Read Online Inherit the Dead by John Connolly, Jonathan Santlofer, Charlaine Harris, Heather Graham, Val McDermid, Lawrence Block, Lee Child, Max Allan Collins, Stephen L. Carter, Alafair Burke, Ken Bruen, Mark Billingham, Marcia Clark, Sarah Weinman, James Grady, Bryan Gruley, S. J. Rozan, Dana Stabenow, Lisa Unger, C. J. Box - Free Book Online
Authors: John Connolly, Jonathan Santlofer, Charlaine Harris, Heather Graham, Val McDermid, Lawrence Block, Lee Child, Max Allan Collins, Stephen L. Carter, Alafair Burke, Ken Bruen, Mark Billingham, Marcia Clark, Sarah Weinman, James Grady, Bryan Gruley, S. J. Rozan, Dana Stabenow, Lisa Unger, C. J. Box
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he wanted information out of this woman, and despite his inclination, he smiled and said, “Actually, I was lucky. My mother was an illustrator for a series of children’s books. She loved art—she would have loved to see your work. You’re exactly right; great art is usually in the subtext.
“And Lilith, you are following along the lines of some magnificent work in the Hamptons. Why, two of the finest leaders of abstract expressionism— action painting —lived, worked, and even died here. Willem de Kooning moved to the Springs section of East Hampton in 1963 and died there at the ripe old age of ninety-two. His wife, Elaine, who did JFK’s official painting, came and went, living with him sometimes even after they divorced. Then there was Jackson Pollock. He moved here to the Springs, and, we know, poor devil died in a car crash. His wife, Lee Krasner, was an artist, too. You’re in the perfect place.” He quietly thanked his mother for his art education.
“My, my, my—Perry. You do know something—about the Hamptons, and about art,” she said, slipping her arm through his. Shepressed close. He could feel the rise of her breasts against his upper arm.
He paused by one of her paintings, hoping he didn’t choke on his words. “This . . . this is magnificent. The blues . . . I can’t claim to know everything, but in the drip of the paint, in the sweep of the colors, I see something of Dalí. I’m seeing the ocean merge into the sky. And the dots . . . people, like ants, moving about and never seeing that they’re all part of something grand. They’re far too busy in their little lives to realize that earth and sky meet, and yet there . . . your lone voyeur—she sees it all, and she sees herself melting into earth and sky sadly, so aware that she’s but a speck of sand or a grain of salt in the ocean.”
Lilith looked at him and then at her painting. “You do have a deep soul, Perry. I’m so glad you like my work.”
“It’s brilliant,” he lied. Quite frankly, the painting looked like smudges of blue and green with some black dots sprinkled throughout.
“You’ve voiced my work with greater empathy than I might have managed myself,” she murmured.
Of course he had. She’d had no idea of what she’d been painting. And neither did he.
“Do sit down, please, and tell me why you’ve come, why you wanted to see me.”
She led him to the settee. He sat at one end. She draped herself at the other but in a way that brought her leaning close to him.
Jeeves cleared his throat and tapped at the door. He carried a silver tray with a silver ice bucket and crystal champagne flutes.
“Shall I pour, mum?”
“Yes, please do, Jeeves,” Lilith said. She had one arm leaned on the back of the settee. Her legs were half curled beneath her. She wore the white shirt open, and the mounds of her breasts generously spilled above the scoop of her tank top.
She still didn’t look at Jeeves; her eyes were on Perry, and that secretive smile curved her lips. Jeeves slipped her champagne flute into her hand. “Thank you,” she said briefly.
Perry reached for his own glass and nodded his thanks to the butler. He couldn’t help but think of the movie Clue.
What do butlers do?
They butle, of course.
“Will that be all, mum?” Jeeves asked.
“Yes, please, and see that we’re not disturbed. Mr. Christo and I have a matter of some importance to discuss,” Lilith said.
Jeeves left them, closing the door to the studio behind him.
Lilith took a sip of her champagne and paused to enjoy the taste. “Do drink up, Perry. Once a bottle of champagne is opened . . . well, you know.”
Not exactly—at least, not in the case of Lilith Bates.
“So,” she asked, and her tone was like warm honey, “just what is the matter of importance we need to discuss?”
“Angelina Loki,” he said.
He didn’t think that he really took her by surprise, but he was astounded by the knife’s edge glitter that came into
“And Lilith, you are following along the lines of some magnificent work in the Hamptons. Why, two of the finest leaders of abstract expressionism— action painting —lived, worked, and even died here. Willem de Kooning moved to the Springs section of East Hampton in 1963 and died there at the ripe old age of ninety-two. His wife, Elaine, who did JFK’s official painting, came and went, living with him sometimes even after they divorced. Then there was Jackson Pollock. He moved here to the Springs, and, we know, poor devil died in a car crash. His wife, Lee Krasner, was an artist, too. You’re in the perfect place.” He quietly thanked his mother for his art education.
“My, my, my—Perry. You do know something—about the Hamptons, and about art,” she said, slipping her arm through his. Shepressed close. He could feel the rise of her breasts against his upper arm.
He paused by one of her paintings, hoping he didn’t choke on his words. “This . . . this is magnificent. The blues . . . I can’t claim to know everything, but in the drip of the paint, in the sweep of the colors, I see something of Dalí. I’m seeing the ocean merge into the sky. And the dots . . . people, like ants, moving about and never seeing that they’re all part of something grand. They’re far too busy in their little lives to realize that earth and sky meet, and yet there . . . your lone voyeur—she sees it all, and she sees herself melting into earth and sky sadly, so aware that she’s but a speck of sand or a grain of salt in the ocean.”
Lilith looked at him and then at her painting. “You do have a deep soul, Perry. I’m so glad you like my work.”
“It’s brilliant,” he lied. Quite frankly, the painting looked like smudges of blue and green with some black dots sprinkled throughout.
“You’ve voiced my work with greater empathy than I might have managed myself,” she murmured.
Of course he had. She’d had no idea of what she’d been painting. And neither did he.
“Do sit down, please, and tell me why you’ve come, why you wanted to see me.”
She led him to the settee. He sat at one end. She draped herself at the other but in a way that brought her leaning close to him.
Jeeves cleared his throat and tapped at the door. He carried a silver tray with a silver ice bucket and crystal champagne flutes.
“Shall I pour, mum?”
“Yes, please do, Jeeves,” Lilith said. She had one arm leaned on the back of the settee. Her legs were half curled beneath her. She wore the white shirt open, and the mounds of her breasts generously spilled above the scoop of her tank top.
She still didn’t look at Jeeves; her eyes were on Perry, and that secretive smile curved her lips. Jeeves slipped her champagne flute into her hand. “Thank you,” she said briefly.
Perry reached for his own glass and nodded his thanks to the butler. He couldn’t help but think of the movie Clue.
What do butlers do?
They butle, of course.
“Will that be all, mum?” Jeeves asked.
“Yes, please, and see that we’re not disturbed. Mr. Christo and I have a matter of some importance to discuss,” Lilith said.
Jeeves left them, closing the door to the studio behind him.
Lilith took a sip of her champagne and paused to enjoy the taste. “Do drink up, Perry. Once a bottle of champagne is opened . . . well, you know.”
Not exactly—at least, not in the case of Lilith Bates.
“So,” she asked, and her tone was like warm honey, “just what is the matter of importance we need to discuss?”
“Angelina Loki,” he said.
He didn’t think that he really took her by surprise, but he was astounded by the knife’s edge glitter that came into
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