Lovers and Strangers Read Online Free PDF Page A

believed it.
    Eric's untimely death hadn't been the first to occur at the Wilshire Arms. Back in 1930, a young Hollywood starlet's body had been found floating facedown in the swimming pool. The pool had eventually been cemented over but the outline of where it had been was still visible if you knew where to look.
    Rumor had it that the ghost of the unfortunate starlet haunted the Wilshire Arms. But, then again, rumor also whispered that the young actress had merely been an early victim of the ghost. Whoever the ghost was—or had been—she wasn't content to float through the halls of the Wilshire Arms like an ordinary spirit. She appeared to her victims in a mirror. Specifically, the mirror in 1-G.
    It was anchored to a wall in the living room behind him, in exactly the same spot it had occupied, he supposed, since the mansion had been built. It was a large, heavy mirror, four feet wide by five feet tall, framed in ornate Victorian pewter. Several people who should have known better swore they had seen the ghost of a woman reflected in its depths.
    She supposedly appeared in a long, pale evening gown, stared and smiled, then disappeared again. Irina Markova, a retired makeup artist who'd lived in the Wilshire Arms since the forties, swore she'd seen the ghost on the night she'd entered into a passionate affair with Errol Flynn. One of Eric's old roommates had said he'd seen her just before he landed a juicy role on a hit soap opera. And there had been a beautiful, waiflike young woman, one who'd been around a lot that fateful summer, who said she'd seen the image in the mirror at a party one night. In fact, lots of people who had partied at the Wilshire Arms back in those days claimed to have seen her. But there had been an unhealthy amount of drugs and alcohol at those parties and people had seen lots of things that weren't really there.
    In any case, Jack had never seen the lady in the mirror. He didn't believe in ghosts, except for the ones he carried around inside him.
    Speaking of which, he thought, grimacing, that script isn't going to rewrite itself.
    He flexed his shoulder, preparing to push himself away from the window frame and go back inside, when his attention was caught by someone moving in the shadows in the courtyard. He leaned closer to the window, trying to see who it was. Almost everyone in the building worked during the day, and those who didn't went to school or had auditions or acting classes of some kind. Only Irina Markova, who lived on the first floor, and Carl Mueller, the building superintendent, were normally around at this time of day. Anyone else was definitely suspicious, especially anyone who appeared to be loitering in the shadows. Jack was debating the folly of getting involved when the trespasser stepped into the full sunlight.
    It was the little cocktail waitress from Flynn's. She of the timid demeanor and the unexpectedly fiery eyes.
    She'd come back to his table last Friday night, long after he'd thought she must have turned tail and run out the back door of the bar, never to return again. Her manner had been stiff and aloof as she served him his nachos and beer, and she'd returned his polite smile of thanks with a lifted chin and narrowed eyes.
    He'd puzzled over that for a while, as he sat there eating his nachos, feeling ill-used and wondering just what in the hell had happened to gratitude. It only took a few minutes of discreet observation to realize it wasn't personal; she was treating all her male customers with the same detached coolness. Which puzzled him even more—until he caught a glance between her and one of the other cocktail waitresses. The glance was questioning on one side, approving on the other, and Jack suddenly realized what was going on.
    He'd seen that same expression—or an approximation of it, anyway—on the face of the other cocktail waitress when some bozo stepped out of line. During her sojourn in the kitchen, Little Miss Innocence must have gotten a lesson