver enjoyed more.”

  As she stepped back from the lectern, the piper played. On cue, as the grieving notes of “Amazing Grace” carried down from a small knoll, hundreds of white butterflies rose with beating wings behind the arbor.

  Fascinated, Lila watched Giselle glance back at the white cloud, look over at Ash. And laugh.

  Because it seemed like the thing to do, Lila sipped some wine. Servers passed food and invited guests to long white tables where more substantial choices were offered. People gathered or wandered, around the grounds, into the house. Though she was curious, she didn’t feel strolling into the house would be correct.

  Gauging her timing, she made her way over to Oliver’s mother to pay her respects.

  “I don’t want to intrude. I’m a friend of Ashton’s. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Ashton’s friend.” The woman was sheet-pale, glassy-eyed, but she extended a hand. “Ashton took care of all the details.”

  “It was a very beautiful service.”

  “Oliver always gave me white flowers on Mother’s Day. Didn’t he, Angie?”

  “He never forgot.”

  “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 assholes.”

  “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.”

  “It really is.”

  “But to make a living at it, to gain clients, you’d have to be responsible, reliable. Trustworthy.”

  “You’re tending people’s homes—their things, their plants, their pets. If they can’t trust you, the adventure ends.”

  “Nothing lasts without trust. And what do you write?”

  “I write a young adult series. Novels. High school drama, politics, romance, with warring werewolves.”

  “Not Moon Rise?” Delighted surprise popped into her voice. “You’re not L. L. Emerson?”

  “Yeah. You actually know . . . Rylee,” she remembered. “Ash told me his sister Rylee liked the book.”

  “Liked? Devoured it. I have to introduce you. She’ll be thrilled out of her mind.”

  She glanced over, inclined her head. “Spence.”

  Ash’s—and Oliver’s—father, Lila thought. Heartthrob handsome, tanned and fit, his thick dark hair perfectly touched with gray at the temples, his eyes a cool and canny blue.

  “Lila, this is Spence Archer. Spence, Lila Emerson.”

  “Yes, I know. Ms. Emerson, we’re very grateful.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Archer.”

  “Thank you. Let me pour you some champagne,” he said as a white-coated member of the staff brought in a silver bucket. “Then I’m going to steal her away from you for a bit, Monica.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time you went off with a pretty young thing.” She held up her hands, shook her head. “I apologize. Habit. Not today, Spence.” She rose, stepped over and kissed his cheek. “I’ll get out of your way. I’ll see you again, Lila. Be prepared for our Rylee to worship at your feet.” She gave Spence’s arm a squeeze, then left them.

  “It was kind of you to come today,” Spence began, and handed Lila the glass of champagne.

  “It was important to Ashton.”

  “Yes, so I understand.” He sat across from her.

  She thought he looked tired and grim, understandably—and honestly wished herself anywhere else. What could she say to the father of a dead son she hadn’t known, and the father of a son she shared a strange and dangerous secret with?

  “It was a beautiful service in a beautiful setting. I know Ashton wanted to make everything as . . . comforting for you and Oliver’s mother as possible.”

  “Ash always comes through. How long did you know Oliver?”

  “I didn’t. I’m sorry, it must seem strange for me to be here when I didn’t know him. I was just . . . that night I was just looking out the window.”

  “Through binoculars.”

  “Yes.” She felt the heat rise to her face.

  “Just coincidence? It’s more plausible to me you were spying on Oliver’s apartment because you were one of his women. Or more troubling, you have a connection to the person who killed him.”

  The words, the matter-of-fact delivery, were so unexpected, so stunning, it took a moment to register.

  “Mr. Archer, you’re grieving for your son. You’re angry, and