Trolls in the Hamptons (30 page)

“Why don't you go back to where you belong and stop poking into other people's business?”

I wanted to call the guy—it sounded like a man or a woman trying to disguise her voice—and tell him to join the twenty-first century and learn about caller ID. The calls were being monitored. Someone would pay the crank a visit soon.

Another message came from someone desperate for a dog handler, then an automated reminder that the hydrants would be flushed next week—I guess I knew where Fafhrd would be—and a call from someone suspicious about the Patchen girl's coming wedding. The groom's nephew was going to be ring bearer; the groom was an only child. If we were looking for a little boy, we should check it out.

I made a note to stop by the church on Sunday to see the ceremony.

I also got a call from Officer Donovan Gregory. Van was coming to Montauk, after all. One of his buddy's wives had to cancel and so he agreed to share the reserved motel room. I should call him back on his cell if I was interested in dinner or something. We wouldn't discuss the case, of course.

Jackpot! An escort to the library thing. I called back, he said he was glad I did, which was gratifying, but he wasn't leaving Manhattan until after his shift tonight. He'd never get here in time. He was really looking forward to seeing me, though, in addition to three days of fishing, golfing, and drinking. So I was right up there with a striped bass and a bottle of beer. Great. I couldn't complain, though, not when I'd wanted a friend beside me in the gathering of snobby strangers.

We agreed on Monday afternoon, when the cops were planning time at the beach with their families. I couldn't stay late because of the dogs. I didn't invite him out to Rosehill because of my scruples about not sleeping with more than one guy at a time. Besides, I wanted to look over the yachts in Montauk, maybe hand flyers out at the marinas. “See you then.”

“I'm looking forward to it.”

So was I, actually. Van was a genuinely nice man, with no threats, no questions. Best of all, he was normal. I really, really needed normal.

I called Cousin Lily next, to ask about progress with her daughter. There was no baby yet, but Cousin Lily felt the full moon ought to do it.

Connie was giving birth to a werebaby?

“Gravity, Willow. Don't you know anything?”

About babies? No.

Louisa called and asked me to lunch at her house next Tuesday, so I guess I'd learn more then. I couldn't remember if she said she had two or three kids already, with another one imminent. Gads, what if she went into labor while I was there? I'd push the panic button on my cell phone, that's what I'd do. If the Department of Unexplained Events couldn't handle a baby, what good were they?

So now I had a full social calendar. If I lived through the book party.

 

I wrestled with my hair for another hour. Then with Red. He didn't want to wear the tuxedo-bow collar my mother had for him. Or the muzzle. What was he, a sissy pit bull? The poodles would laugh at him. He didn't want to stay home, either, latching onto the hem of my one good dress. We compromised. I tied the bow collar to my pocketbook, and put the muzzle inside it.

I couldn't believe it, but I had to pay just to get into the tent behind the library. My mother never mentioned that.

“It's all for charity, dear,” a white-haired lady at the gate told me. “To help the poor doggies find good homes.”

So I offered her Red. I'd even toss in another fifty.

“Oh no, dear. I have cats.”

So? Red got along with cats as badly as he got along with everyone else. I paid and carried him in. For the fifty bucks I got either a glass of Perrier or wine, and some brown pasty stuff on a cracker. Red liked it.

Then I got to stand around on a long line waiting for Mom's friend to sign her name, after I paid another forty-five dollars for the big coffee-table, full-color, photography book. Mom never mentioned that, either. According to the jacket cover, Dawn, the friend, had done the writing. An arty type in a white linen suit with a braided queue down his back and a pound of pretension on his narrow shoulders had taken the pictures. He stood behind the author, shaking hands, making small talk, greeting everyone, it seemed, by name.

Not quite half the crowd was in costume. I saw two Sherlocks, a Great Gatsby, maybe Scarlett O'Hara, Captain Ahab, Elizabeth Bennett or some other Regency belle, and Darth Vader. I guess a bunch of people emptied their Halloween boxes, because there were a couple of Draculas and one Frankenstein monster mixed in with the Lily Pulitzer ladies and the yellow cardigan gents. Oops. They weren't in costume. Everyone was juggling their glasses and plates of paté while kissing the air around each other.

Dawn Elliot turned out to be a heavyset woman with poor eyesight and a lot of bling. Enough to pay to get the book published, I figured, since I'd never heard of the publisher. I knew gloating was unworthy of me, but I couldn't helping noticing that I had a lot more people waiting for me to sign my books at the last comic book convention I attended in Manhattan. Some even brought my old books, from their personal collections, for me to sign. God knows how many fans I'd have met at the big conference in California. Planes? Crowds? Dining alone? I stuck with Manhattan.

When I got near enough to have Dawn sign, she asked, “What character are you, dear?”

“Oh, I am pretending to be Rose Tate's daughter, but I'm not really.”

Mrs. Elliot gave a yelp, jumped to her feet, and threw her fleshy arms around me. At which Red, also in my arms, along with the heavy book and the glass of water, panicked. He sank his teeth into the flesh of my biceps, and then either he peed on me or the frigging water spilled. I couldn't be sure, but there was still plenty of liquid in the glass. I was wet and in pain, probably bleeding on the forty-five-dollar book, and being smothered by sagging skin and sinus-clogging perfume.

“I looove your mother! She encouraged me to write the book. and it has changed my life. And I have heard so much about you. We must get together and discuss the publishing world.”

Sure. Like we had anything in common. I collected my book, after the photographer signed it, too, unasked. He handed me his card. He did pet portraits if I wanted Little Red immortalized. I wanted Little Red stuffed at this moment, but I took the card, smiled, and tried to leave the crowded tent.

A woman with a microphone stopped me. She nodded toward a cameraman behind her and said they were from the local TV station. I thought she said “eh,” but she must have meant East Hampton. “Isn't this a wonderful event?” she cooed, shoving the microphone in my direction. Red snapped at it.

“Terrific.” I held up the book and smiled for the camera. “And the money goes to such worthwhile causes.” I held up the Pomeranian, who growled for the camera.

“It does? That is, of course it does. I saw Dawn give you a big welcome. Are you anybody? That is, who are you supposed to be?”

“I'm actually not in costume. I'm Willow Tate from Paumanok Harbor and I write books myself, under the pseudonym Wi—”

“Oh, look, there's a troubadour. And a Tyrolean. Is that a famous trombone player? Quick, Larry, get a picture of that clever Trojan horse. No, the toreador.”

I wonder what the camera would show, because I doubted anyone else could see Fafhrd juggling ice cubes from the buckets that cooled the wine and water bottles.

I blew him a kiss like a Hollywood star, and left.

I bought Red and myself an ice cream sundae on the way home.

 

The big dogs were glad to see me—and the melted ice cream I'd saved for them. I was happy to see them, too. They weren't half as snooty as they looked.

I was happier to hear Grant's message on my answering machine. “Good catch, Willy. You're brilliant, but we already knew that, didn't we? Your friend Borsack was near the Institute at the same time Nicky Ryland's mother brought him to Royce. Borsack was visiting his psychotic wife—I might have worked with her, although I don't recall—but who knows what he overheard about the boy. His boat has left Montauk, with no description available, which leads us to believe he's got some kind of mind control working, which marks him as our perp. The Coast Guard's been alerted. I am waiting for a sketch of Borsack, his police record, his psi standing if it's documented, and positive identification from the injured nanny in Georgia. With that kind of proof I can get an arrest warrant and an APB across the country. You did great. Want a job?”

I wanted him back.

 

I went to the wedding Sunday. The church part, anyway. I hadn't heard any connection to Borsack, but that story about the ring bearer did seem odd. Grandma was invited, so I drove with her.

The local church, which was whimsically nicknamed Our Lady of The Clamshell, was all festooned in that gauzy wedding material, with bows on every candle sconce, drapes of it swagged from pew to pew.

Grandma nodded to everyone she knew in the congregation, which was almost everyone, but she kept looking at the picture of Nicky I had in my lap. “What will we do if it looks like him?”

I noted the “we” and the quaver in her voice. For once Grandma Eve seemed uncertain of herself, maybe even fallible. I liked her better for that. “We don't do anything until later, when we try to talk to him. I'm hoping we'll know before then somehow.”

The organ music grew louder. Everyone hushed. Ushers brought in the mothers. Grandma whispered that the Patchen sisters were matrons of honor. Then came the boy in a miniature tuxedo, his hair slicked over big protruding ears. He seemed very serious about his job, looking down at the pillow he carried with the rings tied to it.

“What do you think?”

I couldn't tell. Neither could Fafhrd. He scooped the boy up for a better look. The kid screamed and grabbed onto the nearest bow, taking down the streamers, the swags, the flowers, and more when Fafhrd put him back on the ground.

“Damn,” someone behind me said, “the kid tripped on the tulle.”

Now he was draped in an acre of it, crying. The groom raced down the aisle and picked him up, hugging him and kissing the top of his head and unwrapping him. The choirmaster came to help and carried the boy out, leaving the groom holding the ring pillow.

The young man, with his slicked-back hair and big, protuberant ears, looked around at the gaping crowd. “All right, he's my son. I never married his mother, but that doesn't mean I don't love him. If anyone has any objections to his being here—”

“Speak now or forever hold your peace,” the best man shouted from the altar.

“No,” the groom yelled back, bending over. “You can kiss my ass.”

While the wedding guests laughed, or cried, he walked back up to the front of the church to wait for the bride.

 

“Nice wedding, wasn't it?”

“Lovely. I can't remember one I've enjoyed more. Have fun at the reception.”

I went back to Rosehill to wait for Grant.

 

He sent me another email instead. This one had a picture of Borsack's boat, the
Painted Lady
, from its registration documents. He warned me that the yacht might look different or have another name; so might Borsack. The Feds were pretty sure he was guilty of something to come up with that much money. No one was certain he had Nicky, or if he'd killed the two babysitters. He was a known chemistry expert, which fit, too. Now they had specialists analyzing the surviving woman's blood for esoteric illegal drugs and her mind for paranormal interference. She'd talk more if they could counter Borsack's machinations and methods.

Grant closed his note by saying that he would be in the field, out of communication, until midweek, but the whole mess would be over soon. Then we could make plans.

For what? I wanted to know. Plans for what?

 

I had plans of my own. Van wasn't the same, but he was a good substitute. I'd forgotten how handsome he was, how buff in his NYPD T-shirt and denim shorts, and how easygoing. He'd sightsee, hike, rent bikes, sit at one of the outdoor bars listening to live music, or lie in the sun, as long as he could spend time with me.

Cool.

I chose sightseeing. With Borsack's yacht gone from Montauk, visiting the marinas was useless, and Van had gone fishing Sunday anyway. Now I drove Van out to the Point to see the Montauk Lighthouse, required of any visitor to the East End. Busloads of tourists waited to climb the steep steps, look at George Washington's signature on the original deed in the museum, and buy nautical tchotchkes in the gift shop. We passed on that, but drove slowly past the really impressive sight. Then I took him to Ditch Plains, Montauk's famous surfing beach. It was mobbed, but a truck had boards for rent.

“Do you know how?” I asked. “Want to try?”

He laughed. “A black dude from Brooklyn? No way. Besides, I put one toe in the water yesterday. It's still too cold. The surfers are all wearing wet suits.”

We got smoothies from the snack wagon on the beach and sat on the rock jetty to watch.

Van watched me. “I like what you've done with your hair.”

“What, the dumb blonde look?”

“Not dumb. Just not so studious now, not so intimidating.”

Me? Intimidating? Hell, I was afraid of getting swept off the rocks, getting swept off my feet by his attention, and of everything else that could happen to my life.

He reached out to touch one of the ragged blonde edges I'd let curl this morning. “You look younger, happier. Like you belong at the beach in the sunshine.”

“But I don't. I belong in the city, writing in my little apartment.” Where I was safe.