Genuine Lies

dragged his heels and tried to see everything at once.
    The car was waiting at the curb. Car, Julia thought, was a poor term for the mile-long, gleaming white stretch limo.
    “Wow,” Brandon said under his breath. Mother and son rolled their eyes at each other and giggled as they settled in. The interior smelled of roses, leather, lingering perfume. “It has a TV and everything,” Brandon whispered. “Wait till I tell the guys.”
    “Welcome to Hollywood,” Julia said and, ignoring thechilling champagne, poured them both a celebratory Pepsi. She toasted Brandon gravely, then grinned. “Here’s mud in your eye, sport.”
    He chattered all the way, about the palm trees, the skateboarders, the proposed trip to Disneyland. It helped soothe her. She let him switch on the television, but nixed the idea of using the phone. By the time they cruised into Beverly Hills, he’d decided that being a chauffeur was a pretty good job.
    “Some people would say that having one’s even better.”
    “Nah, cause then you never get to drive.”
    And it was as simple as that, she thought. Her work with celebrities had already shown her that fame exacted a heavy price. One of them, she decided while she slipped off a shoe and let her foot sink into the deep carpet, was having a chauffeur who was built like a bodyguard.
    The next price became apparent as they drove along a high stone wall to an ornate, and very thick iron gate, where a guard, again in uniform, peered out of the window of a small stone hut. After a long buzz, the gate opened slowly, even majestically. And the locks clicked tight behind them. Locked in and locked out, Julia thought.
    The grounds were exquisite, graced with lovely old trees and trimmed shrubs that would flower early in the mild climate. A peacock strutted on the lawn, and his hen sent up a scream like a woman. Julia chuckled when Brandon’s mouth fell open.
    There was a pond dotted with lily pads. Over it arched a fanciful walking bridge. They had left behind, only hours before, the snow and frigid winds of the Northeast and come to paradise. Eve’s Eden. She had stepped out of a Currier and Ives print into a Dali painting.
    Then the house rose into view, and she was as speechless as her son. Like the car, it was glistening white, three graceful stories in an “E” shape, with lovely shaded courtyards between the bars. The house was as feminine, timeless, elaborate as the woman who owned it. Curved windows and archways softened its lines without detracting from its aura of strength. Balconies, their iron work as delicate as white lace, draped the upper stories. In vivid contrast, trellised flowers in bold colors ofscarlet, sapphire, purple, and saffron sliced arrogantly up the white, white walls.
    When Lyle opened the door, Julia was struck by the silence. No sound from the world outside the high walls penetrated here. No car engines, belching buses, or squealing tires would have dared to intrude. There was only birdsong, and the seductive whisper of the breeze through fragrant leaves, the tinkle of water from a fountain in the courtyard. Above, the sky was a dreamy blue trimmed with a few powder-puff clouds.
    Again she had the dislocated feeling of walking into a painting.
    “Your luggage will be delivered to the guest house, Ms. Summers,” Lyle told her. He had examined her in the rearview mirror during the long drive, speculating about the best ways to interest her in a quick tussle in his room over the garage. “Miss Benedict asked that I bring you here, first.”
    She didn’t encourage or discourage the gleam in his eye. “Thank you.” Julia looked at the curving apron of white marble steps, then tucked her son’s hand in hers.
    Inside, Eve stepped away from the window. She had wanted to see them first. Had needed to. Julia was more delicate-looking in person than she’d been led to expect from the photographs she’d seen. The young woman had excellent taste in clothes. The trim strawberry-colored suit and subtle jewelry she wore met with Eve’s approval. As did the posture.
    And the boy … the boy had had a sweet face and an air of suppressed energy. He would do, she told herself, and closed her eyes. They would both do very well.
    Opening her eyes again, she moved to her nightstand. In the drawer were the pills only she and her doctor knew she needed. There was also a crudely printed note on cheap paper.
LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE.
    As a threat, Eve found it laughable. And