Mr. Garcia had turned on the microphone and a hot, blinding stage light that at first made Lilli blink and look frightened. “Dani?” she called. “Dani, you’re still here, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
“Yep,” Dani called back.
Her mother had smiled tentatively.
“Remember,” Mr. Garcia had yelled. “If you stink, you got thirty minutes. If I can stand it, an hour.”
Munching on pretzels, Dani had watched, stupefied, as her mother had transformed herself—and the tacky Greenwich Village nightclub—with her singing and dancing. Once she got started, she’d never checked on Dani, and the only reason she’d stopped was because Mr. Garcia turned off the stage light. “I gotta open up the place,” he’d said apologetically. “Besides, you shouldn’t overdo. Wreck your voice.”
Her dress had been soaked with perspiration, and her hair had stuck to her forehead and the back of her neck. Dani had never seen her mother so hot, even after a summer tennis game. “How long?”
“Over an hour.”
“Then I—”
“You’ve got talent, lady.”
“You mean it? I wasn’t awful?”
“You weren’t awful. Come back another day. You want, you can sing for the crowd.”
“But I couldn’t.”
“Nobody’d recognize you—not my customers, anyway.”
“You don’t—”
He’d shaken his head, again reading her mind. “I don’t know your name, but I can see you’re white bread. The kid wanted avocado on her tuna fish.”
“Danielle!”
It was as if Lilli had just remembered she’d brought her daughter along. She’d rushed from the stage and found Dani merrily eating Hershey’s Kisses, a stack of crumpled silver papers piled beside her, along with a half-eaten tuna sandwich, two empty soda glasses and the empty pretzel bowl.
“Are you finished, Mama?”
“Yes, we’ll go home right away before Dad misses us. Good gracious, you’re going to have to learn self-control. Did you like my singing?”
“I liked the fast songs the best.”
“You would. We’ll have to tell Dad you already ate. He—” Lilli had tilted her head back, chewing on one corner of her mouth as she gazed down at her daughter. “Dani, you mustn’t tell anyone about this afternoon. People wouldn’t understand. One day I’ll explain, but right now I’m trusting you, sweetie. Promise me this will be our secret.”
“I promise.” It had never occurred to her not to.
That evening, Dani had thrown up her afternoon’s indulgences. Her father canceled their walk to see the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center and, unable to believe there could be so much food in one child, wanted to call the doctor. Her mother had persuaded him to wait until morning. By then, of course, Dani was fine.
On their next visit to the Flamingo, Lilli had packed a picnic for Dani and restricted her to one soda. Mr. Garcia slipped her goodies while her mother had sung and danced in her strappy high heels.
After two months, Mr. Garcia had figured out the identity of the lady in the black dress. Dani had heard him raise his fee to two hundred dollars.
“That’s as much as I’ll pay,” Lilli had said, firm. “Even if you broke your promise and told everyone, who’d believe you? Eugene Chandler’s daughter singing in a down-and-out Cuban bar? Paying to sing? It’s just too ridiculous.”
In fact, when she’d disappeared that August, Eduardo Garcia came forward with his unusual story about the missing heiress. The police had questioned him intensely, but he never changed his story: from that December afternoon a week before Claire Chandler died through the following July, Lilli Chandler Pembroke had practiced her make-believe nightclub act once a week or so at the Flamingo.
“Just ask the kid,” he’d told the police.
Finally they did.
Confused and frightened, Dani had told them she knew nothing about her mother’s singing and had never heard of a place called the Flamingo.
So long ago, she thought as she started to reel in her kite, little by little.
As slack occurred, she took in some line and let the kite re-stabilize itself. Then when more slack occurred, she took in a little more line. It was her favorite kite, and she didn’t want to lose it. And she’d promised Ira no more climbing trees. But she wasn’t about to call one of the grounds crew to rescue her kite like some little kid.
It was still high above the trees, steady against the wind.
“Why do you like to sing, Mama?”
She could see her mother’s smile. “You know how Mattie says she feels when she’s in a balloon? That’s how I feel when I’m singing. Absolutely free.”
When she felt fresh slack in her line, Dani didn’t reel it in. Instead she slipped the jackknife she always carried kite flying out of her jeans pocket and, with one quick movement, cut the braided nylon line.
She walked away, her kite free to sail the winds.
Zeke finally left his post when Dani stumbled back to her cottage. He was tired. He’d watched her kite sail out of sight, and he’d seen her tears. They glistened on her pale cheeks, not tears of self-pity, he felt, but of loneliness and regret. The kind of tears that only came at dawn.
He needed a shower, a few hours’ sleep and breakfast at a place that didn’t remind him of his own loneliness and regret.
But first he called California. The phone rang just once before Sam Lincoln Jones picked up. “You awake?” Zeke asked.
“I am now.”
“Any luck?”
“I took a spin out to Beverly Hills and talked to Nick Pembroke. I won’t say he talked to me, but I’m not into intimidating old men. If he’d been fifty years younger, me and the old codger might have gone a few rounds.”
“What’s he like these days?”
“Same as always, I expect. For starters, he’s as pigheaded as they come.”
Zeke thought of Nick Pembroke’s granddaughter pounding into her purple cottage after she’d told him to pack up and hit the road. “Must be a strong gene.”
“Met Dani, have you? I’ll bet they’re a pair. Nick’s also arrogant, brilliant and probably the most charming old buzzard I’ve ever met.” Sam paused. “And he’s scared, Zeke.”
“Dani?”
“Yep. Heard she’d been robbed. Thinks she should have kept her mouth shut about that gold key. Most people thought Nick just made up the part in Casino about his grandmother selling off gold gate keys.”
“So he feels Dani was asking for trouble mentioning it.”
“It’s already valuable because it’s gold, but it’s even more valuable because Ulysses Pembroke had it made. A consequence of Nick turning his granddaddy into one of the great rakes of American history.”
But, Zeke wondered, could it be even more valuable—to the right person—because Lilli Chandler Pembroke had been wearing it the night she disappeared?
“Does Nick still gamble?”
“Not as much as he used to. He’s broke. Dani pays his rent, keeps him in food and heart medicine. She doesn’t strike me as the type who’d pay his gambling debts for him.”
Hardly. And Sam hadn’t even met her.
“There’s something else,” he said.
“Go on.”
“It’s just instinct, but I’d say old Nicky was holding back on me.”
“Something important?”
“I’d say so.”
Zeke sighed, imagining the possibilities.
“Like I say,” Sam went on, “fifty years younger, and me and him would have gone a few rounds. I also took the liberty of checking up on the other living Pembroke scoundrel.”
Dani’s father. Four years after his wife had disappeared, John Pembroke had put the Chandler family back on the front pages with another scandal. Eugene Chandler had refused to press charges against his son-in-law for embezzlement—wouldn’t even publicly admit John had stolen from Chandler Hotels—but had quietly tossed his daughter’s husband out on his ear. F
rom what Zeke knew, John Pembroke had taken to gambling as even Nick never had, scrounging good games the world over, while he did the occasional cheeky travel piece. He couldn’t have been around much for his daughter.
“What’s he up to these days?” Zeke asked.
“Lives in a crummy apartment in Tucson. Word is his daughter’s hired him to write a biography of Ulysses, probably just charity by another name. Anyway, he doesn’t have a phone, but I contacted a friend out that way, and she did some checking. Seems our man left town this afternoon.”
Zeke kicked off his shoes. His pretty lace curtains billowed in the cool breeze, and his room filled with the fresh smells of early morning. “Find out where he’s headed?”
“East. Booked a flight to Albany.”
“Hell.”
“Say the word,” his partner and friend told him in a low voice, “and I’ll be there.”
“I know. Thanks. I’ve got another favor, though, if you have time.”
“I’m listening.”
Zeke shut his eyes, which burned with fatigue and too many questions, too many memories. He could see Dani cutting her kite free. What had she been thinking about? Did she know her father was en route to Saratoga—or already there?
“Check out what Quint Skinner’s into these days.”
There was a silence on the California end of the line.
“He’s in Saratoga,” Zeke said.
Sam breathed out. “Fun times.”
“Lots of work to do, Sam.”
“Yeah. I’ll be in touch.”
After he hung up, Zeke went into the cozy bathroom, where he was reminded the claw-foot tub didn’t have a showerhead. He tore open a package of bath salts and took a sniff. He wasn’t picky, so long as he didn’t come out smelling like a lingerie shop.
Instead, he thought, remembering her beside him in his car, he’d come out smelling like the woman who owned the Pembroke.
Lowering himself into the cute little tub, the scalding water swirling around him, he considered that there were probably worse fates.
Nine
Breakfast at the track was an August Saratoga tradition that Zeke might have found quaint if he’d been more awake. For a modest amount of money, one could enjoy a champagne breakfast in the clubhouse and watch expensive thoroughbreds work out on the picturesque track, said to be the most beautiful in the country. Up and at it before he was ready to be up and at it, Zeke had walked down from the Pembroke. He’d avoided the front desk, lest Dani had spoken to her staff about having given him the boot.
Sara Chandler Stone was on the upper level, at a white-covered table overlooking the track. The atmosphere was relaxed and cordial, with a touch of elegance that was part of the upstate resort’s appeal. Zeke was underdressed as usual. Most everyone seemed finished with their breakfast.
“Am I late?” Zeke asked, sitting across from Sara.
“It’s no problem.” She was as poised and still as a mannequin, her porcelain face hidden under the wide brim of her straw hat. She wore an attractive, feminine dress, silky and expensive, an easy way to remind people who was a Chandler here and who wasn’t. “I try to come to breakfast at the track once a season. My family has benefited a great deal from our connection with Saratoga racing. I enjoy giving something back.”
“It’s a dirty job,” Zeke said, “but somebody’s got to do it.”
Her smile didn’t falter. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
He smiled back. “Touché, Mrs. Stone.”
“Would you care for a glass of champagne?”
She already had a glass, and she didn’t appear to have drunk anything else or eaten anything at all. Zeke shook his head and flagged a waiter, who promptly filled his coffee cup and took his order for eggs.
Sara stared down at onlookers gathered along the white fence to watch the horses warm up on the track. “Will you be at the Chandler Stakes this afternoon?”
“Probably.”
“It’s a large field of horses this year. The weather’s beautiful. It’ll be a grand day.” Her smile was gone now, her porcelain skin without color. “Father’s looking forward to today.”
“Well, it’s the hundredth running of the Chandler.”
“And if it’s as thrilling as everyone seems to think it will be, it could help put the seventy-fifth out of his mind.” She sipped her champagne; it couldn’t have been her first glass, Zeke thought. “None of us attended. We were all out looking for Lilli.”
Zeke willed away his fatigue, the old, dead dreams that had haunted him through his few hours of sleep. “It must have been horrible. I’m sorry, Sara.”
She waved a hand. “Oh, it was a long time ago. Wounds heal.”
“Not all wounds. Not knowing what happened to your sister has to be hard.”
“Yes.” Her voice had dropped to a near whisper. “To be honest, Zeke, I’ve come to hate the entire Chandler Stakes weekend. I only keep up with the traditions because of Father and Roger. If it were up to me, I doubt I’d ever come back to Saratoga. But Roger loves racing season, and it seems to be a solace for Father.” She swallowed more champagne, her eyes turned back down to the track. “When I’m here, all I can do is think of Lilli.”
Downing his coffee, Zeke hoped Sara hadn’t asked to see him just to cry on his sleeve. That occasionally happened in his business. He hated to be hard-hearted, but he had to maintain objectivity. Professionalism. Strict neutrality. But this, he reminded himself, wasn’t business.
His breakfast arrived, and Sara motioned for the waiter—it was a slight, delicate gesture—to bring her more champagne. Then she turned back to Zeke, and he saw the fear slip into her eyes as she asked in a quiet, slightly hoarse voice, “Why are you here?”
“I’m on vacation.”
Her reaction—her sudden, sweet, angry smile—caught him off guard. “You’re a closemouthed son of a bitch, Zeke Cutler, just like your brother was.”
“Even worse.”
The anger and sweetness vanished, and so did her smile. She tilted her head back so that the shadows moved onto her face and he no longer could see her eyes under the brim of her hat. “Did he hate me?”
“No.”
“But he wanted to,” she said.
Zeke didn’t answer. It wasn’t his place—now, no one’s—to speak for his brother.
“I’m sorry.” But she didn’t sound sorry, only wrapped in self-pity. “It can’t be easy for you to talk about him. Zeke, I know this is probably hard for you to believe, but I really did care about your brother. Joe and I together…” She licked her lips. “It never would have worked. You must know that.”
Maybe he did. But he wasn’t sure Joe had. He’d been eighteen and still believed love could conquer anything, even the differences between Sara Chandler and himself.
She worked at a sapphire ring on her left hand, hesitant, way out of her rich woman’s league. “You’re staying at the Pembroke?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of our Danielle?”
“That she’d hate to be called your or anyone else’s Danielle.”
Sara smiled, smug and cool. “Oh, yes, you’re right about that. This August is especially difficult, I think, for all of us. We’re all in the limelight even more than usual—with the Chandler centennial. Danielle’s little projects, the twenty-fifth anniversary of Lilli’s having left.” She caught herself, biting down on her lower lip; Zeke lost her eyes again under the brim of her hat. “I almost always say she left. It’s just a habit with me. Not knowing what happened to her is a terrible burden—I’m not sure anyone really understands. I like to think my sister made a deliberate choice about her life. I used to think it would be easier if she’d died rather than abandoned all of us, but now…” She lifted her shoulders and tucked a stray strand of hair somewhere up under her hat. Her nails were pale pink, short, perfectly manicured. “It seems to me just up and leaving would have been an act of tremendous courage for a woman like her.”
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br /> “How so?” Zeke asked as he sat forward, wanting to get Sara’s perspective on her older sister’s state of mind before she disappeared. It was so easy to discount Sara as having much perspective on anything. But even if she was wrong about Lilli, hearing what she had to say could be instructive. Twenty-five years ago, she seemed to have nothing in common with her older sister. Now Sara had become everything people had always thought Lilli had always been.
“Lilli felt more trapped by her circumstances than I ever did. She married fairly young. By the time Nick cast her in Casino, she had a husband, a child, unbelievable expectations placed on her. Perhaps she decided the only way she could change her life was to chuck it all and leave. Become someone else.”
“Is that what you believe happened?”
Sara’s shoulders sagged. She’d changed more than Zeke had anticipated. At twenty-two, she’d been dynamic and restless, grieving for a mother she’d lost too young and anxious to set the world on fire. Only she hadn’t. That wasn’t necessarily a failure in Zeke’s view, unless she thought it was. Either way, he’d left behind enough plans and dreams of his own not to judge.
“I only wish I knew,” she whispered, then blushed. “I’m sorry, Zeke—I realize I keep saying that, but I didn’t mean for you to have to listen to me whine. I just wanted to say hello. I don’t know, I thought you might have come to Saratoga because of Lilli, Joe, me, its being twenty-five years.” But when he didn’t respond, irritation flashed in her very blue eyes, undermining her gracious, sweet heiress act. She pulled a napkin from her lap and set it neatly beside her champagne glass. “You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?”
“Sara, there’s nothing to tell you.”
That wasn’t true, of course.
She gave him a cool smile. “Well, then. I hope you have a wonderful stay in Saratoga. It’s been good seeing you, Zeke. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal to do before the Chandler this afternoon.”
She was on her feet. Zeke watched as she quickly—automatically—took stock of who was around her, who was paying attention.
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