Tales of the Witch (6 page)

The witch and Lizette walked off together, leaving Black Dan, Chef Vinnie, Rick, and the police officer to sort out what to do with Tully, who was stammering out a long involved explanation of the switchblade they’d found strapped to his ankle.

Behind the hotel manager’s desk, the witch stood by while Lizette unlocked her security box and retrieved the package, which she thrust at the witch as if it contained vipers. Then the witch took her by hand and marched her upstairs to Mr. Tully’s room. The door still stood ajar, the way Lizette had left it before being intercepted earlier by the witch.

“What are we doing here?” Lizette whispered hoarsely.

Without answering, the witch scanned the room, located Tully’s meager piece of luggage—actually a gym bag containing a few articles of clothing—and after scrubbing with her skirt at the brown paper wrapping of the package, dropped it neatly within the folds of a pair of boxer shorts. She shuddered as she closed the bag with her long fingernails. “Disgusting specimen, that Tully,” was all she said.

The sickly smell of raw duck meat was beginning to fill the room from where it lay defrosting in neat, waxed paper packages scattered all over Tully’s bed.

Grabbing Lizette by the wrist, the witch peered cautiously into the deserted hallway, then pulled the girl roughly through the door. Together they hastened downstairs.

As they emerged through the door to the outdoor bar, “Fix your hair, dear,” the witch murmured. “Look as if you just freshened yourself up.” She released Lizette’s wrist and calmly joined the curious throng now surrounding Tully.

The witch gave Barton Peacock a sharp tap on his shoulder. “Have you forgotten to check out his room?”

“OH. Oh, YES. Officer, officer. He’s checked in at my hotel. We should at least take a look at his room. Maybe something there will help us figure out what kind of game he’s been playing.” Barton Peacock led the police officer and the group towards the hotel lobby.

Before very long, the witch was gratified to see a handcuffed Tully being led towards a patrol car that had pulled into the parking lot moments before.

A beaming, though slightly dazed Black Dan, and a triumphant Rick sauntered over to where the witch and Lizette were now sitting at the bar.

With a self-conscious swagger that the witch considered quite pardonable, Rick returned to his post behind the bar and began polishing glasses. “That guy tried to tell us that Lizette was mixed up in his scam, whatever it was, do you believe that? What a scumbag.” He shook his head.

The witch smiled fondly at him. Rick smiled sheepishly at Lizette, who bit her lip. She was blinking hard, as if something was irritating her eyes. Mrs. Risk murmured, “I’d ask Lizette for a date again, if I were you, Rick. I think she feels better now.”

Black Dan said to the witch, “We found the missing ducks up in Tully’s room, can you imagine that? What in creation would be his interest in OUR ducks? Peculiar.”

“Maybe he had a duck fetish,” put in Rick.

Black Dan looked skeptical, but the witch said, “We may never fully understand the actions of Mr. Tully. But then, people do very odd things.” She smiled demurely. “I’ve been accused of that, myself.”

Black Dan grinned at her. “Yes, well, they unearthed a very interesting package wrapped in brown paper that the cop wouldn’t let us see very closely. He seemed excited about it, though. I think we’ve seen the last of both Tully and him.”

“We’ve also seen the last of your curse. I can positively reassure you that you’ve broken that curse and you may consider it no longer in effect against your entire family forever.”

Black Dan’s eyes widened. “Is that so?” He took a deep, relieving breath and gazed with pleasure at the people and scenery surrounding them. He smacked a palm flat against the bar. “Break out a bottle of our best champagne, Rick. I’m going to call my wife and ask her to join us. The curse is over!”

The witch accepted a glass. “Rest assured, Dan Harrington. I would’ve hated to see such a pleasant establishment leave Wyndham-by-the-Sea. And I will be most delighted to meet MRS. Harrington.”

“L
ET’S GET THIS
meeting going, folks, we got business to attend, and then something I think you’re all gonna be interested in—” The gavel which Mayor Harold Harper had been banging on the scarred oak table in a steady rhythm, like percussion punctuation, slipped out of his hands. As he stooped with an ‘oof’ to retrieve it, none of the Wyndham-by-the-Sea Board of Village Trustees could distinguish the rest of his words, but they didn’t care. They were too busy twisting in their seats, eyeing the young man sitting towards the back of the large, mostly empty room.

Muscular youths in tight blue jeans, black motorcycle boots, and leather jackets with little chains on the pockets worn over artfully ripped white tee shirts were not an unknown item in tourist-ridden Wyndham. But they were rare at Village Board meetings.

Sensing the mood of his audience, the mayor raced through formalities and reports and stopped on a dime at the point: “This young man, uh Mark Daniels is his name, is the personal manager—” here he paused to garner the attention of all the board members. An unnecessary ploy—they were rabid with curiosity. “—the personal manager of…Phantom. You folks know that name, I’m sure…the rock star?”

Only nine ladies and gentlemen sat on the board this term, but the hiss of their accumulated intaken breaths would have brought credit to the entire reptile house at the Bronx Zoo. Only one hapless soul asked, quaveringly, “Who…?” He was ignored.

“We’re faced tonight with an opportunity, it seems. But I’ll let my friend Mark, here, explain. Mark?”

Skip Dolan rose, paused for an extra dose of oxygen and a last reminder to think of himself from here on in as ‘Mark Daniels’, and ambled to the front. He stepped up onto the plywood elevated platform that served to remind the board that the mayor—although short in stature—was a man of importance, and faced the Board members. He nodded a thank you and smiled warmly at Mayor Harper, and then at the nine. Then he spoke:

“My boss, as you probably heard, covers the entire world on his concert tours. He believes, you know, in doing his part for democracy, bringing other countries the message through his music, you know…like an ambassador. Only not paid by the government.” He smiled again. They beamed back, obviously taken with the idea of an unpaid ambassador spreading the message of democracy.

“Well, as much as he loves everybody, loves democracy and the world, he gets so worn down that he has to get away now and then. You know. Away from people who all want to—to shake his hand, that kind of thing. It gets so he’s like a prisoner of his fame. And so, a friend of his told him about this cute little village, being so pretty and right on the water of Long Island Sound and everything, and he thought it’d be a great place to have a house. A real home, where he could sorta hide away from everyone and get himself back together. So he can do more tours, more shows, you know. He sent me to look it over and talk to you guys…that kinda thing.”

“A house?” repeated one of the Trustees, a compact dark man with black and grey stubble on his cheeks. Doctor Villas. He looked doubtful.

A tall dapper man with sleek silver hair, named Mr. Harder, snapped to attention. He owned a realty firm.

“What about drugs, booze, screaming parties, that sort of thing?” put in a tall woman. Ms. Bellwood. She owned a bookstore and valued the peace and quiet of Wyndham.

“Oh, no, ma’am. He doesn’t even smoke, for his voice.”

A few people nodded to each other and commented on how nice Phantom’s voice really was.

Skip waited until they settled down. “You see, when I say he gets tired, I mean he gets dead tired. Almost like sick. He’d be more interested in healthy food, quiet breezes, swimming in Long Island Sound, and no noise to disturb
him
. His nerves get shot, ma’am.” He paused and everyone waited expectantly.

“If you and I can reach an agreement, I’m supposed to scout out and buy property for him, hire a contractor, and all that. Construct a place for him tailored to his special needs. He wouldn’t be interested in any house already built. Like, I’d have to fix him up a sound studio. Don’t worry about the noise, though, that’s sound proofed so even he couldn’t hear himself in the next room.”

The board members tittered at the thought that he couldn’t hear himself.

The mayor cleared his throat. “And, Mark, where would Phantom get these materials, these contractors, the workmen, supplies, and so on? His food and services?” he asked, speaking with a heavy significance.

“Why, right here in Wyndham, mayor. Like we discussed before the meeting.”

Mayor Harper turned to the board and smiled meaningfully. “Got that, folks? Here in Wyndham. Where unemployment’s been godawful these last two years. Even the tourists been stayin’ home in times like these. Think of it. First the land, then a
mansion
—with all the accouterments—” (His eyebrows wiggled gleefully. He owned a hardware store.) “—housekeepers, groceries, gardeners, landscaping, God only knows. Spreadin’ his money around here for years. Forever, if we keep him happy.”

“And how do we keep him happy?” asked the doctor sourly.

The mayor, who’d never liked the doctor, leaned forward ponderously. “By keeping our damned traps shut, my dear sir. No gossip. He wants privacy and plenty of it.”

“But the publicity!” a lady in the second row with suspiciously bright red hair cried out. She edited the village’s local weekly newspaper. “Tourism could explode here if we could take advantage of his presence.”

“Great,” said Skip with a grimace. “People’d be climbing his gates. He’d have to hire bodyguards to get him in and out of the house. He’d be just as much a prisoner here as on tour.

“Listen, folks. People get mad if he’s not good natured with them every second. They stick their noses in his lunch, then complain how stuck up he is if he tries to move over. I know, ’cause he has to do it every day on tour. Think about it. Wouldn’t that drive you people nuts? If he doesn’t find a place to go, a place just to be quiet and rest, he’ll go stark raving crazy. Do you know where he has to go to get away nowadays? Like a vacation? He checks into a hospital.”

“No.” Ms. Bellwood, was aghast.

“Yes,” insisted Skip. He knew it was true because he’d read all about it in the newspaper while eating a snack in Atlantic City. He’d been struck then by how sad that was. “He wants to stroll down into the village and shop, just live quiet, like everybody else.”

“Hear that?” put in the mayor eagerly. “He wants to shop!”

“But—” the red-haired lady began again.

A man in a suit of obvious foreign cut and astronomical cost, a Board member who hadn’t spoken before—Mr. Drexel—held up a single finger, which silenced her. It silenced everybody. He held the second highest executive position in Wyndham’s single industrial business—which paid the majority share of village taxes. He nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard that, about the hospital. It’s true.”

Mayor Harper grimaced at him. Deferring to others didn’t come easily to the mayor. “You’re right, sir. You’re a wonderful judge of character, as we all know. When you meet him, you won’t get over just how plain, down-to-earth Phantom really is,” continued the mayor expansively to the entire Board, draping one arm over Skip’s shoulder in a brotherly fashion.

“How would you know?” asked the doctor skeptically.

“Why, Mark told me. True?” he asked Skip.

“Oh, true,” said Skip. He smiled again. His cheeks were beginning to ache.

“Well, great, but you can’t hide him here forever. People’ll recognize him. Word’ll get out,” said the doctor.

“If you don’t think you can do it…” Skip shrugged doubtfully.

“Now hang on. You know what? We won’t wait for people to find out, we’ll tell them.” The mayor leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “We’ll get the whole village in on it. He promises to spend his money here—well, we’ll promise to keep his presence to ourselves. Totally. It’s the only humane thing to do.”

“We could adopt him,” said Ms. Bellwood, standing in her enthusiasm. She had a kind face, thought Skip. And she was attractive for a middle-aged lady, he thought further. Nice body for a thirty year old.

“That’s a great idea,” declared the mayor. “We’ll
adopt
him. Phantom will be Wyndham’s Secret Son. I think people’ll like thinking about him that way. He needs us to help him rest and recuperate. We’ll make sure he gets his slightest wish fulfilled. We’ll make his life here…a joy. An absolute joy.”

“And he’ll pay for it,” said the doctor.

The mayor eyed him suspiciously, but the doctor seemed agreeable. Then again, Mayor Harper thought, doctors usually were agreeable about money. As were mayors, sighed Mayor Harper truthfully to himself, but only to himself.

A short man with white hair lifted a timorous hand as he rose from his seat and began making his way to the front. “You’ll be wanting to talk with me, young man.”

The mayor said, “Ah, yes. May I introduce Horace Arsdale—our banker, Mark.”

After more discussion, endless questions which Skip answered patiently, and then handshaking and introductions all around, he left with Mr. Arsdale clinging to his arm.

Skip’s facial muscles twitched all night in his sleep from strain, but he was at Mr. Arsdale’s bank early the next day, regardless.

Mr. Arsdale beamed as brightly as the spring sun as he retrieved Skip’s check for $45,000 from his desk, with Skip’s parting words ringing majestically in his ears: “This’s just a small token to open the account until the boss transfers building funds, and of course his living funds, from his regular bank.”

Mr. Arsdale had been positively thrilled to approve Phantom’s unsecured loan for a private residence. Everybody knew Phantom. In his mind, Mr. Arsdale feasted on the future delights of a friendship with this international celebrity. Horace M. Arsdale—banker to the stars. Harry and Phantom—pals.

To save time, Skip took Ernie Block, a local builder he’d hired on Mayor Harper’s recommendation, with him when his realty agent, Conrad Harder, Jr., (beloved only son of Mr. Harder the Trustee) drove him to see the first piece of property. Since the property didn’t border Long Island Sound, Skip rejected it immediately.