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The house on Walden Lane was easy to find. Twin columns stretched from the front porch all the way to the rooftop. The second and third floor each boasted its own balcony that spanned the width of the house. Black shutters contrasted nicely with chalky white paint. The double doors were painted a glossy red that reminded me of cheap lipstick.
I rang the bell and waited. A woman finally answered; either her face had succumbed to gravity, or she was deeply unhappy. Possibly both. She wore a white collared shirt, a black skirt, and black flats.
“Hello. I’m here to see Mr. Visconti.”
The woman’s dark eyebrows lifted, and I got the distinct impression Mr. Visconti didn’t entertain visitors very often. I liked him already. “Is he expecting you?”
“No.” I decided to keep my response simple. If she wanted more information, she’d have to dig for it.
The woman shifted awkwardly, appearing uncertain how to proceed. “I’ll need to check that he’s available. Wait right here. Please,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
She closed the door and left me standing on the front porch. I took the opportunity to survey the area. Otto’s house was the only one on this block. If I had to guess, I’d say the house had been built before the road. I pictured a horse-drawn carriage waiting out front for its owner to alight, quite possibly the same owner I was about to meet.
“Right this way, miss,” the woman said. I’d been so preoccupied by my surroundings, I hadn’t heard the door reopen.
I passed through the red lips and let the house swallow me whole. I stepped into a large foyer with a sweeping staircase to a room at the far end of the first floor. The interior was a blend of styles; Otto seemed reluctant to settle on one. The wallpaper consisted of a green and gold interlocking floral motif, and the artwork included a statue of the goddess Diana that featured only her head and torso, as well as a modern painting that seemed straight out of a child’s coloring book. If I stood in the foyer too long, I’d walk away with a migraine.
The woman escorted me to an open doorway and scurried away, as though desperate not to be privy to the conversation. In her haste, she forgot to announce me, not that she’d bothered to ask my name.
I entered the darkened study where I heard the soft click of a metronome. In the dim light, I saw Otto Visconti hunched over a piano. Even seated, I could tell he was little more than five feet. Five-two if I was being generous.
He lifted his head at the sound of my approaching footsteps. “It isn’t often I receive strangers. With whom am I having the pleasure?”
“My name is Lorelei Clay. I’m new in town, the remorseful buyer of the Castle.”
His body stiffened. Otto was a vampire; he didn’t need the gift of Sight to sense I was more than a friendly new neighbor. “What brings you here of all places, Miss Clay?”
“I was looking for a change.”
“I can’t identify you.”
“I told you my name.”
A whisper of a smile passed his lips. “So you did. I do not fear you, you know, whatever you are.” His trembling hands betrayed him. He quickly dropped them to his sides and balled them into fists.
“Glad to hear it.” I needed to put him at ease, or I wouldn’t get any information out of him. “What do you like to play?Witch’s Lament? A littleAgony?”
His simple huff was packed with derision. “Screw Sondheim. I loatheInto the Woods. It’s banal and pedestrian, everything a musical shouldn’t be.”
“How do you feel about jazz?” I asked. “I think vampires are genetically wired to like jazz.”
“I’d rather electrocute myself in a puddle of my own piss.”
“Jazz makes me twitchy,” I said, “so I can understand that.”
“It makes me want to rip the sax from the musician’s hands and beat him over the head with it.”
Alrighty then. “You’re not in danger of winning any congeniality awards, are you, Mr. Visconti?”
Otto snorted. “Certainly not. No one’s ever accused me of fawning. I live alone for a reason.”
“Your staff doesn’t live with you?”
“No. There’s a day shift and a night shift.” He paused. “Is this visit to alert my kind that there’s a new sheriff in town, so to speak?”
“My visit to you isn’t any kind of statement. I’m looking for a missing young woman by the name of Ashley Pratt.”
He struck one of the keys. “I don’t recognize the name. You won’t find her here.”
