just…well, your attitude about sex. It’s not always love, you know. Sometimes it’s about control. Power. Sometimes,” she whispered, mortified to realize her eyes were filling with tears, “it’s not a good thing at all.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Louisa said, taking her hand. “I certainly didn’t mean to belittle anything you’ve gone through. But it’s all a question of semantics, really. Don’t you think?”
Part of Sylvia wanted to race from the room. Another part wanted to protest. To clear up the perception—accurate though it might be—that Sylvia had been talking about herself. She never spoke about Martin. About what he did. Even to Tina she’d talked around the subject. Bits and pieces that let her friend draw her own conclusions. And Syl had only managed to reveal that much after ten years of friendship.
But to this woman, Sylvia had opened her heart in no time and with no warning. It terrified her, but for some inexplicable reason it also calmed her. And so instead of running, she stayed on the divan, leaned over for her tea, and asked simply, “What do you mean by semantics?”
“What you describe isn’t sex. It’s assault and battery. Using a sexual organ as a weapon, sure. But it’s not sex. It’s not a union.”
“I…” Sylvia trailed off, not entirely sure what to say to that. She wanted to believe it, actually. But wanting was a lot easier than doing.
“Don’t worry about answering me,” Louisa said. “Just smile and nod and indulge me my idiosyncrasies. It’s a wonder I haven’t gone completely batty what with strangers wandering through my home four days a week.”
“So you meant it,” Sylvia said. “When you said you lived here.” She sighed. “It’s a grand house. I’ve just moved into an apartment in the mid-Wilshire area. But someday, I want a house like this.”
“Do you?” Louisa cocked her head, looking at Sylvia in a way that made her squirm. “One day, I think you’ll get one.”
“Why do you open it up to the public like this?” Sylvia asked, realizing as she spoke that it was an incredibly nosy question. “I’m sorry,” she said, backpedaling. “That’s really none of my business.”
“No, no. Not at all. I can understand your interest. So many of these stately mansions have been turned over to charitable foundations. The upkeep on a house like this is…well, I have to have a very strong glass of sherry every time I go over the numbers with my accountant. But we’re actually one of the few that is self-sufficient.” She patted Sylvia’s hand. “Not that I’m bragging. It’s simply a fact of life.”
“A nice fact,” Sylvia said.
Louisa’s smile was soft and genuine. “Indeed.”
“So, if you have the money to keep the place operational, why all this?”
Louisa stood, gesturing for Sylvia to follow, then moved across the room to stand in front of the wall of portraits. She pointed to the one in the center. “Because of her,” Louisa said.
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s my grandmother,” Louisa explained. “She was a bit of an oddity in my family, but we always took everything she said very seriously.”
Sylvia studied the portrait, noticing with interest that it seemed somehow familiar. The woman there looked calm and self-assured, with light brown hair and green eyes highlighted by a slightly large mouth and high cheekbones. Not to mention ears that stuck out just a little too much.
With a start, Sylvia realized that the woman resembled her. How strange. But perhaps it explained why Louisa was so open. Maybe Sylvia’s resemblance to her grandmother made her feel more comfortable.
Louisa apparently hadn’t realized that Sylvia’s attention had wandered. She was still talking about the woman, and when Sylvia tuned back in, her interest was piqued. “She’s one of the reasons the family is so well-off,” Louisa was saying. “Had a head for speculative finance. Made a fortune in the stock market and real estate.”
“Nice,” Sylvia said. “But what does that have to do with opening the house?”
“Grandma insisted. For as long as I can remember, she would tell me that when I was older, I had to make sure the house was opened to the public. That we must allow traveling exhibits to tour. She made me swear.” A soft shrug. “And I agreed.”
“And you don’t know why?”
Louisa’s smile was almost shy. “I have my theories. At any rate,” she said, changing her tone and moving away from the portrait, “she was right. There’s a lot of history in this house.”
“Well, sure,” Sylvia said. “I mean Tucker Greene. He was a force in Hollywood. An amazing filmmaker. Who hasn’t heard of him?”
“And the Ragtime Strangler,” Louisa added.
Sylvia cocked her head, trying to remember. “That’s right,” she said. “I read something about that. A serial killer, but back in the twenties. Went after young, pretty flappers.” She frowned, her memory fuzzy. “I’m not an expert on Hollywood or anything, but I like Greene’s movies, so I’ve read a few articles and watched the extras on DVD remasters and stuff. If I remember right, the Strangler was stalking Beverly Hills before Greene got into film, right? He was doing something else. Radio, wasn’t it? One of my DVDs even included a new performance of one of his radio plays. It was pretty cool.”
Sylvia shut up then, realizing she probably sounded like an obsessed fan. Louisa, however, only smiled and looked delighted with Sylvia’s recollection. “You’re exactly right.”
“But what does this house have to do with the Strangler?”
“My grandparents caught him,” Louisa said. “Right in the next room.”
“Wow,” Sylvia said, truly surprised. “Thank you for telling me all this. It’s a beautiful house. It’s nice to know some of the history that goes along with it.”
The door opened, and Tina poked her head in. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
“I’d better let you two finish touring the exhibit,” Louisa said. “It’s been wonderful talking with you, Sylvia. You take care.”
And with a quick smile, she glided out the doors with a regal nod to Tina.
“Who was that?”
“The lady of the house,” Sylvia said. “But—” She frowned.
“What?”
“I never told her my name.”
Tina looked at her dubiously. “Well, obviously you did.”
The hair on Sylvia’s arms seemed to tingle, as if she’d walked too close to a high-voltage fence. “Of course. I must have.” She nodded toward the door, but took one last look back at the portrait, struck by the feeling that she’d seen it once before. “Let’s go.”
“YOU HAVEN’T SAID anything for ten minutes,” Tina said. They’d moved into the Roaring Twenties
