Shadows At Sunset (17 page)

“It wouldn't have done any good, Dean,” Rachel-Ann said. “You still wouldn't have ended up as Beaver Cleaver.”

“True. What was it Sophie Tucker said? ‘I've been rich and I've been poor and rich is better'? Too bad the money seems to have run out.” Dean leaned forward and poured himself another glass of wine. There was no sign of food on the elegantly set table, and Jilly realized that on top of being tired, irritable and uneasy, she was absolutely famished. She hadn't felt like eating this morning when she took off, and she'd fed most of her fast-food lunch to a grateful Roofus. Not that this current get-together was giving her much of an appetite, but she needed to eat or she was going to pass out.

“As for me, I spent the day on the computer.”

“So what else is new?” Jilly muttered.

“Ah, but it's been an especially informative few days. I know you think I spend all my time on the internet cruising gay chat rooms, but you'd be quite surprised at the things that can turn up if you know where to look,” he said with innocence.

The sudden tension from the far end of the couch was palpable. “What sort of things?” Coltrane asked, his voice deceptively easy.

Dean waggled his finger at him. “All in good time, Coltrane. All will be revealed. Have patience, counselor.”

“When are we going to eat?” Jilly demanded. “I'm finding your little games extremely tiresome.”

Dean pouted at her. “Don't be harsh, darling. I so seldom get to enjoy myself. So do we have everyone accounted for? I spent the day on the computer, making great discoveries, Jilly wandered on the beach, probably brooding over some lost love. You do have lost loves, don't you, darling? Coltrane occupied himself with the plumbing, and Rachel-Ann…What did you do, my pet? Lie in bed and watch The Weather Channel?”

“I spent the afternoon down at the pool house.”

Jilly shuddered. “In heaven's name why?”

An endearingly wicked little smile curved Rachel-Ann's lips. She looked younger than she had in years, clear-eyed and resilient. “The pool house isn't the same thing as the pool, Jilly. I used to have a lot of fun in that pool house.”

“Meeting your blue-collar lovers,” Dean said maliciously. “Coltrane here has proclaimed his blue-collar roots—why don't you take him down there and demonstrate how you spent your adolescence? If you tire of him maybe he could figure out what's wrong with that skanky swimming pool. Can you imagine a house in Southern California without a working swimming pool?”

“Would you use it if it worked?” Rachel-Ann responded, unmoved by his spite.

“It's entirely possible. Every now and then I'm interested in being healthy. And a nice tan is always an asset.” He turned to Coltrane, who'd been listening with an unreadable expression on his face. “What do you think, Coltrane. Want my sister?” His eyes were glittering with amusement. “For that matter, which one would you like? You can't have both. Alan Dunbar tried that and it backfired. Not that Daddy hasn't been paying him off nicely ever since, and Jilly and Rachel-Ann are still close, but I wouldn't recommend it if I were you. Pick one and stick to her.”

“You're drunk, Dean,” Coltrane said.

“Not drunk, dear boy. Just celebrating. I'm getting ready to declare my independence, and it's a heady feeling. I haven't had much of a sense of power in my life, and it does tend to go to my head.”

“I've had enough of this,” Jilly said, rising. “If you're not going to serve dinner then I'll go out and get something. I'm not in the mood for this—”

“Sit down!” Dean thundered.

“Fuck you,” Jilly snapped, as Roofus lumbered to his feet with a yip of annoyance.

“Make her stay, Coltrane,” Dean begged in a petulant voice. “I've got it all planned.”

“I can't make your sister do anything,” Coltrane murmured. “You'll have to ask her.”

Jilly was already halfway to the door when Dean's voice reached her. “Jilly, please.”

Never in her entire life had she been able to say no to him when he used that sweetly plaintive voice, and he knew it. It didn't help that she knew she was being manipulated.

She tried to hold her ground. “Why, Dean? What's going on? What kind of game are you playing?”

“We're waiting for our final guest,” Dean said.

“And who's that?” It couldn't be any worse than Coltrane, watching her out of those mysterious green eyes. It was a crime that such a dangerous man could be quite so tempting. But then, maybe that was exactly why he was dangerous.

“Who do you think it is, Jilly?” came a voice from behind her. “Your loving father.”

As Jilly turned to look into Jackson Dean Meyer's brown eyes, she realized with a sinking feeling that things could get a great deal worse, after all.

 

Brenda de Lorillard pulled herself free from Ted's easy embrace, the song fading from her lips. She'd been singing “Night and Day” in her husky alto while they danced on the balcony. She'd always contended that was the most erotic song ever written, and Ted, bless his heart, agreed with her.

But right then eroticism was the farthest thing from her mind. She looked up at Ted with panic in her eyes.

“What's wrong, honeybunch?” he asked gently.

“He's here,” she whispered.

“Who is?”

“The Bad Man. He's back. And he's going to hurt the girls.”

F
or a moment Jilly was frozen. She could hear Roofus growling, low in his throat, and even Coltrane's restraining hand wasn't having a calming effect. “I thought you were in Mexico,” she said, looking her father in the eye. She was taller than he was, a fact that made him acutely uncomfortable. One of the many reasons he'd never liked her, she supposed, though his lack of interest stemmed from when she was very little.

“What gave you that idea?”

“Coltrane.”

“Coltrane lies for me at times.”

“Fancy that,” she said lightly.

He tilted his head to look at her, and she looked back, surveying him as offhandedly as she could manage. His tan, his hair, his suit were all perfect. If anything he looked younger than when she'd last seen him, in his late forties rather than the midsixties she knew him to be. “How long has it been, Jillian?” he said jovially, a perfect impersonation of an indulgent father. “A year?”

“Two and a half,” she said, wishing to God it had been twice as long. It wasn't right to hate your own father, even if he'd never evinced the slightest interest in you. But she hated him, quite intensely. Not so much for what he hadn't given her, but for what he'd done to Rachel-Ann and Dean and their mother.

She couldn't remember if she'd ever loved him, ever trusted him, even when she was a young child. Her mother had loved her three children with unstinting love, but Jackson had only loved Rachel-Ann, and his two birth children had been of absolutely no importance. Neither had his wife, and as far as Jilly could remember he'd barely noticed when Edith had left him. Until she'd tried to take his children.

He'd even offered her a deal, Edith had said. She could have Dean and Jilly and he'd take Rachel-Ann. She'd said no, of course. They were all her children. But she'd failed to take into account how ruthless and determined Jackson could be. He'd taken her children and her only hope of happiness. And before she could get the courts to intervene a car accident had taken her life, leaving the three of them in Grandmère's hands.

Jackson Dean Meyer hadn't even bothered to accompany his children to Edith's funeral. That was when the hatred had begun, Jilly thought. And the last eighteen years had only solidified it.

“Still the revolting hippie look I see,” Jackson said benevolently, reaching for her braid. “When are you going to cut your hair? And those clothes!” He sighed. “I would have thought you'd have inherited some clothes sense from your mother and me. If I can say one good thing about your mother, she knew how to dress. You seem to have missed out on that ability entirely.”

“Daddy…” Rachel-Ann's troubled voice reached them, but he waved a silencing hand without looking at her. He hadn't finished his carefully orchestrated attempt at demoralizing Jilly. He used to be able to do it so well. He must have forgotten that she'd grown impervious, once she found she no longer cared.

“Why are you here?” she asked in an even voice. “It's not Christmas or anyone's birthday, though you usually don't pay attention to those, anyway. What blessed convergence of the stars do we have to thank for your appearance here tonight?”

“Your brother invited me.” He smiled his affable smile at Dean, who raised his wineglass in salute. Jackson Meyer's smile had always been one of his most effective weapons. It reached his eyes, lit his whole face and convinced the recipient that this charming, wonderful man was totally enchanted with them. Until he slipped the knife between their ribs.

“I'm sure it's not the first time he's invited you. Dean hasn't given up on you yet,” Jilly said.

“Ah, but you have, is that right, Jillian? Fortunately I have two other children to fall back on, since you in your infinite wisdom have decided my sins are unforgivable. It must be nice to be so sure of yourself, that you can sit in judgment on others.”

“You're losing your touch, Jackson,” Jilly said, unruffled. “You tried that tack two Christmases ago. It didn't work then and it won't work now.”

Only the faint tightening in his handsome jaw-line betrayed his reaction. He smiled benevolently in her direction, but the smile faded slightly from his eyes. “Well, then, I'm sure we can excuse you for the rest of the evening, since you find my presence unacceptable. Dean and Rachel-Ann are glad to see me, and I know I can count on Coltrane.”

“I know you can,” she said sweetly.

“And take that hellhound with you,” he added, another trace of his affability vanishing. “He sheds.”

“Oh, I wouldn't think of going anywhere,” Jilly said smoothly. “If you've finally decided to set foot in La Casa for the first time in my memory then the least I can do, as one of the owners, is to make you welcome. Are you here for dinner or are you just the appetizer?”

Jackson looked at her sorrowfully. “I must have hurt you very badly, dear girl. I'm so sorry.”

Zing!
She didn't betray the sting of fury. “I forgive you,” she said sweetly, sweeping around him and heading back to the table. Roofus was still eyeing Jackson and growling low in his throat, but Coltrane's long fingers soothed him, and he settled back on the floor with a reluctant sigh as Jilly sat back down on the sofa.

Jackson took his time finding a comfortable chair and dragging it over to the table. He paused to give Rachel-Ann a kiss on her proffered cheek, then nodded at the two men in a manly, convivial gesture. He put the chair at the head, of course. He sat down, then beamed at the four of them with patriarchal majesty. “Isn't this nice?” he murmured.

“Lovely,” Jilly muttered. Waiting.

“You can leave any time now.” A note of annoyance was creeping into Jackson's voice, and Jilly made a mental hash mark. He wasn't the only one who could score points.

“I wouldn't think of it,” she said in a sultry voice. “You're up to something, and nothing on this earth would make me miss it.”

“I wouldn't count on the ghosts interfering, either, though they may qualify as on this earth,” Dean said prosaically. “Anyway, I want you here. Our esteemed father has an offer to make, and it should be heard by all three of us.”

“Then what's Coltrane doing here?” She'd glanced at him, just once, before tearing her eyes away from him. He sat in the shadows, watching, almost a ghost himself.

“As my chief legal counsel I felt he should be here,” Jackson said smoothly. “Besides, the man's living here. It would hardly be polite not to include him. Where's your hospitality, Jillian? I would have thought your grandmother would have taught you better than that.”

Jilly curled her feet up on the sofa, a small enough barrier between her and Coltrane. “I think this house has had too many guests and not enough family.”

“Shut up, Jilly,” Dean said. “I get tired of the two of you baiting each other. Father's here for a reason, and we owe it to him to listen.”

Normally Jilly would have argued. Dean was always trying to win Jackson's approval, and he never would. At first she thought he was ready to crawl once more, until she recognized the odd glitter in his eyes. If it had been Rachel-Ann Jilly would have said she was on drugs. Dean didn't do any drugs but vodka, and the look in his eye was slyly triumphant. She found that even more troubling.

“Thank you, son,” Jackson said. It was probably only the second or third time Jackson had ever called him son, and Jilly could see Dean's reaction, even as he fought it. Jackson leaned back, pulling a silver-chased cigar tube out of his pocket, making them all wait while he went through the ritual of lighting it. Coltrane shifted, letting his hand rest on the sofa. Between them. Near her feet.

After a long, faintly theatrical puff, Jackson leaned back in his chair, putting on his most paternal expression as he rested his hands across his flat belly. “You know I have a great interest in La Casa. I always have had.”

“I know you've never set foot in it in more than twenty years, and that Grandmère left it to us rather than to you,” Jilly said sharply.

“In trust. And it was for tax purposes,” Jackson returned. “I know you don't like to think about the practical aspects of life. You're so busy with your lost causes, running around town trying to save buildings that are past their prime. And you consistently fail, don't you, Jillian? Because no one but you gives a damn.”

“True,” she said calmly.

“It's common practice to skip generations when it comes to inheritance. Coltrane will be happy to fill you in on the legal ramifications at another time if you're fascinated, which I doubt. It seems unlikely you'll have any kind of estate to leave any children or grandchildren you might eventually produce if you continue devoting your life to lost causes.”

“I'll pass. I really don't care. And Grandmère didn't want you to have La Casa. She knew you'd have it bulldozed and turned into high-rises.”

“Then why did she leave it in trust? As long as you want to live here it's yours. But as soon as you leave, or it's inhabitable, it reverts to me.”

“That was explained to us when we inherited the place,” Jilly said. “Tell us something we don't know.”

“This place is unsafe. It's a firetrap, and the next earthquake we get will probably have it collapse around you. I don't want to lose my children in a tragic accident,” he said in such a concerned voice that any fool would have believed him. But Jilly had stopped being a fool long ago, at least where her father was concerned.

“We'll be fine,” she said briskly. “Thank you for your concern, but we're staying put.”

“It was left to the three of you, Jillian. Aren't you interested in what your siblings have to say? I'm offering a substantial amount of money for each of you. Enough for you to buy all sorts of historic garbage heaps and restore them, enough for Dean to get the kind of place he wants.”

“And what about Rachel-Ann?” Dean questioned in a silky voice.

Jackson leaned over and put his perfectly manicured hand on Rachel-Ann's slender knee, squeezing it. “I was rather hoping she'd move in with me.”

The silence in the room was palpable. Jilly's recoil was instinctive, but she wondered if she was overreacting to a perfectly normal suggestion.

Not if she were to go by the expressions on everyone else's faces. It was as though Jackson had dropped a bomb in the middle of the room and everyone was politely pretending it hadn't happened, even as it was about to detonate.

Coltrane's face was frightening in its stillness, his eyes were like ice, and his hand had tightened into a fist. He said nothing, though, and the others couldn't see his terrifyingly quiet reaction. Only Jilly could, and she wondered what caused it. What she was missing.

There was no mistaking Rachel-Ann's blank expression. She didn't move, and Jackson's hand remained on her knee, softly kneading.

Dean was the first to speak, clearing his voice with a sound that was shocking after the deep silence. “Wouldn't Melba have something to say about that, Father?” he asked softly.

“Melba and I have agreed to an amicable separation. We signed a prenuptial agreement, of course, so it should all be relatively straightforward, and she had no grounds or interest in contesting it. I haven't given her any.”

Jilly couldn't pull her eyes away from his hand, squeezing her sister's knee, a slow, hypnotic caress. “And…?” Dean prompted, his voice faintly hollow, the triumphant glitter still in his eyes.

“I've bought a place in the Hills. I'll need a hostess, and Rachel-Ann needs something to do. I'm sure she won't mind looking after her old man. Will you, baby?” Knead, squeeze, knead, squeeze. His fingers caressed her knee.

“Yes, Daddy,” she said in a soft, little girl voice. “I mean, no, Daddy. I won't mind.”

She was trembling. It took Jilly a moment to realize that her sister was practically vibrating in distress. She called him Daddy. Odd, none of the others ever had. Dean called him Father, or Jackson, and Jilly tried to call him nothing at all.

“Oh, I don't think so,” Coltrane said, his voice cool, emotionless. “I think—” Before he could finish his sentence the candelabrum went flying, sailing across the room like it had been thrown by an unseen hand. The other candelabrum toppled from the piano, the coffee table shook, knocking the glasses to the floor as the rest of the lights went off and the house was plunged into darkness.

Rachel-Ann screamed in utter terror, and Jilly leapt forward, trying to reach her, only to collide with Coltrane in the dark. Tripped by Roofus's sudden leap, the two of them went down, directly into the middle of the glass coffee table in a tangle of limbs. A second later it broke beneath them. Coltrane was on top of her, heavy, overpowering, and they tumbled to the floor so that she lay underneath him, shattered glass beneath her back, digging into her skin. She could hear Roofus barking, Dean and Jackson were shouting, and she closed her eyes in the smothering darkness, feeling faint….

And then Rachel-Ann's voice came to her, clear and oddly close, as if she were whispering in her ear. “Yes,” she said. “I will.”