Page 121 of The Evening Wolves

Groaning, I shook my head. A bit flustered was putting it mildly.

Vivienne patted my arm and laughed gently. “It’s all right. We’ll get you squared away in no time.”

She hadn’t been joking when she’d called it a quick tour. Hemlock House—Vivienne’s cliffside manor (there really wasn’t any other word for it)—was massive, and it was old, too. Fireplaces in every room, damask wallpaper in deep hues of red and green and blue, wainscotting, polished wood floors covered by thick rugs. And God, so many crystal chandeliers. Heavy drapes framed the windows, and as we walked, I caught glimpses of the sea cliffs and, below them, the slate-green waters of the Pacific. The briny smell of the ocean was familiar and not at the same time. I’d grown up in a seaside town, but in a very different part of the world.

“Hemlock House was built by Nathaniel Blackwood,” Vivienne said as we walked, her arm in mine. “He made a fortune in the late nineteenth century, fur and timber and agriculture, and—this will be your room, dear—” She opened a door, and I caught a glimpse of an enormous canopy bed, a secretary desk, an oil painting of a horse, and what looked like a very expensive clock. Then we moved on. “—and he retired here with his much, much younger bride.”

“Some things never change,” I said.

Vivienne laughed. “No, they don’t. And I’m sure it won’t surprise you to learn that Nathaniel Blackwood was, to put it mildly, an eccentric.”

“The Howard Hughes of beaver pelts.”

“Something like that. He spent years working on the plans for Hemlock House. Years, dear. And he was unbelievably exacting in the construction. Spent an absolute fortune building it, making sure everything was exactly as he’d dreamed, and then died shortly after it was finished. He fell from the balcony and died on the cliffs. His bride, as you might imagine, went on to live a long, happy life with a parade of lovers.”

“He fell,” I said. “Right.”

Vivienne gave me that droll little smile again, but it faded as she said, “She died the same way, strangely enough. A fall from the balcony.”

“So, no going out on the balconies. Check.”

“She was pushed by a younger man. He claimed he didn’t do it, of course, but everyone knew—there’d been fights about money, fights about other women. The bride never had any children, and the estate was a legal morass for decades. Finally, the house was sold to a private investor who went to great lengths to preserve the historic aspects. Most of the furniture is original, although there have been updates for modern conveniences.” In a guilty whisper, she added, “I couldn’t live without cable.”

“I couldn’t live without coffee.”

A grand central staircase led down to the main floor, and when I say grand, I mean grand. Think, Disney castle grand: a sweeping spiral of polished marble, with a crystal chandelier hanging in the open well at the center. I’d come this way when I’d arrived, of course, but I’d been so nervous about the interview—if that conversation, in hindsight, could even be called an interview—that the details had registered only peripherally. Now I took it all in: the oil paintings in gilded frames (more horses), the black-and-white checkerboard tile (more marble), the unmistakable spaciousness of it all, as though the house had been built for giants. And, now, I noticed the person lying on the floor, splayed out like a body at a crime scene.

“Uh—”

“That’s Fox,” Vivienne said. “Fox, this is Dashiell.”

“Just Dash,” I said apologetically.

Vivienne studied Fox for a moment and said, “They’re doing something with the wallpaper. I have to admit I don’t really understand it. How’s it going Fox?”

Fox was stocky, their dark hair buzzed and sprinkled with silver; I put them somewhere in their forties. In their ankle boots and paisley vest, they looked like they were striking a balance between hipster and steampunk. Without raising their head, they said, “Terrible. It’s a disaster, and everything’s the worst, and I’m dead.”

“They’re very dramatic,” Vivienne confided.

“I’m not being dramatic. This design was a huge mistake. I’ll never be able to replicate it. I’m a fraud and a sham. My life is over.”

“They’re an artist,” Vivienne said, and then, a bit more loudly, “And an artiste.”

Fox moaned.

“Something with sea-glass,” Vivienne said as we continued down the stairs. For a lady in her sixties, she was spry—I’d read an interview she’d done in Ellery Queen, and she’d talked about running and bicycling and, I kid you not, her beloved mini trampoline. “Fox is very successful.”

“Not anymore,” Fox said from the floor. “I’m a huckster. I’m done.”

“Dashiell is going to be joining us at Hemlock House, Fox. Do you have any words of wisdom for him as he settles in at Hastings Rock?”

“Never love or cherish or hope for anything,” Fox said in a broken voice. “Life is a trap.”

“And they’re ever so much fun at parties,” Vivienne murmured as she led me across the hall. We passed through a pair of pocket doors into the living room. It had the biggest fireplace I’d seen yet, with a pristine marble surround, a tarnished overmantel mirror, and a decorative tile-work hearth. Shiny brass fireplace tools and a matching screen. Maybe it sounds like I’m spending too much time on this fireplace, but it was enormous. You could have driven a hearse through it.

Like the rest of the house, this room had those lovely details and decorative elements that marked it as a product of another time (and another socioeconomic class). Cornicing, ceiling roses, more of those dramatic crystal chandeliers. Tufted sofas in brocade and velvet flanked by wingback chairs of cracked leather. Mahogany tables cluttered with brass and glass curios (a telescope, a miniature globe, a bowl). Tall windows, their curtains held open with tasseled tiebacks to let in more of the day’s cloudy light. And, of course, bookcases. These weren’t Vivienne’s books. These looked like they’d come with the house, with beautiful bindings that had weathered the perpetual seaside damp surprisingly well. Interspersed with the books were botanical prints and porcelain figurines and glass cloches that held taxidermy birds.

“I know, dear,” Vivienne said. “Barbaric. I couldn’t sleep for a week the first time I saw them staring down at me. The dining room is through here.”

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