Trolls in the Hamptons (24 page)

“I meant for the Pom and the poodles, Willow, not for you, although the mix won't hurt you.”

“Oh. Well, I think the rain is tapering off, and the Escalade is like a tank, so a little water won't affect it.”

“The dratted deluge is ruining my strawberries and flooding my lettuce. Seeds are bound to rot in the field, and the farm stand is closed, naturally.”

Yeah, I was worried about the farm, too. Not. “I'm sure everything will be okay tomorrow. I'll see you in the morning when I come for Red.”

His ears twitched. “Do you know your name already?” I asked, after hanging up the phone. No, he had to go use his papers in the back bathroom. Afterward, he took a sip of Grandma's doctored water, shook his head at the taste, and then curled up into the blanket in his crate. He turned his back to me, tucked his nose into his plumed red tail like a fox cub, and went to sleep.

There went my excuse to stay here, so I found a yellow slicker in the closet, made a mad dash for the car. Mud spattered my legs and squished through my sandals. Rain poured off the slicker and onto my pants. Then I had to spend time figuring out how to get the windshield wipers going, and the lights and defroster.

I crept down the roads, trying to avoid potholes that were so filled with water I had no idea how deep they were. Forks of lightning shot through the night-dark sky, illuminating branches swaying madly in the wind. Damn, if the lightning didn't strike me, I didn't drown in a sinkhole, or flip the car in a skid, I could get killed by a falling tree.

Except a troll was holding one up to let me get by. Then he let it drop across the road behind me, taking who knew how many wires with it. I couldn't see him in my rearview mirror, but I beeped the horn and hoped he wasn't electrocuted. I couldn't get back to check, not with the tree down.

Don't touch the wires,
I thought, and yelled in my head. Maybe out loud, too, I was so petrified.

I managed to get to Rosehill, punch in the codes, drive through the gate. This time I drove around to the back entrance, which was nearer the kitchen and the housekeeper's apartment. I didn't want to drag the shopping bags or my muddy shoes and dripping raincoat through the house.

The dogs bounded through the door to greet me. “Good boys.”

No, they weren't.

One—or both—had chewed my new sneakers and shredded my nightgown. The other—or both—had the runs. “Oh, shit.” Literally. Throughout the kitchen, pantry, Cousin Lily's sitting room and bedroom and bathroom.

I couldn't blame the dogs. I'd left them out of their crates, alone too long, during a loud, scary storm. My own stomach was none too steady, getting worse from the stench and the sight of dog sick. And knowing I had to clean it.

First I let them out the back door, on their own. At that moment, I didn't much care whether they came back or not. They did, at the next clap of thunder, almost knocking me down in their rush past me.

I poured half the bottle of rescue remedy into their water. I thought about drinking the other half myself, but had a diet Coke instead. I put away the groceries, threw out my nightgown but saved the sneakers as wearable in an emergency until I could buy another new pair. Then I gathered buckets and paper towels and seven kinds of cleaning supplies, three of which specifically claimed to work on pet stains. This led me to believe today was not the first repugnant, revolting incident. Someone could have warned me. Of course I would have refused the dog-sitting job then, which might explain why no one told me.

I found rubber gloves, thank God, but what I really wanted was a HAZMAT suit and an oxygen mask, if not my mother's head on a platter.

I took a deep breath and started in. The dogs that were so stupid they lost their lunches at a little thunderstorm were smart enough to keep out of my way. I rubbed and scrubbed and sprayed and blotted and vacuumed for what seemed like hours. For sure I spent more time than I'd put in cleaning my apartment in the past five months. At least the storm had passed enough that I could put the plastic bags of garbage outside, and leave the door open to air the place out. Somewhere between my second and third trips to the shed with the trash cans, the phone rang.

The caller ID gave my father's Florida phone number. “You could have told me the dogs have nervous stomachs, you know. High-strung, my ass. How's Dad?”

“Feed them boiled beef and white rice. He's cranky. Wants his own robe and slippers, so he's recovering. The doctor says he'll be fine, so I came here to get his stuff. His condo is a regular pigsty. Disgusting.”

“You want to know about disgusting? Let me tell you—”

“You used to have projectile vomiting.”

That shut me up. “So how was your flight?”

“The flight was fine, only half an hour late, which is good by today's standards. At least we got out before the storm they said was coming or we'd be sitting on the tarmac still. But listen to this: when they handed out those little bags of pretzels, I gave mine to the woman in the next seat. From Staten Island she was, going to see her first grandchild. A girl. She had pictures.”

“And I have chewed-up sneakers. I'm never getting a dog.”

“Yes, well, I gave her my pretzels because of what your father said about not eating anything on the plane. The old fool's never been anything but a bag of wind, but why take chances? So the woman opens
my
bag and a cockroach falls out. She starts screaming, jumps up and hits her head on the luggage rack, starts bleeding. The software salesman in the seat across the row sees the blood and passes out.”

And I thought my day was eventful. “Wow, I guess Dad was right.”

“Right? They gave the woman and the fainting guy free tickets for another flight. That could have been me, except for your jackass of a doomsayer father. Do you know what they offered me? Another bag of pretzels!”

“What did Dad say?”

Mom gave a big sniff. “Do you think I'd tell him? Oh, but he did mumble something about your paying the toll. Or saving the stole. I couldn't make it out. He was still woozy from the anesthesia, so don't worry about it. But, baby girl, don't go on any boats, just to be on the safe side, okay?”

“Sure, Mom. You know how seasick I get. Give Dad my love, and call me when you can. Love you.”

“Me, too. Boil the chop meat until it's brown and pour off the fat. Ben and Jerry'll be fine.”

They'd be fine with dog food. I wasn't cooking, or looking at food, not after cleaning shit all afternoon. In fact, I didn't want to touch anything until I'd sterilized my hands, despite the rubber gloves. I decided to settle for a long bath in Mr. Parker's guest Jacuzzi. Lord knew, I deserved it. I've never taken so much as a shower during an electric storm, figuring the lightning could come through the pipes and fry me, but everything seemed quiet outside except for a lot of wind. Even the rain had stopped.

The guest bathroom was gorgeous, white like everything else in the house, but with delicate flowers painted on the tiles. The same flowers were embroidered on the hand towels, and hand-painted on a porcelain pitcher that was filled with matching silk flowers. I found bath salts, a pile of fluffy towels, soap that must cost more than my apartment rent, and candles.

Why not? I convinced myself I was practicing for when Grant came, although I doubted either one of us needed any seduction scenery. Besides, the cleaning crew was coming in the morning, so I wasn't permanently desecrating Rosehill's perfection with my dirty feet and detergent-scented skin. I was no thief or trespasser, either. I wouldn't use the thick terry robe hanging on the back of the door, although I did touch it, to check for softness. Yup, it was.

I went back to my rooms—this time I'd shut the dogs in their crates—and grabbed a clean T-shirt and work-out pants, and my iPod.

If this was heaven, I couldn't understand why Aunt Ellen's Vern didn't stay there. I might even have to reconsider my definitions of opulent, over-the-top luxury. Everyone ought to be so indulged.

I had music in my ears, the scent of roses in my nose, an inflatable pillow cushioning my neck, bubbles tickling my skin, and swirling hot water doing a message on the rest of my body. The only thing missing was a man to share the pleasure with. Hell, who needed a man? I was so relaxed my limbs were limp.

For now, I had no thoughts of men or monsters or murderers. I let my mind float on a rainbow-colored soap bubble and drifted with the current.

That's when the lights went out.

S
HIT.

I
'd forgotten how often the power went out at this end of the island. Heavy rain saturated the ground, high winds uprooted the trees, and trees took down wires. And here I was, in the bathtub, with nothing but two puny votive candles, half burned through. No phone to call my grandmother to see if she lost electricity, no cell phone I could have used as a light, no idea where to find a flashlight in this house, or more candles. So I waited a minute or two to see if the lights would come back on. A place like Rosehill might have a generator of its own.

That was my first thought. My second thought was that a place like Rosehill had buried electric lines. The main could be out for the entire neighborhood, which happened sometimes. Or else someone could have cut Rosehill's power lines at the street to shut down the security system.

My third thought was to get the hell out of the tub. I dropped the iPod, grabbed that plushy robe and one of the candles, which instantly went out. I picked up the other one, far more carefully. That's when I heard the poodles barking. The big dogs could scare away an intruder . . . if I hadn't locked them in their crates.

I almost called out to them, to tell them I was coming, but I thought I heard a man's voice through the excited yelps. The only man who had any business here was Mr. Parker, and he was in California. Besides, he didn't know the new passcodes.

That left a housebreaker. A thief? A kidnapper? A murderer? I didn't want to meet up with any of them, not in the daylight, not in a big, empty, pitch-black house. Okay, I'd hide. Where? Under a bed? In a closet? Too obvious. I hardly knew the layout of Rosehill, or my way around the upper stories. All I knew was it was sparsely furnished, with sharp angles. No nooks, no heavy drapes. Double shit.

Then I heard more voices, one from the front of the house; the other, I thought, came from the sliders to the pool. One guy I might have been able to avoid. Two or three, in different directions? All they had to do was release the dogs and follow them right to me. I was a dead woman dripping. But I was not going to go down without a fight, not me. I knew all about heroes from my books. I knew karate. I picked up that pretty porcelain ewer and dumped out the silk flowers. Then I blew out my last candle.

I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs, shouts from below. Through the crack in the door, I could see a beam of light. The bastards came prepared. I waited until someone neared the bathroom where I'd been so relaxed and content. I opened the door, closed my eyes, and threw the vase.

If the last sound I ever heard was the thunk of the porcelain hitting the killer's head, I'd take that satisfaction to my grave.

The pitcher cracked, and the guy's head must have, too, because he went down, heavily. The noise had the other two housebreakers charging to the stairs from the front and back of the house.

“Man down,” one shouted.

The first one to the second floor had a flashlight in one hand, a gun in the other. I wished I could remember a prayer. All I could think was: Dad, it's not a boat.

“Boss?”

Boss?

The man on the floor grunted. “Put your weapons away. Miss Tate is fine. For now. As soon as I can get up off this carpet . . . ”

“Grant?”

“Do not say one word. Not yet.”

Colin from the gatehouse gave him a hand up. His partner holstered his weapon and brought out another flashlight. I could see his grin as Grant rubbed his head and groaned.

I leaned back against the wall. It was either that or fall forward on my nose. “Grant?”

In the shifting beams of light, he looked as if he was struggling to control the pain—or his temper. I guess he lost both fights. He staggered two steps toward me, then put his hands on his hips, maybe so he wouldn't put them around my neck. He started to curse, in heaven knew what language that had a lot of
cht
's. Unfortunately for me, he switched to English. “Who the devil were you expecting? And why didn't you answer the phone? I called your cell, the house phone, and the housekeeper's number. My agents said you came in, alone, and never left. Then you didn't pick up, not even on the phone you were supposed to have next to you every minute, the one with the panic button. Then the lights went off. What the hell was I to think?”