Tempting Fate. Carla Neggers
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perhaps Dani meant them to know—that it was yet another of her attempts to force them to confront their image of who she was. To remind them she’d always fight that image. To show them she was determined, and would remain determined, to be herself.
She closed the lid of the trunk and rose stiffly, then pulled the string on the lightbulb and carried the dress and ostrich plume downstairs. She got a hanger from her closet, shook the dress out and hung it on a curtain rod in the bedroom window. Perhaps the clear light of day would make her change her mind.
It’d have to be cleaned. And she’d have to buy shoes. Preferably red. No. Definitely red.
She could wear her gold key with it. Maybe the scarred old brass one, too.
Eyeing it, she debated. Had the clear light of day helped her change her mind?
Nah. It was a great dress.
As far as Zeke could tell, the Pembroke “experience” could be anything from quiet, healthy luxury with a nutty twist to something approaching marine boot camp.
He didn’t care. He just wanted his experience to be brief.
He’d been put in a small room on the third floor with twelve-foot ceilings, a window seat, rose-flowered wallpaper and a jewel-colored crazy quilt on a brass queen-size bed. There was a marble-topped dresser and a needlepoint-cushioned chair he didn’t think he was supposed to sit on.
There was no beer in the tiny refrigerator, just a six-pack of Pembroke Springs Natural Orange Soda. He opened up a bottle. It was clear glass with a pale green label featuring a kite floating above a stand of birches. What kites and birches had to do with natural soda Zeke didn’t even want to speculate. He took a sip. It wasn’t as syrupy as regular orange soda, but it was still soda.
He examined a brochure. If he wanted to, he could take hang gliding lessons, climb rocks or show up on the front lawn at the crack of dawn for a hot-air balloon ride. There were quilting bees on the “north porch.” Nature walks. Kite-making and kite-flying lessons. Tubing expeditions on the Batten Kill. “Handson workshops” in the many flower, herb and vegetable gardens. Zeke took them to be weeding sessions. He could soak in mud if he wanted to. Get scrubbed, clipped, polished, deep cleaned and massaged. He could jog. Ride a bike. Climb a mountain. Tour Saratoga. Go to the races. Shop. Take in a concert at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center, a lecture at Skidmore College.
He could, if he chose, pick wild blueberries and make his own jam.
Only a Pembroke could get people to pay good money to do something they could do for free. Did Dani Pembroke have her guests do their own sheets as well? Beat them against rocks like in the old days?
Quite a place, the Pembroke.
He called Sam Lincoln Jones in San Diego. “Sam, if you’ve got some time on your hands, mind doing me a favor?”
“Been figuring you’d call.”
“Always a step ahead. Could you check out what Nick Pembroke’s up to these days? I think he’s still alive.”
“I’ll look him up and let you know. Where are you?”
Zeke told him.
Naturally Sam had heard of the place. He chuckled. “Going to sign up for croquet?”
After he hung up, Zeke headed into the bathroom, which was small but cozy. The fluffy white towels were monogrammed with the same ornate P that was engraved on his soda bottle. On the back of the john was a basket of glycerin soaps, bath gels, bath salts, lotions, shampoos. He turned the water on in the tub, which was up on legs. Homey. Feeling reckless, he dumped an envelope of bath salts into the hot water and watched them dissolve.
Croquet and jam making, he thought.
He just couldn’t wait to meet Dani Pembroke.
Five
Tucking her box of brand-new red shoes under one arm, Dani headed up to her bedroom, exhausted. She swore she’d rather scale Pikes Peak than go shopping for shoes. She’d tried downtown Saratoga first, where one could find handmade jewelry, fine wines, expensive antiques, art supplies, adorable children’s outfits, fancy toys, homemade pastries and chocolates, fresh pasta, health food, Victoriana, nice clothes. Everything, it seemed, but a pair of size-six shoes that matched Mattie Witt’s red ostrich plume. She’d finally had to drive south of town to a shoe outlet. The red was an exact match, but the heels were three inches high. Fortunately she’d only have to wear them a few hours.
Presumably it would have been simpler just to buy a new dress. Or to wear her all-purpose black pumps. But, in for a penny, in for a pound.
A long, relaxing bath, however, was in order.
Her only bathroom was downstairs, which meant fetching her robe from upstairs. In renovating the main house, she and her architects had become quite clever at finding places for bathrooms where there were no obvious places. Space wasn’t the problem at the cottage; the problem was getting around to the job. An upstairs bath just wasn’t a pressing need.
She stopped hard at her bedroom door, clutching the shoe box.
Holding her breath, she stared, frozen, at the mess.
Someone had removed all the drawers from her bureau, dumped them out on the floor and tossed them aside. Her underwear, her nightgowns, her socks, her T-shirts—the entire contents of her bureau were scattered and thrown everywhere. Her mattress was torn halfway off the bed frame, blankets and sheets in a heap under the window. The curtains billowed in a strong afternoon breeze. She could hear birds twittering in her garden.
Her heart pounded. Mattie’s dress…
It was there, in a ball beside Dani’s bed.
Clothes and shoes spilled from her ransacked closet. The antique shaker box she used for jewelry was turned over, empty, on top of her bureau.
Slowly and carefully, intensely aware of what she was doing, she withdrew one of her red high heels from its shoe box and held it by the toe, its lethal three-inch heel pointed out.
“Hello?”
Despite her constricted throat, her voice sounded eerily calm in the silent house. She could hear the faint laugh of Pembroke guests in the distance.
Naturally there was no answer.
What a stupid thing to say, she thought. She’d been mugged once in New York. A decidedly unpleasant experience. But it had happened outside, on a street far from her own familiar neighborhood, and it had been quick. Give me your money. Okay, here you go. The mugger leaves, you call the police. Nothing they can do. You go home, open a bottle of wine, call some friends, complain about New York’s crime rate. Scary and nothing you’d want to repeat, but different—very different—from having someone walk into your home and go through your personal belongings.
Very different, she thought, from having to guess, heart thumping, whether or not the thief was still around.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble.” She sounded controlled but not belligerent, at least to her own ears. “If you’re still here, wait just a second and I’ll go down into the kitchen and you can leave. Okay?”
Still no response.
But she did as she said. She set the shoe box on the floor, took her one high heel with her and made sure her footsteps were loud on the stairs. She started to run when she hit the living room, but made herself stop in the kitchen. Should she keep running? But what if the thief was lurking in the garden? What if he followed her?
She turned on the radio so the burglar would know she’d kept her word. She was in the kitchen. She’d give him a chance to get out the front door.
Should I call Ira? The police?
So they could come and scrape her off the floor after the thief had figured out she’d tried to trick him?
Most likely the burglar had taken off already.