CHAPTER 32

 

.32.

The Auburn slowed as we entered the northern edge of Santa Monica, but we didn’t stop at any of the cafes or the palm-lined bistros. Jimmy turned toward the ocean, pulling up to a set of open wrought-iron gates that looked like they belonged in front of a cathedral.

Beyond them sat the Strandhus.

I’d seen big houses in Honolulu – mansions built on sugar money that overlooked the Pali –, but they were child’s play compared to this. It was a massive, white-pillared Georgian estate that seemed to stretch for miles along the sand. Dozens of windows stared out at the Pacific like a thousand unblinking eyes. This was a statement of absolute ownership, and the white paint, fiercely bright in the midday sun, felt like a slap.

“My father built this for her,” Jimmy said, his voice flat as he cut the engine. “He wanted her to have the biggest porch in California. I guess he succeeded.”

We walked toward the main entrance. The air here didn’t smell like the salt-and-kelp of Malibu. Regardless of the ocean murmurings on the other side of the house, this place smelled of manicured lawns and the kind of expensive perfume that lingers long after the person has left.

A servant in a stiff white jacket opened the door before we could even reach for the handle. He didn’t speak; he just bowed slightly and ushered us into a foyer that was a forest of white wood and crystal.

“In the sunroom, Mr. Jimmy,” the man murmured.

We moved through a gallery overlooking the outdoor swimming pool and stepped into a room made almost entirely of glass. The sunlight poured in, illuminating every grain of dust. There, sitting at a white wrought-iron table, was the woman from the portrait.

In the Hills, the painting had made her look distant; a beautiful ghost trapped in oil. In the flesh, Mrs. Karlsen was something else entirely. She had the kind of luminous, fragile beauty that seemed to defy the calendar. She was dressed in a silk tea gown the color of a pale pearl, her blonde hair caught in a perfect, shimmering wave.

She stood up as we entered, her movements as fluid as the water beyond the glass.

“Jimmy,” she said. Her voice was like velvet, warm and melodic, but there was a tremor in it – a vibration of nerves that she was trying to hide behind a practiced smile.

She turned her gaze to me, her eyes a startling, clear blue that made me feel as if I were being examined under a microscope.

“And this must be the young man from the islands,” she said, extending a hand that looked as delicate as a bird’s wing. “Horatio O’Neill, the one who saved my son. Jimmy tells me your friends call you Ray. You may call me Trudy.”

I took her hand, the university student in me reaching for a polite phrase, but the “Stingray” was focused on something else. She was beautiful, yes, but she looked like a woman who was holding her breath, waiting for a storm that had already arrived.

“A pleasure, Mrs. Karlsen,” I said. “Trudy.”

“Sit, please,” she urged, gesturing to the table where a lunch of cold lobster and champagne was already waiting. “Let’s enjoy this beautiful day. There’s so little time before… Well, before the world demands our attention again.”

Mrs. Karlsen sat down and reached for the champagne bottle, her fingers trembling just enough to make the glass clink against the rim. I looked at the vast, empty expanse of the Strandhus behind her and told myself that, whatever this lunch was meant to be, it would be nothing like the meals at my parents’ house.

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