“Don’t be absurd,” I said. “Back off and let me in.” He laughed without mirth, threw up his hands, and walked into the apartment, trying to look as if he didn’t give a damn. But habits die hard, and he was watching me, a bit embarrassed, to see if I’d react to the mess.
Of course other men were capable of making a worse mess than this. For Jeremy, however, it was shocking, because his apartment, so modern and shiny and spare, looked as if he had, until now, kept it very meticulously uncluttered. But recently he’d left every carton of Chinese food (hardly anything eaten from them), every bottle of booze (all empty), every cup of coffee he’d choked down (halfway), every newspaper he’d glanced at, every shirt he’d hurled off himself in a huff, every piece of paper he’d crumpled, every book and magazine he’d tried to distract himself with—on every surface imaginable.The floor, the glass-and-chrome coffee table, the windowsills, the sofa . . .
“Wow,” I said. “Congratulations. Usually it takes weeks to make a mess like this, but you’ve done it in record time.” This seemed to please him, as I’d calculated it might.
But then he tried to convince himself that he didn’t care, as he slumped wearily onto the sofa.“So,” he said in a dry voice that cracked with fatigue, “Penny Nichols, to what do I owe this unexpected and, I might add, unannounced social call?”
“You’ve been home all this time, haven’t you?” I said. He looked back at me defiantly.
“You might have answered my calls,” I accused.
“Ah, yes, yes, those cryptic messages,” he said, squinting as if he had a headache and the light hurt. He’d perhaps been sitting in the dark until alerted to my impending arrival. Always so cool, he now looked quite agitated, as if he were seething inside.
He said, “I hate to break this news to you, but frankly I’m no longer interested in what you Laidleys are up to. One would have thought that you’d consult with Harold—”
“Harold’s a condescending prick,” I said, hoping to shock Jeremy back into his old self. “A helpful one, perhaps, but not a man I can really talk to. I can hear his meter running the whole time.”
“Mine’s running too, from now on,” Jeremy said, unexpectedly bitterly. But I didn’t believe him. He looked curious, in spite of himself.
“Fine. I’ll pay you a consultant’s fee,” I said sarcastically. “If that’s what it takes to get you to have a simple conversation with me. It’s important, damn it.”
Jeremy gestured broadly. “I’m all ears,” he said.
“Rollo wants the villa—” I began unceremoniously. But he waved me off immediately.
“Of course he does. But I suggest you leave this fight to your lawyer and your family,” he said, “as I am no longer either . . .”
“Aw, quit feeling sorry for yourself,” I said. “I’m alone here in London. You can’t just abandon me to the wolves. I was kidnapped today by dear old Rollo himself.”
Jeremy straightened up a little, looking annoyed. “What can you mean?”
“I mean he shoved me into a car and forced me to drink sherry with Great-Aunt Dorothy, that’s what I mean,” I said.
“What did they want?” he asked, alert, and I was glad to see that he still cared. But I felt uncomfortable telling him. I tried to find a way to say it that wouldn’t hurt.
“First they tried the gentle, caring approach. They want me to think of them as family. Essentially they want me to join up with them to cheat you out of it, but that’s not the point. I overheard them when they didn’t know I was listening. Dorothy told Rollo to ‘dispense’ with me. She said they’d hired people to ‘take care of it’ for them. So if I end up floating around dead in the River Thames,” I concluded dramatically, “it’ll be all your fault for not looking after me, like you promised my mother.” When I mentioned his promise, he looked a bit guilty.
“What’s that bruise near your elbow?” Jeremy interrupted. I glanced down in surprise at a black-and-blue mark I hadn’t seen before.
“Huh!” I said, momentarily distracted.“You know—I’ll bet Rollo did that when he grabbed my arm and shoved me in the car, that bastard—”
The word actually made Jeremy flinch. I was so sorry I’d used it. Especially since he now turned all his bitterness on me, glaring like an oncoming train. “Ah. Well, darling, if you deplore the company of bastards, you’re wasting your time with one right now.”
“No, you’re not,” I said quickly, but he wasn’t listening.
“And what’s more, I’m an American,” he said incredulously, his face full of horror, as if the word itself tasted like vinegar on his tongue.
“Woo, perish the thought,” I said sarcastically. “You’ll survive like the rest of us.”
“Perhaps you all can give me lessons. I’ll have to practice night and day, to speak those tortured vowels and be an ill-mannered, fat-assed, loudmouthed American. What a bloody joke, perpetrated on me by my hippie American father and my dear Mummy—and then what does she say? ‘Sorry, darling. Meant to tell you someday.’ ”
He had some of his facts screwed up—especially about his father—but I didn’t like this new vicious tone he was using, and it didn’t seem a good time to tell him that I’d talked to his mother. I knew I shouldn’t take his anti-American remarks personally, but one couldn’t help wondering where the fat-ass stuff came from; I mean, I haven’t got the smallest ass in town, but honestly, I really don’t think that I and my kin qualify as fat-assed, per se . . .
“So you see, I’m not your dutiful cousin anymore,” he said, leaning toward me with so much fire in his eyes that I actually shrank from him. “Go and collect your money and see if you can learn how to be rich. And leave me the hell alone, okay?”
It was his furious tone, rather than his words, that finally got to me, every time he bit off another hostile sentence. Somehow it’s worse when men who aren’t normally nasty suddenly start to vent, because you’re not prepared for it. I’ve seen it happen with film crews. Everyone scurries to placate, and when that fails, they all freeze in their tracks, right down to the cat in the kitchen and the mouse in the wall. I swear I even once saw a spider stop cold at the sound of bellowing, when a director went ballistic on a set.
So when Jeremy turned the full force of his flashing blue eyes and angry voice on me to express his disgust, I reacted, to my abject horror, with tears springing to my eyes.To cover this up, I raised my chin defiantly.
“Oh, stop being a jackass.This isn’t you,” I said unwisely.This made him think that I wasn’t taking him seriously.
“Don’t you understand? I don’t fucking know who I am anymore!” he said, in a tone that I later realized was agonized. “It turns out that I probably am a jackass, as you so winningly and articulately phrased it.”
“You’re you, the same as you always were when you were so confident about yourself,” I insisted. “Nothing’s changed. You think my parents and I care about any of this snotty heritage stuff? The entire human race descended from the same mother in Africa. Okay? So everything’s relative. Get it?”
“Very good!” he said with exaggerated appreciation. “You were always such a clever little smart-ass, Miss Penny Nichols of Connecticut.”
Now it was personal. “If you ask me, it’s the well-bred, upper-crust English part of you that’s behaving like a beast right now.You and your fake good manners.The whole passel of you.You’re all very well-behaved when it looks like there’s money in it for you. But boy, the minute you think there isn’t, then sayonara to the good manners,” I said hotly.
But this time I couldn’t suppress a sniffle, and he heard it and finally noticed that I’d been winking away those foolish tears that sprang to my eyes. And, being Jeremy, he looked instantly sorry, and even slightly amused.
“Oh, dammit,” he said. “You talk big, but you’re such an innocent child, still.”
“Bugger off,” I said crossly, still wounded, and weary of being patronized by all and sundry. I turned and slammed the door behind me
. The elevator—or lift, as my beastly ex-relative called it—was open and ready and I managed to slip right into it, even though Jeremy did, after a pause, follow me out, barefoot and pajama-clad.
“What is that parcel you’ve been clutching this whole time?” he asked suddenly. I looked down. I’d forgotten.
“A peach tarte,” I said, intending to sound haughty but sounding, even to my ears, tearful and pathetic, and the elevator doors closed just as his irritated expression was changing to a slightly regretful look.
When the doors reopened I swept through the lobby, and outside there was someone just getting out of a cab, so it all went like clockwork for once, and I slid right into the cab and went right back to Aunt Penelope’s apartment. It all went too fast, actually, so I didn’t get to see if Jeremy had followed me out to the street, barefoot, in what was now pouring rain.
Chapter Nineteen
ONCE THE CAB PULLED DOWN MY STREET IN THE DARKNESS, THOUGH, I was acutely lonely. Until now, I’d felt protected knowing that Jeremy was out there for me if I needed him. And now he wasn’t. But even I had my pride. I hated the way he’d spoken to me.You can’t let a man get away with that, not even once, or he’ll talk to you like that for the rest of your life. I know, because my Worst Boyfriend of late had done exactly that. It was downhill ever after.
Still, I felt gloomy as the cab reached Aunt Penelope’s apartment, and I rushed to the door and fumbled to put my key in the lock and go in, relieved to get out of the rain. I put the tarte in the refrigerator, went straight to bed, and fell promptly asleep.
Hours later, I heard a rustling sound, and at first I thought I was dreaming. Then, of course, I thought of mice. But after I pried my eyes open fully, I thought I saw a darting light coming from the hallway. Like a bobbing flashlight. Then it was all pitch-dark again. Just as I’d convinced myself that it was probably the headlights of a passing car outside, I heard distinct footsteps, and a floorboard squeaked.
When you are imagining that someone might be in your house, it sounds one way.When somebody actually is skulking around in your house, it sounds quite another way. This was unmistakably that other way. I could tell that he was in the corridor, moving past the sewing room toward the stairs—and my bedroom. I held my breath, hoping he’d go down the stairs. But he didn’t. A second later I heard another creak, closer now.
The telephone was not near the bed, but on the dressing table. I considered just diving under the bed. I couldn’t stay where I was. Slowly, I tried to get out of bed without making a sound, but the second my bare foot hit the ground, a floorboard creaked. I froze.
The intruder froze, too, listening carefully. It’s a very creepy feeling, to pause in the dark listening to someone who’s doing exactly the same thing, listening to you and holding his breath. I knew I would have to try to get to the phone before he got to me.
I suppose this idea occurred to us both at the same time, because a second later a man in a ski mask came barreling into the room and seized me, bundling my arms behind me and clapping a gloved hand that smelled like gasoline on my mouth and nose. He got there pretty fast, which meant he’d been silently creeping up the corridor, farther along than I’d guessed.
“Shut up or I’ll shoot,” he growled. Then he shoved me into the bathroom and banged the door shut. I heard his footsteps scurrying down the stairs and out the door. I was still paralyzed with fear, but when I realized that he hadn’t actually brandished a gun, I stumbled to my feet and pushed open the bathroom door, then raced to the library window in time to see the guy running toward the corner, where he turned and disappeared from sight. Seconds later I heard a car start up quickly and go roaring off.
The street was silent and deserted, as usual. Maybe I really did live in a ghost town, after all. Until now I’d thought the seclusion was charming, elegant. Now I felt like the last living creature on an earth that had been invaded by weird men in stinky gloves.
I picked up the telephone, dialing shakily. Naturally I got Jeremy’s answering machine.
“Damn it, Jeremy!” I cried. “Somebody just broke into the apartment.” I hung up, trembling in a surprisingly uncontrollable way. Finally I forced myself to get up and search for the police number that Rupert had given me. Jeremy called back just as I found it. It was probably only about twenty minutes, but it felt like years.
“Penny?” he exclaimed. “Are you all right?” I told him, in a gulpy voice, what had happened.
“He’s gone now, but—he was here—right here in the bedroom—” I quavered.
“Did he hurt you?” Jeremy asked, horrified.
“He threw me in the bathroom. I’m okay but—fuck—I’m scared,” I said.
“Could you tell who he was? Was he alone?”
This last idea had never occurred to me.“I don’t know. I’ll check,” I said, dropped the receiver, and tore through the house flinging open closet doors, turning on the lights everywhere. By the time I came back to the phone Jeremy was saying,“Penny? Are you there? Are you all right? For God’s sake, pick up the phone, Penny . . .”
“I’m here,” I said breathlessly.“Nobody else is here. I was going to call the police—”
“I’ll do it. Sit tight and wait for me. I’m coming over. Did anybody else see him?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Did he take anything?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Look around carefully, but don’t touch things.”
“Forget it,” I said. “No fingerprints. He was wearing gloves.”
“Never mind. I’m on my way.” We hung up. I tiptoed around as if I were the intruder. Nothing appeared to be missing. Bedroom, kitchen, library. Everything seemed exactly as I’d left it. Maybe the thief had been surprised too soon, before he had a chance to figure out what he wanted.
When Jeremy arrived with a policeman whom he knew and trusted and introduced as Danny, they made a more thorough search of the place, comparing what was there to Rupert’s list. Nothing was missing. The young cop dutifully filled out a report, shook his head, and said there hadn’t been any robberies in this neighborhood lately but you never could tell.
He said he found a gardener’s ladder on the ground by the side of the house. And he’d figured out that the point of entry was the kitchen window, because it had been left ajar. He showed me the window, which had an old-fashioned handle that raised and lowered the lock. Had I ever noticed that it was unlocked? No, I hadn’t. He demonstrated how it might look as if it were locked when it was not quite closed.
“No forced entry, you see,” the cop said. “So it may have been someone who had access to the house and deliberately left it unlocked, knowing he’d return.” He peered at me. “Anyone come to mind?” he asked.
I just looked at Jeremy. “Rollo,” I said. “Before he dragged me off to see his mother, he got the maid to let him into the apartment.”
The cop glanced at Jeremy, who explained that we were engaged in an inheritance dispute. “I could look in on him, but without any real evidence . . .”Danny said doubtfully.
Jeremy shook his head.“His mum will give him an alibi. She’ll say he was there all night playing bridge with her,” he predicted. “She’s done it for him before, when he’s been in scrapes.”
“Well, I could keep an eye on him,” the cop said. “And he won’t know that we suspect him. Now what about this maid? Shall I check her out?” I told them I truly didn’t think that she had anything to do with it, and explained what I’d overheard Rollo say to Aunt Dorothy.
“He’s after something. He must think it’s here,” Jeremy said. It was at this point that the cop told me it was okay to touch things again, so I went through everything thoroughly, even the drawers in the bedroom. I saw that the gowns were still there, but they were not as carefully folded and their tissue-paper wrappings had been shoved around, as if someone had been searching for something in great haste.
“He’s gone through the drawers,” I said. “My
God. That means he’d already been in this room, looking around while I was asleep.” Involuntarily, I shuddered.
“Anything missing?” the cop asked.
“No,” I said. “But it was a lot neater than this. That’s how I know he was here.” Jeremy registered this gravely, but the cop looked at me doubtfully, as if I were some dotty female obsessed with neatness. Then I saw something on the floor near Jeremy’s foot, glinting in the light. I pointed it out to the cop, who picked it up with a cloth and held it out so that I could look at it. A glass cube, rimmed in metal, with a metal hinge so that you could open the cube and use either side to peer through one half of the heavy glass.
“Do you know what it is?” the cop asked.
“A magnifier,” I said. “See? Each half has a different strength of magnification. People carry it around like a jackknife because it’s handy, and you can use it to look more closely at newsprint or photographs, anything you want to see the details of,” I said.
“Have you seen it before?” the cop asked. “Could it have been here all along and just fallen out now, when you were looking at things?”
“I don’t think so,” I said uncertainly. “I did go through a box of clippings and photos today, but I’m pretty sure that this wasn’t in it.” But Jeremy looked at Danny, unimpressed.
“Not much to go on,” Danny said as he went out. He’d come in a plain car, Jeremy explained, so as not to excite the whole street, but he would still have to talk to the other people in the building, to ask if they’d seen or heard anything. As it turned out, he didn’t even have to ring their doorbells. Because there they were, hanging about in the vestibule like four elderly magpies. One couple—whom I’d met when Rollo ambushed me—were in their robes and slippers; the other couple wore very formal evening clothes. With the prescience of busybodies, they’d figured out that something was amiss. No, they hadn’t actually heard or seen the intruder, but they heard Jeremy arrive with the cop. The couple in the evening clothes had just come home from a party after the opera. The others had been in bed, and they looked at me as if they’d never seen me before.
A Rather Lovely Inheritance Page 15