Inherit the Dead

imagined a private detective would be some sort of tough guy with a greasy little mustache and bad shoes.”
    Perry looked down at his old police dress shoes. They’d been good years back but not so good now, though they’d apparently passed some small test.
    He glanced up and past Julia at a large abstract painting. “Pollock?”
    “Yes,” she said, and cast a reappraising eye at him. “You really aren’t the typical private detective, are you?”
    “My mother was an artist. Well, sort of.”
    “How nice for you,” she said, brittle edging on bitter. “Mine was . . . ” She shook her head and looked back at the painting. “I bought it at auction, at Sotheby’s, just last week.”
    “Oh yes, I read about the sale.” Perry couldn’t remember the exact price, but it had been newsworthy. Front page. It had set a record for a Jackson Pollock painting, something astronomical, in the millions; the buyer’s name undisclosed.
    “You’re a very observant man.”
    “It’s my job.”
    “Good,” she said, giving him another look, this one impossible to read. “Would you care for something, Detective, coffee or tea?”
    “If you have coffee, sure. I can’t seem to shake the chill.”
    “Oh. It’s the air-conditioning. The illness raises my temperature, so I keep it on all the time. I’m afraid I hardly feel it.” She waved a hand at her face as if to cool it further. “You don’t mind, do you?”
    “No,” he said, stifling a shiver.
    “So, coffee . . . ” she said, a bewildered look entering her eyes. “Actually, I’m afraid my maid doesn’t come in until ten, and I’m lost without her.”
    “No then—please don’t. I’m fine.”
    “I don’t drink it myself. How about tea? I think I can boil water.”
    Next thing Perry knew he was on one of the low sofas, balancing a cup of something herbal and lemony on his knee; Julia Drusilla wassitting opposite, bony fingers tapping against a china cup that looked almost, though not quite, as fragile as she was.
    “That portrait, the one above your—”
    “My father,” she said.
    “An impressive-looking man.”
    “Yes. He died some years ago, along with my mother, in a tragic accident.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t be. I hate it when people apologize for things that have nothing to do with them.”
    “I wasn’t taking responsibility, merely expressing—”
    She waved his explanation away. “I don’t have time for niceties, Detective. I’m not a well woman.”
    “So you said.”
    “Did I?”
    “Yes. But you look . . . fine.”
    “I look like death and know it.” She made a noise in the back of her nose. “You should have seen me when I was young. I was beautiful once. Can you believe that?”
    “You’re still a beautiful woman,” he said, and it was true, though the beauty had ossified.
    “And you’re a liar, but a charming one. Though you must always be truthful with me.”
    “I usually am.”
    “Except when you are flattering an older woman or trying to save someone the pain of bad news?”
    “A little of both,” said Perry.
    “Well, don’t ever lie to me . Not ever . I have been lied to enough in my life, and I won’t tolerate it.” Her gray eyes had gone cold and steely, her mouth set tight. Perry noticed her hands had balled into fists, as if getting ready to strike.
    “I don’t care much for lies or liars myself.
    “Good,” she said, the harsh glint of metal in her eyes giving way to something a bit less threatening, though Perry hadn’t missed it. “Then we understand each other.”
    “Indeed.” Perry nodded, though he allowed his stare to mimic just a bit of her rigidity before changing the subject. “So, your daughter. She disappeared from where, exactly?”
    “From her father’s Montauk home. According to Norman, he has not seen her for almost two weeks.” Julia Drusilla was now up and pacing.
    “I’ll need the exact time of her disappearance.”
    “You can get that from Norman. I imagine you will want to speak to him.”
    “Yes. And your husband didn’t call the police, didn’t report your daughter missing?”
    “No. He called me . Which was the right thing to do.” Her voice took on strength.
    “Tell me more about your daughter. Anything that will help me find her.” Perry plucked a pad and pen from his pocket.
    “Well, Angelina, Angel, has been living with her father, my ex-husband, since our divorce.”
    “Your husband got custody?” Perry tried to keep the surprise out of