Nine
As per their agreement, Wes waited for Nadine to arrive at Voline’s ornate gate so they could go in together. He’d been almost an hour early to escape his mother’s commentary on how he was deserting the family by working on the weekend, despite spending the morning grocery shopping and completing a series of errands to placate her.
He was also early because he was eager to talk to Dot Voline. Brent’s mention of his aunt keeping a promise meant he could be looking at a bigger story than he anticipated. It could also be a dud, but Wes didn’t think so, and neither did Nadine. He might not like her, but he could admit she had excellent intuition.
Nadine. He wasn’t thrilled about having to share this story. It helped that the Herald would look much more unkindly on Nadine coloring outside the lines than the Spear . If push came to shove, she had more to lose than he did, putting the balance of power squarely in his hands, which was satisfying. He’d still have to stay on his toes to make sure she played straight with him.
Five more minutes. He rubbed his hands together, letting his inner movie villain take over. Despite their agreement, if Nadine was a no-show, Wes would be within his rights to keep the meeting and have an uninterrupted hour, or longer, to earn Dot Voline’s trust. He’d take full advantage of it and make sure Nadine knew that she’d lost this particular round.
An arrow of misgiving shot through him at the thought that Nadine would miss this. He dropped his hands. There must be something wrong. Images of Nadine hurt or trapped filled his mind. The jaws of life. Sirens. Before he could panic or remind himself that she was probably only stuck in the permanent urban nightmare others would simply call traffic, a dirty car arrived.
It was Nadine.
“Don’t you ever wash your car?” he asked as she got out, a strange relief making him skip over a normal greeting. She wore a pale blue dress that swirled around her tanned legs and held the bouquet of flowers they’d agreed would be an appropriate gesture. He’d transferred her half the cost, to the penny.
“Whatever, Dad.”
The bouquet was pretty, with little white clusters he thought might be hyacinths. Rebecca had been on a big flower kick thanks to her blooming container garden. He should pitch a story on bringing unisex nosegays back in fashion. Fresh flowers provide an elegant touch that never goes out of style and can be an olfactory lifesaver in a sweaty summer crowd.
Nadine shifted the bouquet to her other hand to keep it away from him when he leaned in for a sniff. That was spiteful, but if she thought he wouldn’t sink to her level, she was mistaken. He stepped closer to breathe in loudly and obnoxiously. The scent was so strong he had to shove down a sneeze.
“I thought you weren’t going to make it,” he said once he got himself under control.
“You wish.”
“Is that the biggest bouquet you could get for fifty bucks?”
She barely glanced at him. “This is why I insisted on getting them. Bigger doesn’t equal better. You’d probably get a bunch of carnations from the grocery store and call it a day.”
“I like carnations.”
“Right, but, Wes?” Her voice was deceptively sweet. “I know it can be hard for you to understand, but it’s not about you, is it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I didn’t buy the flowers for you. I bought them for Dot Voline, who was quoted in an interview as loving flowers with scent. Like these.” She spoke slowly as she lifted the flowers to his face. “Not like your carnations, and not like the funeral flowers you brought last week.”
It stung that he’d missed that interview. “There were roses in that arrangement. You’re not a better journalist because you bought the right flowers.”
“No,” she agreed. “I’m the better journalist because I thought about my subject and did the research.”
Wes clamped his jaws shut to stop himself from muttering like a child that she wasn’t the better journalist. Nadine was in a mood. It didn’t matter. They were here to talk to Dot Voline, not make nice with each other. They weren’t friends, and there was no need to act friendly.
This time when they pressed the intercom, the gates opened inward. “Come up,” barked Voline’s voice. “Don’t need all the neighbors knowing my business.”
They got back in their cars, and he followed Nadine around the fountain and under the portico that protected the entrance, driving as slowly as if they were in a cortege.
Nadine got out of her car. “Damn, I forgot my battering ram at home,” she said, looking up at the front door. It was at least twelve feet high and appeared to be made of solid wood. Golden bolts lined the edge and outlined a carved rose in the center panel.
“Figures,” Wes said. “At least my catapult’s in the trunk. Who’s the better journalist now?”
“Still me, because first, catapults were for throwing things over walls and not breaking down doors, and second, you don’t actually have one.”
“Then it looks like we’ll have to go with our plan B.” Two gigantic brass pulleys took the place of doorknobs, and Nadine grabbed him when he reached out.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Knocking? How do you usually announce your august presence at someone’s home?”
“I ring the doorbell.”
Wes examined the ornate carvings surrounding the door, none of which resembled anything like a doorbell. “Be my guest.”
Before Nadine could reply, the door swung open, much faster and without any of the creaking Wes expected.
“Took you long enough.”
Wes recognized the voice.
Dot Voline at last.
***
Nadine’s first thought at meeting the country’s most lauded literary star was that pictures had not done her justice. Her hair remained the same orange as her decades-old publicity photo and was piled high in fluffy curls that may or may not have been real. Huge amethyst glasses perched on a long nose and wide ears that could easily take the weight of the thick frames. A gigantic jeweled cross hung around her neck and dangled off a purple, orange, and yellow caftan that looked like the tail end of a bad acid trip and swirled when she stood still. On the fingers gripping the handle of the portable oxygen tank glittered a Cartier display case’s worth of gold and diamonds.
After she took in the marvel that was Dot Voline, Nadine’s second thought was, This woman is about to keel over .
Wes must have thought the same thing, because he sprang forward with a chivalrous hand and more charm than Nadine would have expected. To her utter shock, Voline giggled. Like a schoolgirl. Nadine half expected her to thump him with a folded fan and say, Oh, you.
Instead, she said, “I’m not dead yet, handsome. Get out of my way.”
Wes winked. He winked . Nadine nearly passed out. Wes Chen wore sweaters over button-ups. He was prim. Neat. Not a man who winked.
Voline looked amused. “You. Death girl.”
“Nadine Barbault,” she corrected.
“Death girl,” said Voline with enough emphasis that Nadine knew it was her name from now on. Well, she’d been called worse. “Those for me?”
She hadn’t realized she’d been clutching the bouquet to her chest. “Sorry, yes.”
“You can put them in a vase when you come in,” said Voline. “Presents that cause more work for the recipient aren’t gifts. They’re chores.”
Nadine looked down at the bouquet, suddenly realizing that was the reason she hated getting flowers. The trimming, finding a vase, and arranging the stalks were all unwelcome work—and that was before the cycle of cleaning up dropped pollen and decayed petals. “I’d be happy to,” she said.
“Then get in. You’re letting in the flies.”
Voline turned with difficulty, shuffling each foot with a deliberate motion to keep her balance. Nadine walked slowly to give her the dignity of moving at her own pace. Also, she was busy trying to take in the sight beyond her host.
“Shut the door, girl,” called Voline.
“Sure, Ms. Voline.”
“Christ on a cracker, that’s for an old woman. Call me Dot.”
“Dot,” repeated Nadine politely.
“I’m right here, girl. No need to chant my name like a Benedictine monk.”
Nadine made the mistake of catching Wes’s eye behind Dot’s curved back and gave him a rude gesture when he smirked.
Once properly through the door, it was easier to see the house’s interior. Nadine had once gone to a French chateau and joined the crush of gawking tourists as they’d obediently filed through gilded rooms tiled with mirrors and painted with cherubs and gods and animals. Dot’s house was the Vegas version via an English country hunting lodge.
“Lamps,” muttered Wes. “I knew it.”
“What?” Nadine asked.
“Nothing.”
A taxidermy cheetah skulked near the wall, an ancient beaver top hat angled jauntily over a crooked blue eye. On the other side of the corridor stood a suit of armor with a conference lanyard around its neck and a large gold coin nestled in the plastic name tag slot. As she passed, Nadine saw the coin’s face had a bearded man gazing off into the distance.
She was looking at a Nobel Prize.
“Do you think if we’re good she’ll let us touch it?” whispered Wes.
“No.” Dot’s voice traveled back and echoed off the marble floor. “That’s not what you get to touch if you’re good.”
Wes made a noise that sounded like meep as Nadine snickered.
“Good lord, handsome, don’t sound so scared. And girl, don’t think of putting your paws on that gold. Sir Latimer guards it with his life.”
The house had a surprisingly straightforward layout. The main doors led down a wide corridor with two halls branching to the right and left, leading to what Nadine assumed were more rooms. Cats wandered the halls, moving noiselessly along the marble floor. Nadine counted at least three.
At the very end, the hall opened to the left into a huge space filled with a dining table and couches and chairs so tufted and tasseled they were more decor than furniture. The ceiling was a calming mural of a surprisingly realistic sky, complete with wispy cirrus clouds and the silhouettes of birds wheeling near the crown molding. A wall of windows at the rear of the room opened into a conservatory, green with plants and dotted with the occasional bloom. Nadine hoped they were orchids. If it was filled with something prosaic like daffodils, she would be disappointed.
“Is that…a Group of Seven wall?” asked Wes. He sounded faint, which Nadine understood once she looked over. A Tom Thomson pine hung in the center, the dark shadowy tree a contrast against the ivory lines of the snowdrifts. Landscapes and images of isolated barns surrounded it in ornate frames that looked like they cost as much as the paintings.
“My husband collected them,” said Dot, inching her way past a side table shaped like an hourglass and covered with Hummel figurines. “I took my favorites out of the art warehouse when he died.”
Nadine slid her eyes over to Wes to check his reaction. His eyebrows were high enough to turn his forehead into a gigantic wrinkle, and she was relieved to have confirmation that a personal art warehouse was a legitimately wild thing to have in one’s life. She felt like the two of them, despite their hostility, were a reluctant team in this strange new world.
“The kitchen is through that door,” said Dot as she lowered herself to the settee. She pointed at Nadine. “Handsome here will keep me company while you put those in water and get the tea. Vases are in the butler’s. Oh, hello, beautiful.” A brown tabby had jumped up to the chair beside her. “This is Octavia. That’s Murasaki near the door.” She indicated a calico who sat with her tail wrapped primly around her front paws.
Nadine would have made a fuss about Dot asking the woman to do the domestic work, but she was the one holding the flowers, plus her desire to see more of the house outweighed any feminist complaints. As she pushed open the door, she heard Wes say, “You have quite the collection of Chippendale. Is that a cherry tilt-top table?”
Who knew Wes was a furniture nerd?
Nadine took two steps into the kitchen before she faltered, feeling as if she’d stepped through to another dimension. The space in front of her was bright and spare, an austerely functional marble and steel chef’s dream that was the antithesis to the room she’d left.
A rattle came from around the corner. “Who’re you?” It was a woman dressed in coveralls, with a spray bottle in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other. She looked like she was in her late fifties, but if she’d said she was forty or sixty-five, Nadine would have believed it.
“Nadine Barbault. We’re here to visit Dot Voline.”
“Huh.” The woman eyed her doubtfully. “Dot doesn’t have friends visit.”
“We’re not really friends,” confessed Nadine. “I’m a reporter.”
She might have said, I’m a serial killer , for the reaction the woman gave. She practically growled as she shook her finger in Nadine’s face. “One of the ones who said Dot was dead? Nearly killed her, you people did.”
“I’m sorry.”
She must have looked contrite, because the woman softened. “Well, I guess it wasn’t your fault.”
This was worse. “It kind of was. I was the obituary editor for the Herald .”
“Was?”
“They moved me to a new job.”
“Should have fired you for incompetence,” said the woman serenely. Nadine figured she deserved that, although it bit deeper than anything Daniel had said when reaming her out about the obit. “Well, if Dot says you can come in, I guess you can.”
“Are you Dot’s…?” Nadine trailed off, realizing she had no idea how to finish the sentence.
“ Housekeeper will do. Maria Silva. Been here twenty years. What are you doing with them flowers?”
“Dot told me to put them in a vase from something called the butler’s?”
“Butler’s pantry. Over here.” She passed by Nadine, trailing the smell of bleach.
If Nadine thought Maria would take the flowers to arrange herself, she was mistaken. She was led to a long, dark, narrow room before Maria took off, grumbling about Dot’s new organizing kick and the never-ending dusting.
Nadine simply stood. Part of her knew she needed to get this task done so she could get to the real work of learning Dot Voline’s story in this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She couldn’t because she was immobilized by the rows of shelves filled with vases, platters, and bowls. A few were so huge they fell into the basin category. A small stepladder sat in the corner to reach the high items since the shelves extended to the ceiling. Why would anyone need so many? What was the point of this?
“Nadine?” She started at Wes’s voice from the kitchen. “Are you here?”
She poked her head out to see Wes doing a slow circle to take in the space. “Hey.”
“Are you spying?” he demanded. “That’s against the rules.”
“Like being alone with Dot?” she countered.
Beaten by her logic, he went on the offensive. “Dot wants to know what’s taking so long.”
She gestured wordlessly, and he came over.
“Oh. Having some decision paralysis over the vase?” he asked. “When in doubt, go blue.”
“Is that like picking C on a multiple-choice test?” she asked. His arm pressed against hers, and she jumped away, then halted when her back brushed the shelf.
“Better watch it,” said Wes.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she said automatically. “Do you think collecting is a rich person word for hoarding? Like, is it hoarding when everything looks like it costs a million dollars?”
Wes pointed to the shelf behind her. “If that’s the celadon-glazed vase I think it is, more like a quarter million.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “You’re lying. That’s two hundred and forty-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety dollars more than any flower vessel should cost.”
“I have an idea. Why don’t you break it and find out?”
Nadine wasn’t sure if she believed him, but it was better to be safe than sorry. She held her breath and eased herself slowly away.
Wes reached past her to pluck a blue vase from the shelf. He smelled nice, she noticed. Clean but like linen spray, not vinegar. “Here,” he said. “A plain old vase that won’t bankrupt you when you smash it.”
With his errand done, Nadine thought he would leave to go back out to Dot. Instead, he walked over to a tea tray on one of the tables and checked the water, waiting until she was done with the flowers. Wes groaned as he lifted the tray. “If I drop this, kill me. I’ll never make enough money to replace it.”
“What, that?” The serviceable, simple white ceramic looked like it came from IKEA.
“It’s a Stoneman Aufort set from 1950. Trust me.”
“Seriously?” She eyed it.
“I did a story on their collectability, and while I am happy to discuss the comparative value of midcentury tea sets, can we do it later? My arms are going to fall off.”
“I don’t want to know about Amfort tea sets,” she snapped.
“It’s Aufort, and I’m not surprised. You probably microwave water for tea and leave the bag in while you drink. Now can you please open the door ?”
Chafing at what she knew was an insult although she couldn’t identify why—hot water was hot water, and sometimes she liked a strong brew—Nadine took her revenge by sauntering over to the door as Wes grappled with the tray behind her.
“Damn these cats,” he muttered as a dark shape crossed in front of his feet.
She looked through to see Dot on the settee, head bent sideways and forward. “Wes?” she whispered.
“What?” He came up beside her and followed her gaze. “Jesus. Oh no.”
A snore erupted, and they sagged with relief.
He glanced over. “By the way, do you know CPR?”
“Yes.”
He passed into the room. “Good to know.”
There was a low table in front of Dot, and she woke when Wes put down the tray. “Cream and sugar?” he asked, holding the tongs over the cubes.
“Of course. I’m no animal.” Dot took a wafer-thin shortbread cookie and ate it with satisfaction before handing the plate to Wes. “You need to eat up,” she said. “Doesn’t your girlfriend feed you?”
“Thank you.” Wes took one. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Big shock,” muttered Nadine.
“Boyfriend?” Dot frowned. “You tell him for me that just because he’s a man, it doesn’t mean he can’t look after you. That’s their job if they love you.”
“I’m not dating anyone, but I agree with your philosophy,” said Wes casually, as if discussing his love life with famous authors was an everyday occurrence.
Maybe it was. Nadine looked at him closely, realizing that although she’d known him for years, she never really got to know Wes Chen. He passed the plate back to Dot, holding it at a comfortable height for her arm as she selected another cookie. Well, not that it mattered. They wouldn’t be working together for more than a couple of weeks.
He deliberately didn’t offer Nadine a cookie but put the plate down and angled his chair to face Dot in a rookie power move designed to crowd Nadine out of the conversation. When she dragged her seat forward, he shifted his shoulders to block her. Nadine kept her expression neutral as she moved to a new chair closer to Dot. Take that.
Two weeks was more than enough time to spend with Wes.