Double Image (31 page)

Standing in a corner, telling the young men where he wanted them to set the pieces, Coltrane began to feel tugged toward the past. Oddly, though, the past seemed the present. The furniture had been designed so long ago that it seemed new and fresh.

“Mister, I’ve been hauling furniture half my life,” the foreman said. “I gotta tell you — this stuff is definitely different.”

“But do you like it?”

“What’s not to like? The junk I sometimes have to deliver . . . But this is solid. Look at the sweat on these kids’ faces from lifting all this metal. Nothing flimsy here. No danger of
this
stuff falling apart. Style. Reminds me of a real old movie I saw on cable the other night. It had furniture like this. I’m not a dress-up kind of guy, but being here makes me feel we ought to be wearing tuxedos and drinking martinis. Hey.” He turned to his helpers. “We’re supposed to be movers. Let’s get a move on.”

Coltrane turned to watch them go for more furniture, and he wasn’t prepared to find that Duncan Reynolds had come through the open front door.

Duncan looked more surprised than Coltrane was. In fact, he seemed startled. His usually florid face was pale, emphasizing the numerous colors on his sport coat. His mouth hung open.

“Duncan? What’s the matter? Are you all right?”

“I came to see your reaction when the furniture was . . .” Eyes wide, Duncan surveyed the living room. “To find out if you were satisfied with . . .” Shocked, he pointed toward the sofa, then the chairs, then the end tables. “How did . . .”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s just as I remember it.
Exactly
as I remember it. But that can’t . . . How could you possibly have . . .”

“What are you talking about?”

“The furniture’s in the same places where Randolph preferred it. Twenty-five years ago, a few months after I started working for him, the day he first showed me this house, the furniture was positioned exactly as it is now. Randolph told me it had been that way when he bought it, that he had never varied it, that he never wanted it to be varied. It never was. Until it was taken away to be auctioned. And now you’ve arranged it so it looks precisely as when I first saw it. I almost expect to see Randolph stroll upstairs from working in the darkroom. How did . . . How could you have known where to . . .”

“I had help from some photographs.”

Duncan’s mystification deepened.

“I’ve been doing research,” Coltrane said.

Duncan stepped nearer, anxious for an explanation.

“I figured a house designed by Lloyd Wright would have attracted attention when it was built. Yesterday I went to the library to see what I could learn about it. The reference librarian showed me a yearly subject index for every article that was published in every major magazine. So I started in 1931, when this house was built. I looked under Lloyd Wright’s name in the index, and I got a reference to him right away, an article about him in an architectural magazine that isn’t published anymore but was fairly trendy back in the thirties —
Architectural Views
. Excellent library that we have in L.A., the periodical department has every issue of that magazine on microfilm. So I had a look. Turns out this house received a lot of attention when it was built. The article had an analysis of Lloyd Wright’s design. It also had photographs: interiors as well as exteriors. Each room. Including the furniture.” Coltrane gestured toward the living room. “All I did was imitate the arrangement of the furniture as it was shown in the photographs.”

“You don’t suppose Randolph took the photographs?”

“That’s what
I
wondered,” Coltrane said. “But I didn’t have to look at each photograph for more than a second to decide that the images were so uncomposed and poorly lit that they couldn’t possibly be his work. I strained my eyes a little trying to read the fine print on the microfilm. The photo credit went to someone whose name I didn’t recognize.”

Duncan calmed himself. “For a moment, I thought you might have discovered some Randolph Packard photographs that no one knew about.”

“Wouldn’t that have been something if I had.”

“Coming through.” The overweight supervisor led the way for his two young assistants, who were carrying more black metal tubes. “I don’t know what this is, but I’m guessing it’s a bed frame.”

“King-size or regular?”

“When we get all these pieces assembled, I’m betting it’s a king.”

“Master bedroom. Top floor.”

“You heard the man,” the foreman said to his helpers.

The troop disappeared, trudging upward.

Duncan watched in a daze.

“Duncan?”

“Uh, what?” Duncan turned, blinking.

“The other day, you mentioned that Randolph owned an estate in Mexico.”

Duncan’s face didn’t change expression, but something in his eyes did, becoming wary.

“You said that Randolph used various shell corporations when he was buying property, so that no one would know the true buyer. You said Randolph bought
this
house that way — and a place in Mexico.”

“Now that I think about it, I suppose I did mention something about that.”

“I was wondering where the estate was.”

Duncan’s gaze remained guarded. “What makes you ask?”

“Just curious. Randolph had such a unique way of viewing things, I thought the hacienda might be as dramatic as this house. It might be worth going down to Mexico to have a look.”

Duncan answered too quickly: “I wouldn’t know.”

From upstairs, Coltrane heard the faint clang of metal tubes being bolted together.

“Careful,” he heard the foreman say.

“You wouldn’t know if I’d find it interesting to visit the estate?” Coltrane asked.

“I wouldn’t know where it is. I was never there.” Duncan looked up the stairs toward the metallic sounds. “Randolph never told me. Some place in Baja California, I think he might have mentioned.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

“It probably doesn’t matter. For all I know, it isn’t as unique as this house, or it hasn’t been preserved the way this place has. Did Randolph still own it when he died?”

Duncan looked away. “Years ago, he mentioned something about selling a property in Mexico.”

“Well,” Coltrane said, “it was just a thought.”

“Careful,” the foreman repeated.

“I’D LIKE TO SPEAK TO MR. BLAINE,” Coltrane said into the telephone.

“May I tell him who’s calling?” the receptionist replied.

Coltrane gave his name. “I’ve been having some discussions with him about the estate of a deceased client of his. Randolph Packard.”

The receptionist’s voice came to attention. “Randolph Packard?”

“I’m buying a house he owned, and I need some further information. I know it’s New Year’s Eve afternoon.” Coltrane tried to sound self-deprecating. He chuckled. “Or whatever today is called.”

The receptionist sounded amused. “Yes, I’ve been having the same problem.”

“Anyway, Mr. Blaine probably has a ton of work he still needs to finish, but I was hoping he could spare a few minutes for me.”

In death as in life, Packard’s name got results. Twenty seconds later, an unctuous baritone was on the line. “Mr. Coltrane, I trust that your arrangements are proceeding satisfactorily.”

“Totally. In fact, I’m so pleased that I was wondering if another property Mr. Packard owned might be available for sale.”

“If you’re referring to the house in Newport Beach, it was given to his assistant. You’d have to speak with him about that.”

“No, I was thinking of a property in Mexico.”

“Mexico?”

“I believe it’s in Baja California.”

The baritone sounded confused. “No, I’m not familiar with it.”

Coltrane glanced down in disappointment, his suspicions having proven groundless. “I guess it must have been sold years ago.”

“The only property I’m familiar with that Randolph Packard owned in Mexico isn’t in Baja.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s on the western main coast of Mexico, much farther south than Baja. Below Acapulco, in fact. Near a town called . . . I can’t remember it in Spanish, but in English it’s very distinctive. The spine of the cat.”

“What?”

“That’s the name of the town.”

“Espalda del Gato?” Coltrane asked.

“I’m impressed. Your Spanish is very good.”

“I spent a lot of time in Spanish-speaking countries. If there’s a way for me to see the place, if it’s still in Mr. Packard’s name, maybe I’d be interested in buying
it
also,” Coltrane said.

“I can’t help you with that. It’s out of my hands. The hacienda was a bequest in Mr. Packard’s will. The title was transferred a week ago.”

Coltrane couldn’t hide his frustration. “To whom? Can you tell me?”

“Against my advice, Mr. Packard didn’t transfer all of his assets to a trust. The hacienda in Mexico was one of the items that he neglected to include. If he
had
included it, the bequest could have been handled privately, without involving a California court. But because the hacienda was included in a will, it has to go through probate. It’ll be a matter of public record. I could put you through the inconvenience of going to the court house. I don’t see why that’s necessary, however. Mr. Packard gave the Mexican property to someone named Natasha Adler.”

“Natasha Adler?”

“I have no association with the woman. I can’t tell you a thing about her.”

“Do you have her address and phone number?”

“
That
information was
not
included in the will. I had to hire a private investigator to find her. I’m afraid I’d be violating her privacy if I told you where she lived.”

Damn it, Coltrane thought.

“Now if there’s nothing else I can help you with,” Blaine said.

“Maybe one thing.”

The baritone had a hint of impatience in his voice. “Yes?”

“Would you mind telling me the name of the investigator you used?”

“CHEERS.”

“Cheers.”

Coltrane and Jennifer clicked glasses of Absolut and tonic.

Jennifer sipped from hers and wrinkled her nose. “It’s like with champagne — the bubbles are ticklish.”

“Maybe you need more vodka and less tonic,” Coltrane said.

“Then the
rest
of me would be ticklish.” Jennifer wore a black Armani dress, the hem of which came up just above the knee. Its top ended where her breasts began. Pearl earrings and a matching necklace couldn’t compete with her smile.

Taking another sip, she surveyed the living room. “I expected the furniture to look striking, but not
this
much. It’s really — I don’t know what word to use — fantastic. I feel as if I’m in that wing of the Museum of Modern Art, the one where they have furniture that’s considered art.”

“Does that mean you feel the house has changed enough for you to give it another chance? You don’t still associate it with Ilkovic?”

“It feels different now.”

“Good.”

“As if I’m in the 1930s.”

“That’s the illusion I want to create. I want this to be a haven from the present.”

“It seems to me that the present’s still here, though.” Before Coltrane could ask what she meant, she added, “Is it safe to sit on this stuff?”

“Of course.” Coltrane laughed.

Tentatively, Jennifer lowered herself onto the red velvet cushion of a black tube–enclosed chair. “So far so good. It didn’t collapse.”

“The man in charge of the crew who delivered it assured me that this stuff was made to last.”

“It certainly has. After all these years, it’s as shiny as new.” Jennifer took a long sip of vodka and tonic. “You’re certain Duncan lied to you about the place in Mexico?”

“It wasn’t so much what he said. He told me he had a vague memory that it had been sold some time ago, that maybe it was in Baja. No big deal. But there was a nervous look behind his eyes.”

“Maybe he just needed a drink. Not everything’s a mystery.”

“I phoned the private investigator Packard’s attorney uses. I got lucky and caught him in. For five hundred dollars, he looked in his files and told me that Natasha Adler, the woman who inherited the estate, lives up in Malibu. Her number’s unlisted, but he gave me that, too.”

Jennifer raised her glass to her lips. The drink did nothing to relax her increasingly troubled expression. “I don’t see what you hope to accomplish.”

“I’d like to know why Packard gave it to her.”

“Maybe she was a friend or a business acquaintance.”

“Fine. But if she knows the estate, maybe she can tell me something about it.”

“Such as?”

“Whether parts of
Jamaica Wind
were filmed there and whether she’s ever heard of Rebecca Chance.”

Jennifer shook her head.

“Aren’t
you
curious?” Coltrane asked.

“Professionally, sure. Those photographs are a major discovery. It’s important to learn when they were taken, who the subject was, what sort of relationship Packard had with her. That information doesn’t make the photographs any more brilliant than they already are, but as a magazine publisher, I can tell you human interest adds incalculable monetary value. That raises the question of when you’re going to tell Packard’s estate about them. Without being specific, I did some checking with an attorney. As I understand it, you have a claim to own the photographs, but the right to reproduce them belongs to Packard’s trustees. You’re going to have to come to an arrangement with them.”

“When I’m ready.” Coltrane bit his lower lip. “You said ‘professionally.’”

“Excuse me?”

“You told me that
professionally
you were interested in the photographs. You emphasized the word, implying, I suppose, that you weren’t interested personally.”

“Not the way
you
are. The way you talk about Rebecca Chance, it’s like she’s a living, breathing person. Last night, you asked me if I was jealous of her. Maybe I am a little. It’s almost as if . . .”

“What?”

“You’re falling in love with her.”