We all chuckled then continued eating our pizza.
My cell phone rang again. I set my pizza down and grabbed my cell reflexively, then paused. “Blocked again. This is aggravating.” But my curiosity won out.
What if it was a legitimate call?
“Hello?” I said.
“You’re the lucky winner, chosen...” I clicked it off.
“This is becoming annoying. And I can’t even block it without knowing their number.”
“The computer that drives that call may be programmed to call twice in case it was first disconnected,” said Betty
“She’s right,” said Hazel, nodding in agreement.
“You’re lucky one of those 1-900 callers hasn’t latched onto you,” said Martha. “Once you engage in conversation, they’ve got your number, charging you up the gazoo. Some hunky-sounding males say...”
“Martha!” chastised Hazel sternly.
“TMI,” responded Betty, shaking her head.
“You are the only one who finds them amusing,” I told her.
“Hey, they think I’m some twenty-something,” she said.
“And I wonder where they got that idea,” scoffed Hazel. Then she glanced at her watch. “We have two connecting flights to catch to get back to Highlands.”
Betty jumped up. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”
Martha got up reluctantly. “I guess we must leave, but we will be back in several days, Sam.”
They were going back to Highlands, North Carolina, to tie up loose ends before making a final move to New Hope, Pennsylvania. We had all decided we might try relocating to the hub of our recent sleuthing activity and take a stab at investigating full-time.
New Hope was an hour and fifteen minutes from New York City, a little further for JFK airport for Clay, about an hour from Philadelphia, two hours from the Pocono Mountains, and an hour-and-a-half from the Jersey shore. We were permanently moving to the center spoke of this potential wheel of monetary opportunity.
Continuing to try to work out of Highlands would prove difficult at best. Martha, Hazel, and Betty had retired when Clay sold his bookstore there, and I finally sold my antique store that was not far from it. Clay found it hard to be tied to one place, but New Hope was a pivot point where he could do his investigative work here in the U.S. and overseas.
Martha, Hazel, and Betty loved the historic village of New Hope, the excitement of investigative work, and its challenges to their gray matter, and had enthusiastically okayed the move.
Betty then claimed, “According to medicaldaily.com, women have a higher percentage of gray matter than men.”
“Which some scientists believe,” said Hazel, “may add to our cognitive ability to facilitate communication between analytical and intuitive processing modes.”
I eyed the three skeptically. “And your point is?”
Martha laughed. “That’s why we’re such good sleuths!”
Even though keeping up with them defied my sanity sometimes, our successes and my bestsellers resulting from our mysteries were partially influential in my yes decision.
The other part? I was good at this solving business.
So I embraced this erratic lifestyle I was swept into.
But recently I felt I needed a break and chose the Jersey shore for my personal time-out to have a private tête-à-tête with myself in my journal. I’d also document any and all noteworthy incidents for possible characters I could use in the future. My journal would be a sounding board for any and all impressions, for my eyes only.
Chapter 4
Defining Downtime
After they left, I walked briskly south on the boardwalk away from the commercial end. It was residential from my rental southward. This way I wouldn’t be hampered by the clusters of people, joggers, and walkers. Bicycles wouldn’t be a major issue either. After twelve noon, bikes weren’t allowed on the boardwalk, just pedestrians. By now it was after one.
Going north I’d be dodging people carrying food and congregating in groups at the wider business portion. All I wanted was to walk along the ocean without interruption.
Not wanting to be recognized, my long blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail and tucked into a baseball hat. Large sunglasses guaranteed my anonymity. Now don’t get me wrong, I adored my fans and greatly appreciated them, but this was my downtime. I wanted to make the most of it before my crew moved in with me and chaos erupted. It always did when they were around.
Halfway to the southern end of the boardwalk, I noticed there were several teardowns and new houses replacing the older ones, which reflected increasing demand for this fun beach resort, classic boardwalk food stands, ice cream, games, miniature golf, rides, two boardwalk amusement parks, restaurants, a movie theatre, and a music pier. The boardwalk was about two-and-a-half miles in length and flanked by commercial residential properties and the beach.
It was a dry town, no alcohol served or bring-your-own-bottle at any of the eateries. Knowing this from my previous visit, I was already prepared for whenever I craved a nice glass of wine with a well-stocked wine cooler to relax and check out the eye candy: good-looking bachelors. Other beach towns served alcohol at restaurants. Not Ocean City. Staying a dry town was very popular with the local voters, which explained its family popularity. No bars or taverns. Even though I was single, I understood and could appreciate why families felt safe in this environment as I observed baby carriages and carriers everywhere.
Dealing with summer traffic wasn’t too bad for getting around either. The island of Ocean City itself was eight miles long, with four bridges connecting it to the mainland and other beaches north and south. It was the largest barrier island in Cape May County. A north bridge connected to Longport, Margate, Ventnor, and Atlantic City. A south bridge led to Sea Isle City, Stone Harbor, and Avalon.
Not much farther, the southerly tip of New Jersey ended at Cape May, another popular destination. All along the New Jersey coastline there were other seaside resorts, of which many had boardwalks, some short, some long.
I noted permanent volleyball nets on the beach, and a few hotly contested games in play. Several kites were airborne, children hanging on tightly. An elderly couple passed by, smiled and nodded, their hands entwined as they ambled down the boardwalk.
Sweet.
I turned briefly and caught the man turn to his wife, gently kiss her cheek, and whisper a few words. They both laughed, gazing into each other’s eyes. Captivated by the sight, I went on walking backward, still watching them, and I picked up my pace.
That was my big mistake...
Chapter 5
Starry-eyed
When I blinked my eyes open I was still seeing stars. The Brazilian Ipe hardwood at the southern end of the boardwalk was indestructible, but not my head. I’d soon have a sizable lump. I gradually focused in on a few people leaning in, looking concerned, asking me questions. They were all speaking simultaneously. I blinked several more times for lucidity.
What had just happened?
One minute I’m walking, and the next, I’m flat out on my back, the wind knocked out of me. I honed in on the elderly gentleman bent down on one knee, holding my right hand, while patting it gently. He seemed vaguely familiar.
“Are you okay, miss?” he asked, looking concerned and dismayed.
“What happened?” I said, still catching my breath.
“I think you walked into me and my wife, accidentally.”
I painfully lifted my head, looking around. “Your wife?”
He turned his head and pointed to behind him. “Carla.”
A few people stepped aside so I could see her. “...Oh.”
Although still fuzzy, she stimulated a recent memory. I focused back to the older man who still held my hand, blinked again, then realized who he was: the jogger I’d noticed earlier, with his petite wife who sat in that unusual jogging carriage.
Of all the people to hit...
He helped me sit upright. After letting people k
now I was shaken, but okay, they moved on. But the man stayed to help me up to my feet. I adjusted my lopsided sunglasses and hat, gathered my thoughts, and looked over anxiously at the man’s wife.
Thankfully, she gave me a weak smile from her carriage.
“Don’t worry. Neither of us were injured,” the man reassured me. “That thing was specially built like a tank to protect her.”
I gave a sigh of relief. “I’m glad, but so sorry this happened. I should have been looking where I was going.”
“No harm done. Most exciting thing to happen today.”
I glanced over to his wife, who still wore that smile. Then I realized she wasn’t really paying attention to us at all. She had turned to gaze at the ocean, her expression holding that same fixed smile.
What was she really seeing? Memories? Maybe nothing.
I focused back on the older gentleman and stuck out my hand. “I’m Samantha...use your alias...Weber.”
When the reedy, senior gentleman unexpectedly gave a painfully firm grasp while we shook hands, it threw me completely.
He smiled. “Samantha Weber, huh?”
“Again, I’m so sorry for what happened here,” I said. “It was such a foolish and dangerous mistake on my part, with so many people around. I’m afraid I became momentarily distracted.”
“It’s okay. I’m Andrew Vincenti. Call me Andy.”
“Well, Andy, I’m sure glad there are no injuries or hard feelings for my clumsiness.”
He shook his head and smiled. “No harm done.”
He was about my height, just shy of five-foot-six, thinly built, with gray hair that was slicked back like in the 1950s. His skin was finely-wrinkled. Upon further observation, I noticed he had well-proportioned features, was clean-shaven, and had friendly eyes. His oversized shirt emphasized a slender, bent-over frame. Early seventies? I wasn’t sure.
His warm, engaging smile quickly put me at ease. The twinkle in his eye clearly indicated he didn’t miss a thing as his lips curved upward, while he checked me out at the same time. I felt embarrassed as he blatantly stared at me for several seconds, which felt like minutes.
He then winked. “You are one fine-looking woman.”
Somewhat flustered but flattered by his unanticipated comment, I smiled. “What a charmer you are. Thank you.”
“I call them as I see them,” he said teasingly.
I quickly glanced over to Carla.
Had she taken offense at Andy’s bold comment?
Apparently not. I took in her short, pixie-cut gray hair. She was a small wisp of a woman with a frail frame, and listed slightly toward the side of the carriage, still smiling that glassy-eyed look, and staring at the ocean or whatever else she was seeing from her perch in that jogging carriage.
Chapter 6
Another Blip On My Radar
After a few more pleasantries, we parted and I continued walking south again. At the end of the boardwalk I tapped the top railing for good luck (a tradition held by many), then reversed direction and headed back, reflecting about what a coincidence it was to have collided with the one couple on the whole boardwalk I found fascinating.
Had I also collided with a future potential backstory?
Sometimes fate played a hand in what I fell into. In this case, I’d have to take that literally. Would I spot them again? Probably. Would I get a chance to possibly delve a little further into their storyline without seeming intrusive? Perhaps. In the meantime, this incident would provide me with something worth pursuing to add into my journal.
Two intriguing characters for a future mystery.
I inserted my key into the door lock and disarmed the house. About to remove my sneakers at the bench inside, I paused. I’d forgotten to check inside the mailbox for any forwarded mail. Although it might be too early, I went back anyway and pulled the latch open. Nothing there but a small envelope. I was about to grab it when a gusty ocean breeze blew it from the edge of the mailbox and onto the ground. I reached down to pick it up, pried the flap loose, pulled out a folded note, and opened it up to read.
You are the lucky one chosen...
That was it. Nothing more.
I stood there a second, trying to process what I had read. I thought back to those two odd phone calls I received on my cell while Martha, Hazel, and Betty were still here. My usual paranoia abruptly came into play.
Now, what were the odds the two incidents were linked?
I quickly flipped it over for a return address, hoping for some kind of junk-mail company to dismiss my suspicious thoughts. There wasn’t anything else on it. No name. No address. There wasn’t any postage on the envelope either.
Someone had physically placed it inside my mailbox.
I surreptitiously glanced around me to see if anyone was watching from a distance. I looked up to the boardwalk for any bystander lingering by the bench at the top of the ramp, maybe pausing to tie their sneakers: a common occurrence I saw often and would be a great excuse to pretend to stop.
Nobody.
Was I making too much of the two incidents by thinking they might be connected to each other? I knew I tended to make mental leaps that often got me into trouble. I might be making one now. I stared at it. It could be something. It could be nothing. But just in case, I’d keep it. I promised myself I’d document everything that happened to me and all that I observed. This note qualified as an unusual journal entry and interesting to boot. It might be important later.
My first lesson learned and journal entry?
The devil is in the details. Pay attention to them.
Chapter 7
Reaching Back & Reeling In
I paused, gazing at the ocean, my journal resting on my knee, pen in hand. I was sitting on a wicker chaise lounge on the bedroom deck, about to add more thoughts, having penned my boardwalk collision and mailbox incidents.
My Journal
...Occasionally, a passerby called out to me from the boardwalk, asking if my three story house was just as pretty on the inside as it was from the outside.
I would patiently smile and nod, make quick small talk then they’d move on and I’d go back to writing, which worked just fine. Being located right on the boardwalk, people were bound to touch base with me out there on the deck. After all, this place was a people-friendly town.
So I accepted the privacy-negative of this happening, which outweighed the positives of being so close to the beach with access to the boardwalk and all it had to offer.
I remember a beach I’d been on when I was little. I had my bucket and shovel and was playing in the sand. I jumped when something black, about six inches long washed ashore near my toes, becoming wedged in the sand beneath two inches of rippled, yet starkly clear seawater.
My parents were on their beach blanket talking, while keeping a constant eye on me, as I did them. They waved and smiled. I waved back. Their watchfulness comforted me and made me confident. Confident enough to dig under the creature that had washed upon the beach, materializing before me, now half buried in the quickly sinking sand.
I scooped it up with my shovel and threw it in my bucket before it was completely buried for closer scrutiny without risking getting bitten by this exotic creature from the sea.
(I pause, laughing. Even then I was cautious. I still am.)
I remember blinking in astonishment. This creature from the deep was not alive. It wasn’t dead either. It was a black rubber toy in the shape of a small lizard and had washed up to the shore for me to discover that sunny, balmy day.
I rinsed it off, this prize I had found, and took it back with me later that afternoon to the house my parents had rented for the week. I kept that toy lizard for years, but had forgotten all about it until this very moment.
Funny, how inconsequential things suddenly resurface, memories that were long forgotten until something like the resurging surf, salt-laden air, or a child laughing in the background brought it all rushing back in one clear-cut memory, like it happened just yest
erday.
I set my pen down, still gazing down at my journal. Not bad, for a start, to delve into whatever popped into my head. I must’ve been smiling to myself at recalling that incident, because I was suddenly conscious of someone staring at me from the boardwalk and looked up to see who it was.
How long had he been standing there, staring at me?
“A penny for your thoughts,” he said, somewhat amused as he leaned against the boardwalk railing that faced me. His confidence was evident in his cocky, yet casual stance when he leaned in to talk to me, almost intimate, but not quite. As though he was in the habit of being flirtatious.
And after noticing his looks, I figured he probably was.
He seemed about my age, in his thirties, and, from what was visible of him (he only wore bathing trunks), he was in terrific shape. Better still, his sun-streaked brown hair and rugged good looks, along with that dimple right smack in the middle of his chin, were very easy on the eyes.
Pleased with my self-perspective progress, I welcomed this nice-looking interruption.
Hey, an individual always has time to flirt.
As far as I was concerned, it was part of what went along with this whole retreat idea. Taking in and absorbing what was around me. Relaxing and enjoying it.
I can truly say, I was enjoying the sight before me too.
“They don’t come cheap,” I countered, amused.
He looked up at the three story house that had two decks and a lower patio and whistled. “Is all this yours?”
I nodded. “Yup, for four whole weeks.”
He laughed. “Ah, you’re renting.”
“How astute, observing that tidbit,” I said, chuckling.
“Well, my name is Evan Cabot. And yours?”
“My name is Samantha...” I paused. I’d give the same last name I gave Andy. I wouldn’t trip up on my own real first name. And by doing it this way, I was with any luck guaranteed anonymity with my fake last one.
Too Close For Comfort (Samantha Jamison Mystery Book 9) Page 15
