Life Guards in the Hamptons (25 page)

“Y
OU’RE GLOWING, WILLY!” Vincent stopped sweeping the sidewalk in front of his barbershop to shield his eyes.

I stood taller. Yes, I had a right to glow. I was halfway to finding the professor, all on my own, without the fancy FBI or the arrogant agents from DUE. One of which, the one I had been almost engaged to, hadn’t returned my urgent message that we needed a linguist, like immediately. One of which Grant was. After a lifetime of study, he could speak or interpret some of the half-vocal, half-telepathic, half-imaged language of Unity, where all the magic came from. I know that’s three halves, but that’s how complicated their speech is. The only other Translator I’d heard of was Grant’s father, the Earl of Grantham, with whom I was not, of course, on familiar terms. Shit, I’d slept with Grant! The least he could do was send an email. So much for promises of forever. Then again, I hadn’t made it to the meet-my-parents part.

But I glowed. “Thanks, Vin. I am having a good day. The sun is shining, Little Red hasn’t bitten anyone, and Professor Harmon is alive!”

“Great, but it’s not that kind of glow.”

While I worried about being radioactive—I had X-rays at the dentist’s last week—he looked both ways to see if anyone could overhear his whisper. “It’s your aura. I’ve never seen it so strong. Your power is growing,
Willy, whatever it is you do.” He furrowed his brow. “I sure hope that’s a good thing. We don’t need any more trouble.”

“I hope so, too, Vincent, because it looks like we’ll be needing all the help we can get. You haven’t spotted any strangers with auras, have you? Sensed anyone lost? Given directions to an older gentleman with a British accent?”

No one like that had passed the barbershop that morning. But he’d keep an eye out. I showed him the professor’s picture. Then, for the hell of it, I asked if Axel Vanderman had an aura.

“I’ve only seen the man from a distance. Someone pointed him out to me at the Breakaway one night. He sat too far away for me to tell, what with all the candles and half the customers and servers putting out haloes. He doesn’t get his hair cut here. Most likely goes to some fancy-shmancy salon in the city.”

“Well, if he walks past, let me know if you see anything. But mostly I’m searching for the last passenger on the cruise ship.”

“I’ll spread the word.”

By phone, twitter, or telepathy, I didn’t care. “We need him.”

Next I had to track down Joe the plumber. I’d left a message on his business number, but I didn’t have his cell. So I went into Janie’s Hair Salon. They were keeping company, as people used to say. I’d pointed them in the right direction, toward each other, which gave me another glow, this one inside. Not that I approved of matchmaking, but this pair was a natural. Janie loved to take care of people. Joe was helpless after his truck went over a cliff during the nightmare catastrophe. Now that he’d recovered, she still liked to fuss over him and he liked to fix things. Right now he was upstairs, where Janie lived above the salon.

“So he finally moved in?”

“No, he’s renovating the bathroom. It’s handy having a man like that around.”

One of the ladies under a dryer snickered. “I bet he’s good at other things, too, from that grin on your face.”

“Yeah,” Janie said, “he’s real good at changing tires. My ex would have told me to call AAA and wait three hours. And Joe can barbeque.”

Wow, a houseman. I hoped there was more between them, but it was a start. “Can I go up?”

Janie thought about that a minute, wondering at my motives. I understood jealousy—not that I was interested in Joe except for his talent—so I quickly told her I needed help with a water problem. She pointed to the stairs to her private rooms.

Joe was laying tiles around a new double sink. Maybe he had moved in, after all, or was going to soon. The bathroom looked like something from a style magazine, so Janie better appreciate him as an artisan, not a butt-crack handyman. Although I did wish he’d pull up his jeans.

“This bathroom is gorgeous, so I hate to interrupt,” I said, “but I need your skill.”

“It’s Saturday. I only do emergencies on the weekend and charge double. Put a bucket under it and I’ll be there on Monday.”

“It’s not that kind of problem. I’m looking for Professor Harmon, the lost passenger, but I have no idea where to start. Can you help?”

“Can’t find deaders, you know. The old guy’s a goner for sure, from what I heard. If the wave didn’t pull him under, the boat rolled right where he was standing.”

“I know it doesn’t look good, but I’m pretty sure he survived. Chief Haversmith and Kelvin both agreed when I said he’s alive. And his initials floated at Mrs. Desmond’s.”

“Then I guess he’s still breathing. Hand me that towel, will you?”

I passed him a filthy rag, then the picture of the professor.

Joe filled the sink and stared at the photograph. Then he stared into the water. His intense gaze reminded me of Axel, but I put the weirdo out of my mind to
concentrate on the water. Maybe if I tried real hard, I’d see what Joe saw. I saw his reflection. Chances are Joe couldn’t see Oey, so we were even.

“I’ve got something. Someone lying down, with his eyes shut. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s laid out for burial. Maybe he’s sleeping.”

“Or unconscious. But where is he?”

“Hush.” He added some hot water and swirled it around with his right hand. “No sand, no waves, so he’s not on the beach or in the water. That’s good.” Joe put his face inches from the sink. “Wait, I think I see the corner of a rug. Greenish. He’s in a house, no … Yes, he’s in a bathtub! The yellow life jacket is under his head for a pillow.”

“So someone rescued him and took him home, thank goodness.” But why hadn’t they called the authorities? For that matter, what kind of person makes a rescued house guest sleep in the bathtub, no matter how wet or bedraggled? “Where is he so I can go get him?”

Joe shrugged. “I never know unless the person is in front of a street sign or a store, or someplace I recognize.”

Damn. “He’s not moving?”

“Not so much as a twitch.”

“Can you tell how far off he is?”

“I used to check on my wife in Mineola. That’s how I caught her cheating. Visiting her mother, my ass. I’ve never been able to view someone much farther away. Not like Hobbit stuff where wizards can see across continents. Maybe their water has something in it that ours doesn’t.”

“Well, closer than Mineola is a help.” And a whole lot of territory. How far could the wave have carried him? Or the dolphins towed him? Unless someone drove him in their car. “I need more to go on. What if you looked in the bathtub here? Could that help, you know, like sympathetic magic?”

“Can’t hurt to try.”

We waited for the tub to fill, then Joe leaned over the side, tightie-whities and all. “You’re right, the picture’s much clearer. Closer, too. Hey, I recognize those faucet
handles, crystal with jade inserts. They’re a special order from a company in Chicago. If they’re here in the harbor, I might have put them in. Of course, I’m not the only plumber to work in Paumanok Harbor, or the only one to have that company’s catalog.”

“But they are rare enough to make it a good chance the professor is in one of your clients’ houses?”

“I’d guess eighty percent.”

“Great. Which client?”

Joe scratched his head. “I can’t remember. I remember fixtures a lot better’n I remember names. I can check my records, but there’s a shitload of order forms and job estimates, and this one had to be from years ago.”

“Look again. Can you see the color of the tiles? Are there towels hanging nearby? What about a shower curtain?”

He almost fell into the tub, trying so hard. “I see white, like most bathrooms, except for that green rug. I might—Nope, it’s gone.”

“What’s gone? What did you see?”

“Flowers, maybe, maybe not. Sorry, Willy. And sorry I can’t remember about those faucets.”

“But you saw Professor Harmon, and that’s what’s important. Do you have the catalog, or can you draw me a picture of the faucets I can show around? Someone else might recognize them.”

They looked familiar to me, once I had the sketch in my hand. Maybe the power of suggestion had me wondering, or maybe I did catch a glimpse over Joe’s shoulder without realizing it. Either way, neither Joe nor I had a name or location.

I went back to Vincent. “Do we have anyone who can bring memories back?”

“The cops have Sodium Pentothal. That can work sometimes. Other drugs they might have confiscated here or there.”

“No cops, no drugs. I just need a memory unlocked, not someone babbling about all they know.”

“Then you need a shrink.”

Now I have been told I need to see a therapist more
than once. I went a few times, too. And yes, she wanted me to talk about my past and bring back memories I’d sooner forget. I stopped going. I got past a whole lot of insecurity and fear on my own. Now I glowed.

“I don’t think I can get Joe the plumber to a shrink. He’d talk to Doc Lassiter, but that won’t get him to remember where he installed those faucets.” Doc lived on Shelter Island, but he worked by touch, spreading mental wellness through his fingers. You couldn’t shake hands with the man without feeling better about yourself and your world. I’d love to see his aura someday. “I just need one lousy plumbing memory jogged.”

“I didn’t mean Joe needs his head examined, except for doing all that work for a little sex, but you need the kind of psychiatrist that works with past lives, buried memories, that kind of thing.”

Which I used to think was all a crock. Now I believed anything was possible.

Vincent went on: “Or maybe you could find a lounge act in Atlantic City or Las Vegas, you know, the magic show where they get people from the audience to do stupid things they don’t remember afterward. It can work both ways.”

“Hypnosis?” I rolled the word around in my head. Hip noses. Like someone wanting to hit my nose? Could that be what my father meant? Before I could call him or ask if anyone else knew a better way of finding the house with crystal-and-jade water faucets, Martha from the real estate office walked by.

Just the person I wanted to see! She’d been in half the houses in Paumanok Harbor at one time or another. Maybe she’d recognize the fixtures.

Martha wasn’t half as happy to see me. We had Issues. She did, anyway: Grant. She handled the purchase of the Rosehill estate for a Royce outreach center, and latched onto the handsome, wealthy, charming British lord as soon as I broke my not-quite-an-engagement to him. Did I mention wealthy? With the dip in the real estate business, Grant must have looked like Prince Charming to her. That’s how he looked to my mother, too. They
were both disappointed. Martha went to England, maybe meeting the parents, maybe going over plans to refurbish the estate and outbuildings, maybe trying to wheedle an invite to stay on in Britain.

She’d come back alone, and blamed me. I never talked about her to Grant, I swear. In fact, I was glad they’d hooked up for a while, so I didn’t have to feel bad about breaking up with him. He must have mourned my loss for a week and a half. Anyway, I knew his family wanted a Royce dynasty match for him. My genes might have done, since our talents, me as Visualizer, him as Translator, meshed nicely. All Martha could do was never get lost. She mightn’t know what street she was on, but she always knew true north, without a compass. I got turned around every time I backed out of a strange driveway. She impressed the hell out of me. Maybe she impressed Grant’s parents less.

I showed her the picture of the faucet handles.

She barely glanced at it. “Oh, you and your little projects.”

Little? The rogue wave/sea monster was anywhere from five stories to ten, depending on which eyewitness account you heard. I was not about to discuss a kraken in the middle of Main Street. “It’s an important clue to finding the missing passenger, Professor Harmon.”

“Harmon?” She looked more closely. “You know, I do recall seeing something like this, but it was ages ago, when the House got sold.”

“What house?”

She looked over her shoulder, then whispered, “You know, the House.”

Shit. Maybe bullshit, too. Martha might send me out to Paumanok Harbor’s haunted house for spite. No one lived there, no one went there, yet the taxes got paid, the mail disappeared from its door slot, and the grass got mowed. Oh, and the House yelled at anyone who tried to enter. Now the houses on either side of it stood empty. Who’d want to live next to a talking building?

“Are you sure about the faucets?”

She waved a well-manicured hand in my direction. “I see so many houses, you know.”

I knew she wanted to be a countess one day. Good luck. And don’t blame me. His lordship didn’t return my calls either.

I went back to Janie’s and found Joe upstairs.

“The House? Hell, no, I wouldn’t step foot in the place.”

Me neither.

I asked Mrs. Ralston at Town Hall to make copies of the faucets to hand around. Maybe a cop had been in the place a long time ago. It was a long shot, but worth a try.

The ogre at her side curled her lip. “Now you are wasting time and money and man hours looking for bathtub knobs? What kind of operation is this town running?”

Good question, lady. Wrong people to ask.