Sand Witches in the Hamptons (9781101597385) (6 page)

“They who? Mad about what?”

“The sandmen.”

“Come on, Willy, I have crotch rot, not insomnia.”

He wasn't going to sleep well tonight, not after I showed him my drawings and the professor's story.

“I can't be certain, of course.”

He scratched his head, then scratched his ass. “Why am I not surprised?”

Then Van arrived. Lou gave me a look that warned me not to talk of sandmen, rashes, or the capsized ship. He drew a finger across his throat to reinforce his message. As if I needed his warning.

The two men spoke quietly in the hall while I put paper plates and napkins on the table. Lou didn't accept Van's invitation to stay, thank goodness.

Van closed the door behind Lou and turned to me, his brows lowered. “You look terrible, Willy,” he said after Lou left. “What's on your face?”

“It's just a rash. At least it's not on my cr— That is, too many strawberries.”

“No, it's blood. Your nose is bleeding.”

He reached out to touch it, to show me. I batted his hand away. And grabbed for the napkins. “Don't touch it! You'll get the plague, too.”

He edged toward the door. “You have HIV?”

“No, another plague. But you weren't there. You didn't, ah, eat the strawberries. So you can't catch it.”

His brow stayed wrinkled. “You sure no one hit you in the head?”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

I
had reservations. And reservations.

The early Jitney bus would get me to the Harbor midday, get Van to work almost on time, and get my father home after his hot date. That was the best I could do for him until I got off the bus. Whatever he wanted couldn't be discussed in the three-minute limit the bus company requested. I hated when people spoke on their cell phones, right next to me, interfering with a nap or note taking or a good book. I would not abuse the rules for courtesy, not even for my father and his friend.

I finished packing after dinner, with pieces of tissue stuffed in my nose. How embarrassing was that? Van said he saw worse every day on the job. And I still looked adorable. How nice was that?

We took Little Red down the stairs, under my sweatshirt jacket, to the back door, the fire door that stayed locked. Van checked the area first, and the security camera over the door before letting me step outside. I felt safe. And safer, knowing Mrs. Abbottini kept watch, too.

“Who's there?” she called down from her open window. “I'll call the police.”

“It's all right, ma'am,” Van shouted. “I am the police. I'm with Ms. Tate.”

She poked a flashlight through her window. “Oh, it's that nice Black officer. Your mother won't be happy, Willow.”

Before I could apologize to Van, or claim my mother was not a bigot, that she preferred dogs to men, all men, the old lady went on, loudly, the way hard of hearing people did: “She wants that vet in the family. Thinks she'll get a discount on expenses for her rescued dogs, I guess. And then you'll go out to the Island, Willy, so she can have the apartment back.”

Great. Why didn't she tell Van and the downstairs neighbors my bra size while she was at it? And mention how my mother offered to get me a boob job as a college graduation gift?

“I am going out to the Harbor in the morning, but I'll be back. And Mother won't stay here long, not with the apartment rules banning dogs.”

“What's that sniffing around the garbage, then?” she shouted.

“A big ra—” I caught myself before I mentioned the
R
word. She must have heard about the dead rat by now, but I did not want to remind her or give her nightmares. I figured I'd have enough for the whole apartment.

“Good night, Mrs. Abbottini. I'll let you know when I'm coming home.” I stressed the
home
. This is where I lived, not that scrap of land hours away from everything. Except Matt. The hours away from Deni mattered more right now.

“Will you water my plants?” They lived at her house, I'd been gone so frequently. Mrs. Abbottini still considered them mine so she could complain about the extra work, for a jade plant and two violets. I always brought her a thank-you gift when I got back, a jar of jam from Grandma Eve's farm stand, some ripe tomatoes, or a pretty shell or a smooth piece of driftglass from the beach. She had a whole collection in a jar.

She raised the flashlight to my face and raised the decibel level. “Why do you have toilet paper hanging out of your nose?”

Yup, safe from the menace, but not the mortification.

Van chuckled. “Being around you is better than Comedy Central.”

“We live to serve,” I muttered.

When we went back upstairs, I took a shower, once I was certain there'd be no more blood to spread the rash all over my body, if that was the causative irritant. It seemed to be, what with the rashes coming after paper cuts, cat scratches, razor burn, and needle pricks. Thank God I didn't expect my period soon.

When I got out of the shower and dressed in unsuggestive sweatpants and a long T-shirt, Van was hanging up the phone.

“The vet called. At least I guess Dr. Matt Spenser is the vet your mother wants you to marry.”

I glared at him while I spread crumbs from the broken cookies on top of chocolate fudge ice cream. Never waste food, right? “You didn't check the caller ID? Or let the machine pick up?”

He shrugged. “I answered in case it was your hinky admirer. Sometimes letting the crazies know their victim has protection is enough to discourage them. They'd rather prey on vulnerable targets.”

“Just doing your job, huh?”

Now he grinned. “And satisfying my curiosity. The dude didn't sound happy you had company.”

Damn. “I hope you explained.”

“Sure, I explained that you were passed out after steamy sex in the shower. And, gee, you hadn't called out ‘Matt' when you came, just some other guy's name. Harry? No, it might have been a Hail, Mary.”

They gave the death penalty for killing a cop, didn't they? It might be worth it.

Van laughed and held his hand up when I came at him with the ice cream scoop. “Just kidding. I told him about the rat and said you'd call him back, that's all.”

I waited for Van to take his turn in the shower before I dialed Matt's number. I opened my email while I waited for him to pick up.

D
ID YOU LIKE MY PRESENT, BITCH?

This time the email came from Loves2read837, which sounded innocuous enough. Hah. It contained a picture from my own website, Little Red at the beach. But the photo had been photoshopped in two, so his head was separate from his body. I dropped the phone and screamed.

“Willy? Willy? What is it? What's wrong, sweetheart? Did that stranger break in? Was that guy really a cop or just pretending to be one?”

I picked up the phone in shaking hands, gasping. “No, he is a cop and he's right—Good grief, put on some clothes and put down the gun!”

“Sorry. You okay?” Van lowered the gun, strategically, except it wasn't that big a gun.

“Willy? What the hell is going on? Why is the cop naked?”

“I got another email from that psycho. Van got out of the shower when I screamed.”

Van left and came back with a towel, not the gun, and looked over my shoulder and cursed.

Matt heard him and cursed louder. “Tell me what's happening, damn it! And that guy better have his clothes on now, cop or not.”

“It was another email. From a different name. You don't want to see it.” Or Van in a smallish towel.

I had to look at him, his sleek, wet back with its well defined muscles, while he forwarded the horror to police headquarters and to Lou so they could try tracing this new screen name. Yummy. Not that Matt didn't keep in shape, but Van was younger and had more time to work out. Not that I was the least bit tempted, not when I had a madwoman after me and a mad Matt on the line.

Van said he'd go get dressed while I talked to Matt. He did turn the computer away before he went, but I saw it and moaned.

Matt sounded frantic. “Are you okay?”

“No! She left a dead rat and now pictures of my dog with his head torn off! And my nose is bleeding again!” I held the bottom of my T-shirt to it, until I could grab a handful of paper towels, half cursing, half crying.

“Calm down, Willy, and tell me what's going on.”

If there was anything I hated worse, it was someone telling me to calm down when I had every right to have hysterics. It did no good, and didn't solve the original problem. I wouldn't be this frantic without damn good cause, would I? “I told you what happened.”

“No, your naked buddy with the gun told me about the rat first. You didn't.”

His tone was accusative, as if I'd withheld evidence. Or been disloyal. “I didn't have time. Lou came and then Van came and a message from my father about smelling a rat and Mrs. Abbottini saw us in the alley.”

“What the hell were you doing in the alley with the cop?”

“Forget about the cop already!”

“Why? You called him and that weird guy Lou you think is some kind of terminator, instead of me. For all I know you called the firefighter and the Brit and the cowboy, too.”

“No, neither Piet nor Ty could deal with this, and Grant was no help at all. He's got two broken legs and a concussion.”

“But you called him, your ex-fiancé, before you called me?”

“For crying out loud”—which I was trying not to do—“we weren't officially engaged. And I called the professor, too.”

Silence across the line, Van whistling in the guest bedroom.

“Listen, I wouldn't have called any of you if I could speak with Oey. The bird has flown the coop, though, so I called whoever I thought could get here fastest and do the most good. Van's police station is right in the city, in this very district, and Lou seems to be everywhere. You weren't.”

“Are you blaming me? If you'd come to the Harbor when I asked you to . . .”

“Are you blaming me for having a life of my own?”

“I thought I was part of your life.”

I heard the unspoken sounds of betrayal, sorrow, distrust. And jealousy.

I understood jealousy. I hated every woman who looked at Matt in speculation or the way I'd looked at Van. And every woman he looked at, period. But tonight was not the time. “I do not need this now. I'll be there tomorrow. I thought I'd stay at your house, in case the nut job figures I went to Paumanok Harbor.”

“With your posse?”

“With my dog. On second thought, maybe we'll be fine at my house. Little Red still isn't all that comfortable around your Newfie. And Susan'll be there with the big dogs, and Uncle Roger is just across the street.”

“But the cop is staying at your apartment tonight?”

“Yes. Him and his gun. You have a problem with that?”

“No,” he snapped, an obvious lie. “You have a problem with me caring?”

“No,” I snapped right back, furious at both of us now for acting like teenagers, when I should have been angry at Deni, the teenager. “He's a friend, that's all.”

“Where's he sleeping?”

“What does it matter? The guest room or the sleep sofa, he is not sleeping in my bed! Are you satisfied now?”

“What's he wearing?”

A big grin, but I didn't tell Matt that. I made shoo-ing gestures to Van, who went toward the kitchen to get more ice cream. I handed him my dish, too.

“He is wearing one of my dresses and high heels, okay? He's gay.”

Something crashed in the kitchen.

“Listen, I've got to go finish packing. I'll call tomorrow when I get in.”

We left it at that. No fervent invitation to stay with him tomorrow or forever, no tender words of apology for doubting my fidelity, no blowing kisses through the phone lines. I told myself the reason I didn't say I love you, I'm sorry we argued, I can't wait to see you, was because Van could hear every word.

That wasn't the reason.

I had reservations, all right.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

I
had no sleep, and no solutions. What could I do about the Andanstans and the beach, the rash and the blood? What should I do about Deni and my dog, my mother and moving to Paumanok Harbor, the missing bird and missing Matt? The senior citizens getting older? I hope to hell no one expected me to do anything about that! And I prayed my father's favor could be handled easily. Easier than dealing with Matt and my mixed emotions.

Van checked my computer for me, saw nothing suspicious, then went out to get us breakfast. He ordered me to stay put, as if I'd think of going anywhere with Deni and her accomplice on the loose.

I waited for my father's call. Instead, sirens blared, not unusual for the city, but awfully loud and close. I looked out the window to see a cop car coming straight up my block. I doubted Van decided to take me to the bus stop in style.

I had to crane my neck to see down where the black and white stopped: right at my apartment, at the hydrant. A crowd gathered in the street, reminding me of when the troll came to town. That time no one saw him but me. Today, everyone was looking and pointing at the front of my building. I swear I had nothing to do with whatever happened. I hadn't visualized anything but my own f-ed up life.

No way was I staying in the apartment when something way more interesting was going on. We could be under attack for all I knew. And I'd be safe enough, with the police already there. If Van could answer my phone, I could check out his crime scene, if that's what it was.

When I got downstairs, I saw the noisy first-floor tenants in a huddle right outside the front door. I didn't know them well, but I nodded and started to ask them what happened when I saw Mrs. Abbottini, on the ground. I ran toward her, pushing aside a florid-faced, heavyset policeman who kept asking if she needed an ambulance, where did it hurt, did she know her attacker. He wouldn't let her get up from the pavement until he was sure nothing was broken.

She looked old and small and frightened, not like the battleax with dyed black hair I'd known forever. She grabbed onto my hand.

“It was him, Willy.”

“Him, who?” The cop nodded at me to continue, to get her to talk. “Somebody from the neighborhood?”

“No, the punk who brought the flowers. The ones you didn't want.”

The cop mouthed, “Get his name,” but I shook my head. We didn't know the kid. “Did he bring more flowers?” I looked around without seeing anything, except another, younger officer asking if anyone in the crowd had seen the attack. “Or another dead rat?”

The first cop raised his eyebrows. “You Willow Tate?”

I didn't ask how he knew. I guess Van put in a police alert for the neighborhood. Either that or I was famous for being a troublemaker. I squeezed Mrs. Abbottini's hand. “What did he want this time? Did he say anything?”

“He wanted my purse.” She held up the suitcase-sized black bag, the strap still clutched in her fingers. “That's what I thought at first, anyway. But I held on tight. He knocked me down then. I still held on. No nasty delivery kid was getting my bingo money.”

The first cop shook his head in frustration. No matter how many times they told the old folks to give up their valuables and don't get hurt, some codger tried to be a hero. “Tell your granny to give the mugger whatever he wants, nothing's worth dying for.”

“She's not my granny. My grandmother would have stopped the thief in his tracks, turned him into a frog, or set his hair on fire, wouldn't she, Mrs. Abbottini?”

Everyone laughed, not knowing I meant it. Mrs. Abbottini smiled, to my relief. “That she would.” Then the smile faded. “She wouldn't be lying on the street with everyone gawking at her.”

“They're just concerned for you. But the officer is right. It's only money. You should have let him have it.”

“No, Willow, he didn't want the money or the credit cards. He reached for the keys. The keys to the apartment, the front door, the back door, my apartment, and yours, too.” They were all on a long chain clipped to the zipper pull of her pocketbook. She pulled it out to show me and the cop and the people circled around. “That's what he wanted, Willy. To get in.”

Mr. Rashmanjari from the first-floor unit clapped. His wife bowed her head. “You saved us all, brave madam. We could all have been robbed or murdered in our beds. My daughters . . .” He let the thought fade away. “Such evil should not exist.”

Amen to that.

He whispered something to his wife and she pulled two young girls closer to her side. I did not think she spoke English. I knew the children did, because I'd heard them screaming at each other. The Rashmanjaris had only been here since June, and I'd been in Paumanok Harbor a lot of the months between. All I knew of them was they were a large, multigenerational family, with large lungs and loud voices.

Then Van appeared, kneeling at Mrs. Abbottini's other side after a quick conference with the first responders, all of whom he called by name. He set down a large bag from the deli and took the shaking hand I wasn't holding, prying her fingers off the purse. “Maybe he left fingerprints we can trace.” The older cop nodded and went back to his car to get a crime scene kit.

Van assured Mrs. Abbottini they wouldn't take her pocketbook as evidence, then asked if she was injured. She said no and tried to get up.

He gently pushed her back. “I heard you put up a good fight, ma'am, saved the day, but you need to stay down until the EMTs get here to make sure.”

“No, I cannot stay here. I was on my way to church, where I go every morning. I need to light an extra candle today, in thanks that the motherf—”

Mr. Rashmanjari clapped a hand over a young boy's ears. Van laughed and said, “I'm sure you can say your prayers in the emergency room.”

“Those places try to kill you so that you don't bother them anymore.” She tried to shove Van's hand away and sit up again, then groaned. “What if I broke my hip? Old ladies die of that. How'll I get up the three flights of stairs? My sons'll put me in a home, and never come visit. Ingrates don't come now. What will I do?”

“You'll be fine. You're too tough an old bird to slow down,” I lied before she started to get weepy on me. “You saved the keys, didn't you?”

That was all bull. She had a hard time with the third floor now. I never thought about what would happen when she couldn't navigate the stairs. I guess I supposed her sons would take her to live with one of them. As for the keys she fought to keep, we could have changed the locks easily enough or put in a modern pass card system.

The heavyset cop huffed back and started dusting the pocketbook, over Mrs. Abbottini's complaints that he was ruining her good bag. Van reassured her the black stuff could be wiped off. The younger policeman had a bullhorn out now and tried to get everyone to leave the area so the emergency squad could get through, but if anyone heard or saw anything, they should step forward now. No one moved except Mr. Rashmanjari, who said he'd heard the screaming and called 911. He only saw the back of a thin youth in jeans and denim jacket.

The younger cop came closer and looked over Van's shoulder. “The ambulance is on the way, ma'am,” he said in a Hispanic accent. “Five minutes more.” Then he asked Van if she'd given a description of her attacker.

Van and the older cop shook their heads. “Vague, only. Young, white, evil eyes, pointy chin.”

“Please, ma'am, can you give us anything else? You said you'd seen him before. Does he live in the neighborhood?”

“Ask Willy. He brought her flowers.”

Everyone looked at me. “I never saw him. And the flowers started a lot of trouble. They had no florist card or anything to say where he got them, either.”

The Hispanic officer nodded. “We've been watching, keeping an eye out. Willow Tate.”

He said it the way you'd say registered sex offender. But I guess my name or reputation got them here so fast, which had to be a good thing. “Did he say anything?”

“Yes, he said, ‘Give me the fucking keys.' Not that I use words like that, you know.”

The cop's lips twitched. “No, ma'am, I'm sure you don't.” We'd all heard what she started to call the mugger.

“I didn't hear him at first, too busy screaming at him to let go of my purse.” And she was hard of hearing, but I didn't interrupt. “He yelled it real loud the second time.” Now she raised her voice to show us: “Give me the fucking keys!”

Mr. Rashmanjari urged his wife and children back into the apartment.

“Right. Got it. High voice? Low voice? Accent?”

“Not like yours.” She pointed toward the Rashmanjaris. “Or theirs.”

While the cop kept asking questions and getting unhelpful answers, I checked my watch. The bus I'd planned on taking had come and gone. There'd be another one in an hour or so, most likely with an empty seat, but I couldn't leave my old neighbor lying on the sidewalk. Besides, those emergency rooms could be daunting. And someone had to call her sons.

And it was all my fault.

We could hear the sirens now. Mrs. Abbottini started crying and saying she didn't want to go. Just help her up the stairs.

I choked back a tear or two myself. “I'll go with you to the hospital, okay?”

She sighed and relaxed. Then she patted my hand. “I knew you'd do the right thing, no matter what your mother says.”

Van consulted with the other policemen, then reported to me, “The perp's long gone, but there's definitely a connection to your stalker. You've got to get out of here.”

“I can't leave her. I promised.”

The older cop shook his head. “We can't keep you in sight twenty-four/seven.”

“I know.”

“Lou ain't going to be happy,” Van muttered.

Hell, I wasn't happy.

* * *

I raced upstairs, got my cell phone, a pad, a book to read, and a good-bye treat to leave Little Red. I forgot about my father, breakfast, and the rash that was twice as red as it was yesterday. When I got back to the street, the EMTs wanted to put me on a stretcher, too.

The triage doctor at the emergency room didn't think Mrs. Abbottini had broken bones, but ordered X-rays to be sure. While we waited our turn for that, I sketched what Mrs. Abbottini described.

I'm no police artist, and I understand they use computer programs to do this faster and more accurately, but the effort kept us busy for the seemingly endless hours we sat in dreary, crowded corridors and waiting rooms.

According to my neighbor, the mugger was short and thin. Not so much effeminate as wimpy, with long dark hair, not much of a chin, a nose stud, and small, squinty eyes, my interpretation of Mrs. Abbottini's evil eyes. He wasn't as young as I would have guessed. Mid-twenties, she thought, maybe, and stronger than he looked.

Of course anyone appeared strong to a little old lady.

We kicked around theories, that he was Deni's boyfriend or brother, avenging the slight she imagined, or trying to please her by harassing me. I had no idea why he'd want to hurt me or Mrs. Abbottini.

The doctor we finally saw wanted to keep Mrs. Abbottini overnight, despite not finding any broken bones or irregular heartbeat. She refused. I tried to convince her, mostly because she looked frail and shaky and how the hell could I get her up the stairs? Ask the neighbors?

She thought the unmarried lawyers on the second floor were living in sin. The gay couple on the fourth floor definitely were. The way she spoke her mind, loudly, meant they'd drop her on the stairs. Besides, they all worked during the day. And Mr. Rashmanjari might have gone to work by now, also, and the children I saw appeared too small to be much help.

I left Mrs. Abbottini in a wheelchair by the hospital exit while I went to flag down a taxi, but Lou waited there, with an illegally parked silver Beemer. I never thought I'd be so glad to see him. This time he looked like a successful executive in an expensive suit and Gucci loafers. The man with him looked like a CIA operative, all muscle and dark glasses, buzz-cut hair, and phone wires in his ear. So what if he never smiled, I was happy to see him, too.

I told Lou I'd take Mrs. Abbottini to Paumanok Harbor with me as soon as she was well enough to travel. “She can't stay here, for sure.”

Lou rubbed his recently shaved jaw and looked to see no one could hear us. “I'm not sure about that. Bringing a non-talent to the Harbor is never a good idea.”

Especially if there's an epidemic. I saw no choice. I couldn't go without her, not while she was on painkillers and told to stay off her feet and see her own doctor if she felt dizzy, out of breath, or got a headache. I had all three, plus horror at being responsible for the old lady. Maybe I could get one of her sons to come take care of her tomorrow.

I wasn't getting on the bus today.

She was pale and stiff, obviously in pain trying to get out of the car. Lou declared he and his associate, Harris, would carry her up. And Lou would stay.

Fine, he could make her soup and see she had her pills on time. I'd try to get some work done.

I went ahead to open the front door while Lou argued with Mrs. Abbottini about picking her up.

Before I reached the vestibule, though, Mr. Rashmanjari and his wife and two young sons and two little girls stepped out of their apartment.

He bowed slightly. “The brave lady can stay with us. On the first floor.”

“That's very kind of you,” I said. “But Mrs. Abbottini will be more comfortable in her own surroundings.” And not among dark-skinned strangers of a different religion and culture. If you didn't go to her church and speak her language, with an Italian accent, you were a heathen, if not a sinner. I know, because she considered me a limb of Satan, and I'd been born right here in Manhattan. Mr. Rashmanjari did not need to hear a slight to his family and gracious offer, though, so I added that he already had a full house.