Leading to what?
The house. Secreted away in the background. Looming like a forgotten ghost; silent and forbidding.
Scary.
I must be nuts.
No possibility of nosy neighbors. Unless they used a pair of step-ladders, the tall yew hedges either side would obscure the driveway from view. And when she’d driven past earlier, she’d seen a For Sale sign sticking up out of next-door’s front lawn. That house had looked dark and empty too.
The gravel leading up to number 1309 crunched loudly under her feet. This place, with its flaky, white-painted exterior, exuded an air of loneliness.
But not emptiness.
The driveway, the gardens, the long green lawn in front of the house, were neat and well-kept. A sure sign that a gardener or handyman had recently been at work. By the time she reached the three shallow steps curving up to the arched front door, she knew there was no one around to halt her progress.
In some strange way, this knowledge was a certainty.
Gillian smiled.
The house was hers.
Alarm system?
Yeah. Alarm system ...
She looked around for tell-tale electronic devices. Wires. Anything.
Nope.
Crazy, but true. There were no alarm devices that she could see.
So, go for it.
She did.
Gaining access was easy. In the studded dark wood door a rectangular window gleamed. It was small, narrow and about two thirds of the way up: a nice stained-glass affair showing a white, stylized lily, cupped by two long green leaves. The background was bright blue. A quick glance around assured her there was no one immediately in sight. Taking her small leather tool satchel from her purse, Gillian paused for a moment, head tilted, listening intently to sounds from within.
Like someone running to open the door.
The click of a telephone being lifted off the book.
Nothing.
She stretched out a length of duct tape and stuck it around the window. She stuck a circle in the center of the window to use as a handle. It’s an old window, she thought with satisfaction. Should drop out okay.
She set to work with her glass cutter. When she’d finished she tapped the glass. It came away in her hand.
Easy as drawing breath.
Too easy?
She reached her hand through the space and felt around with her fingers. The door handle was just below the space. It was large and heavy and she could move it up and down with her fingers. But the door wouldn’t give.
A bolt?
Yeah. She reached inside, felt below the window space and found the bolt.
Slid it back.
It moved smoothly, in double quick time.
Freshly oiled.
Especially for her?
The door swung open.
Briskly, and with a pounding heart, she returned her tools, and the small piece of window, to the satchel, slid it into her purse and picked up her suitcase. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
Taking her tools out again, Gillian worked quickly, replacing the window in the door and returning her tools to the leather satchel. She placed the satchel into her purse.
Then looked around her.
Thirties Hollywood. That was her first impression. Maybe not so big as some of those deco places out in the hills. But in its own faded, still glamorous way, this one was just as tasty.
White marble entrance hall. Light streaming through looped drapes at the long windows either side of the tall white studded door. A white staircase rose before her. It branched off, right and left, each section winding upward and then back on itself. Both sets of stairs met on a white and chrome balcony, the entire width of the house. Just like the prow of a cruise liner.
The Busby Berkeley Babes.
Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler.
“Yessir,” Gillian breathed. “The place has style, all right.”
She shivered. It was this air of loneliness, inside the house as well as out. It hung about the place like some longforgotten melody. It made her want to cry, it was so sad.
The emptiness made her think that maybe this house, too, was up for sale. But once again, she had this deep down certainty that it wasn’t.
A quick check on all the rooms told her that the house was lived in. It was tidy; not a magazine out of place. Garden flowers were still fresh in the tall white vases.
Black and white studio shots of a blonde with cupid bow lips and provocative, dark-lashed eyes smiled archly from the walls. In one photograph, she was dressed up like Heidi, complete with pigtails, accompanied by a mustachioed guy in Bavarian fancy dress.
Gillian recognized the woman—though from where, she couldn’t say. Some all-time movie star. All alone with her memories. Alone, except for a maid coming in twice a week to keep the place straight. ...
She inspected the first bedroom she came to. White quilted satin on a large, circular bed. Flimsy white drapes drawn aside from the heart-shaped quilted satin headboard. Flimsy white drapes at the windows, too. Built-in wardrobes. A curved white dresser covered in glass gewgaws and perfume and stuff. Matching nightstands stood either side of the bed.
A movie set from years ago.
Gillian stepped inside the adjoining all-white bathroom. And gasped with pleasure as her eyes took in the round sunken tub and ornate gold taps shaped like dolphin heads. Slender bottles filled with colored oils and unguents were set neatly at intervals around the rim.
Claudette Colbert in Cleopatra.
Only thing missing was a Nubian slave girl.
Excitement stirred, touching her spine with soft, seductive fingers. The tingly feeling teased her stomach and goosebumps rose on her skin. She couldn’t wait to undress.
But first off, had she missed anything? Like some vital clue telling her that the owner was home, after all? To be safe, Gillian called out, “Hello? Anybody home?”
If somebody answered she could always say ... hell, what could she say? The usual excuses, like she’d been asked to call around, to check on ... who? That she was a relative come to stay? All seemed woefully inadequate.
An escapee from the local psychiatric unit seemed more plausible, she remembered thinking.
Okay. Weak wasn’t the word. Especially if she was discovered upstairs already. She’d have to come up with a pretty good answer. Bluff her way out of a tricky situation.
Or just make a break for it.
Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.
Silence.
No reply.
Thank God.
She was safe. Although ...
Do it now. Do it. I dare you ...
The short hairs on the back of her neck began to rise.
Hey. Live life on the edge, Gilly baby. Why not?
She cocked her head. Listening for sounds. Any sounds.
None.
The familiar tingle of excitement teased her center. Her pubic mound throbbed until the ache became unbearable. A low giggle burst from her lips. She slipped off her shoes and undressed.
A flicker of fear came and went. Wait, a small voice whispered. Forget the tub. Go explore. Make sure it’s safe ...
Against her better judgment, she ran water into the tub. Steam curled into her face, making her gurgle with excitement. Selecting a long-stemmed container of bath oil, Gillian took off the stopper and poured it into the tub. Fascinated, she watched the amethyst fluid flow into the bubbling torrent.