Sand Witches in the Hamptons (9781101597385)

by Jerome, Celia

  I looked at him. “See how smart? He knows we aren’t going to figure this out unless we concentrate on it.”

  “I thought we were doing fine.”

  “Not that, the sand.”

  Matt sighed. “Yeah, the police chief and the mayor keep nagging at me to get you working on the problem.”

  My grandmother, too, I told him. And how they were having a big council meeting on Monday morning to hear what I’d discovered. Which was almost nothing, except how Matt’s brown eyes had dancing gold flecks in them, and how his smile made me happy to be wherever he was. And how I thought the Andanstans caused the rashes, to get our attention so we’d give their sand back. “I just don’t know where to start if I can’t find Oey, and can’t get these guys to talk.” I poured the sand through my fingers and back into the plastic bag to return to the beach; I was not stealing any more of their turf.

  “Let’s start with lunch,” Matt decided. He was always hungry, but I guess he’d missed breakfast, too.

  Moses perked his ears up. He recognized the word “lunch,” at least.

  So we went into town to pick up sandwiches at Joanne’s deli. We parked near the library, so we went in there first, to fectch whatever books old Mrs. Terwilliger had for us. You never knew what the eldritch elder librarian kept on reserve for you, or why, but you usually needed it. Today she had a stack of books about writing and illustrating children’s stories for me. And one called Whose House Is It? which was about adult women living with their mothers. Nothing about sand, stalkers, or skin conditions. Her rash from a paper cut was all healed up. Matt’s cat scratch dermatitis was barely visible. Or touchable. I checked. Twice.

  Mrs. Terwilliger gave Matt a book about office management and three résumés from local people Mrs. Terwilliger personally recommended.

  “But I just hired a new receptionist,” he said. “I don’t need these.”

  Mrs. Terwilliger gave him a schoolmarm stare over her reading glasses. “You will.”

  I had to agree. Matt seemed to go through office staff like Donald Trump through apprentices. No one had been there longer than a week or two since his niece left, after helping hack into the village computers to embezzle the municipal funds. She might have been hypnotized at the time, but the hellcat wreaked havoc in Paumanok Harbor and among Matt’s clients. Part of the problem since then was that Matt hired people he felt sorry for, or wanted to help, not the most capable, most dedicated, most loyal, or most knowledgeable about small animals. And he never fired anyone. They got arrested or they quit, usually in a tantrum or in tears. In desperation, he’d hired an outside bookkeeping company, but he still needed a front desk person.

  I already figured I’d be helping out, since I’d contributed to his last receptionist’s departure. I’d ask later who he hired this time and read the résumés myself.

  We walked past Vincent the barber’s, who gave us a thumbs up through his shop’s glass front. Yes, we both had clear auras; yes, Vincent thought we looked good together.

  Walter the pharmacist ran out of the drugstore to hand us both small brown bags. “No charge,” he yelled as he ran back in to wait on the customer he’d left at the counter. I knew without looking what the bag contained. Walter always knew when a customer—or a couple—needed protection. Matt peeked in his and grinned. Yup, we were both going to get lucky tonight.

  At the deli, Joanne gave me lentil soup and a muffin instead of the healthy salad I thought I should have. The soup was perfect for a mid-October day when the sky clouded over, like now. Joanne handed Matt a turkey salad sandwich, while he still contemplated the menu board. That was Joanne’s gift, to know what her customers wanted before they did, just like the librarian and the druggist. She wrapped up a hot dog for Moses.

  No one else was in the store, so I could ask, “You know what the dog wants, too?”

  “No, he always wants a hot dog.”

  “God, I love this town,” Matt said when we left. “You never know what’s around the corner, or on someone’s mind. Life is an adventure here, not a ho-hum slog.”

  I could do with less adventure, myself, and a lot less of everyone knowing my business. I wish Matt didn’t like the place so much. He’d never move, especially now that he could see the magic.

  I hoped one of us could see the Andanstans.

  Matt drove us to the same beach I’d been at this morning, to return the sand and see if he or Moses spotted anything I’d missed. They didn’t, but Moses chased the seagulls away from our blanket before they could mooch any of our lunch.

  After that, we tried several other beaches along the shoreline; all suddenly narrow, with sharp drop-offs in the water. Moses went swimming. He didn’t report any conversations with the sandy bottom, just wanted another hot dog. I was glad we had Matt’s car.

  He was still glad he lived in such a marvelous place with the gorgeous scenery and open spaces, where he could spend time with his dog. And me. With the wind in his hair and the grin on his face, he looked like he belonged here. Rugged, a little uncivilized, but natural and unique and happy.

  On the way back toward town we stopped at a house on Shearwater Street, usually referred to, in fear and avoidance, as the House. No one lived there, yet the lawn got mowed, the taxes got paid, and trespassers—be they kids selling Girl Scout cookies, Jehovah’s Witnesses, census takers, or real estate agents—all got yelled at, insulted, or pummeled with junk catalogs through the mail slot.

  But the House talked to me and Matt last month. Actually, it sang, giving helpful hints like where to look for the missing professor and how to stymie the hypnotist. But not today. The place looked as tidy as ever, yet somehow it felt less inhabited. No one answered Matt’s knock on the door, or my shouted, “Hello.” No one responded to the pictures I held up, the messages I tried to send mentally. On the other hand, no one threw things at us, set the shingles to shuddering, or caused the porch boards to collapse with us on them.

  I kind of missed the weird, and the help. Matt muttered in disappointment. “Maybe we should try singing to it?”

  Oh, yeah, stand on the sadistic porch serenading an empty house. At least no one could see us, since the houses on both sides were empty. No one wanted to live next door to a haunted Colonial. We tried “Home on the Range,” “Walking My Baby Back Home,” and “The House that Grew Me.” The results had Moses yowling, but the House stayed silent. I pushed a card with my phone number on it through the mail slot, just in case.

  After that, we tried a couple more beaches before driving east toward Montauk, where the sinking cruise ship had heeled over on its side. On the trip there, we talked. We really talked, not like on the phone or in a text message, but face-to-face. I could see his expression, knowing he listened, even when he watched the road instead of me. Maybe that made it easier to apologize again for the angry words, the jealousy, the resentments that surfaced when we were apart because neither of us wanted to give up our chosen lives.

  Matt pulled over to the shoulder on the Nappeague strip, and pulled me over to his side of the car. He apologized, too, for the jealousy that ate at him when he thought of another man getting to hold me.

  So I let him hold me, even if the shift knob jabbed into my hip. I mightn’t belong to the short list of world-savers, but I knew I belonged right here, in Matt’s arms. Except people beeped at us as they passed by, and someone shouted out to get a room, which wasn’t a bad idea except Little Red was back at my house, and Lou and Harris would throw a fit.

  So we drove on to Montauk, to the ocean beach nearest where the cruise ship had been storm-tossed onto a previously nonexistent sandbar at sea. We parked in the lot next to the supermarket on Main Street, bought some apples, then walked along the beach, holding hands. We kissed and shared the tart taste of the apples, and forgave each other . . . and ourselves. We gave Moses an apple to eat or bury, and tossed our cores
into the waves for the seagulls. And we listened to the sand.

  We lay down in it a minute, too, thinking if we were closer, maybe we’d get a response. We got cold and damp, that was all. My hair had to look like a fuzzy peach by now, in the humidity, but Matt said he didn’t care if I had purple polka-dotted hair or none at all. He’d take me the way I was, or the way I wanted to be.

  All I wanted right now was to be with him. But we had a job to do and air to clear between us. So we walked and talked and stopped to pick up handfuls of sand to examine.

  I explained my theories about the Andanstans, from the professor’s notes, from my father’s cryptic warnings, maybe from my imagination or intuition. Then I explained about my father and Carinne, the true story this time, and about my parents’ tenuous relationship.

  Maybe their bad experience at the happily ever after business made it hard for me to trust men. Maybe because his wife had left him for another man, Matt had the same problem. He wanted to solve his issues by binding us together so tightly I’d never want to leave.

  I was afraid of the bonds. I didn’t want to wake up ten years down the line thinking I’d made a mistake like my parents. After all, I thought I loved Grant in the spring, and felt infatuation and more for Ty the horseman and Piet the firefighter. How could I trust my instincts now?

  “You can trust me.”

  “But what if you change your mind? What if your new receptionist is perfect for your office and for your life? No comings and goings, no dragging you into impossible situations, no stupid fears and phobias.” I kicked at the sand in frustration.

  “It’ll never happen. The woman I hired is fifty-nine and has four grandchildren. And you—”

  “Shush! I think I hear them!” I kicked at the sand again, and sure enough, I heard voices. Not exactly out loud, and definitely not in any language I understood, but I sensed arguing and aggravation. I knelt down and patted the kicked sand back into place, then grabbed my pad and a marker pen out of my pocket and I drew. Dot dot dot. Willow tree. Dot dot dot. Matt’s oak tree. Dot dot dot. I drew as if my life, or my town, depended on it.

  Matt shook his head. No, he didn’t hear anything, but he kept picking up handfuls of sand, studying them. I kept drawing, trying to fix the drawings in my head, along with offers of friendship and appreciation and how to make amends.

  “Talk to me, damn it!”

  Moses whined.

  The tide came up, the sounds faded away, if they’d been anything more than pebbles shifting.

  Matt said we’d try again later, at Paumanok Harbor’s beach where all the woo-woo stuff happens. Maybe the little dudes only came out at night. We’d bring blankets and firewood, a thermos of coffee and warmer clothes. Maybe marshmallows and sleeping bags.

  “What if they don’t come?”

  “Then we’ll have the beach to ourselves. My sleeping bags zip together.”

  * * *

  No way was I sleeping on the beach in the middle of October, especially a narrow strip of sand that sloped down to the rising tide. We could try to reach the Andanstans on the beach after dinner, but I was sleeping in a warm bed. Unspoken was that it would be Matt’s bed, and we wouldn’t do a lot of sleeping.

  We stopped off at my mother’s house to pick up Little Red and a tote bag filled with a change of clothes, my new nightie, and a toothbrush. Marshmallows and sex. It didn’t get much better than that. I floated through the front door after punching in the alarm code.

  Harris must have driven Susan to work because the Subaru was outside, but neither of them were inside, only a note from my cousin that she’d see me in the morning and she’d signed my name for the package I’d sent.

  A FedEx envelope, big enough for legal documents or manuscript pages, sat on the little hall table where I usually threw my keys. Sure enough, it was sent by Willow Tate from my Manhattan address to Willow Tate, Garland Drive, Paumanok Harbor, with extra charges for Sunday delivery.

  The problem was, I never sent myself anything.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I had a good plan. But I also had a bad package. And I had half the Paumanok Harbor police department in my front yard.

  Matt gingerly wrapped the package in one of the dog towels by the front door.

  “Don’t touch it!”

  “The FedEx guy handled it, so did Susan. If there are any fingerprints, they’re gone.”

  I wasn’t worried about fingerprints, only about bombs or cyanide powder or radioactivity. The mailing envelope wasn’t very thick, but I had no idea how small a detonator could be, or a timer. “Don’t jiggle it!”

  “It would have gone off before this.” He carefully carried the thing outside to the paved walkway while I speed-dialed Lou, who cursed and said he’d be on the way, and to call 911.

  I gave the address to the dispatcher. She didn’t sound surprised. “Willy Tate, right?”

  “Just send Chief Haversmith.”

  Then I called Harris, who was at the Breakaway with Colin and Kenneth, enjoying more of Susan’s cooking. He cursed, too, but I couldn’t tell which upset him more, my getting the package or him having to leave his dinner unfinished. He said they’d be here in fifteen minutes.

  “Wait! Lou’s closer. You stay and tell Susan not to come home. Deni can track the package on the computer and even see who signed for it. Now she knows I’m here, even if it’s not my signature.”

  “You don’t know it’s from the stalker.”

  “It sure as hell isn’t from me.”

  “Okay, I’ll take care of Susan, but I’m sending Colin and Kenneth right now.”

  We already heard the sirens coming from town. The old retriever howled. I put the dogs out in the fenced-in side yard, out of danger.

  Uncle Henry Haversmith, who wasn’t really my uncle but an old friend of the family’s, got there first. He made Matt and me stay on the porch while he directed the next arrivals to stay back, keep other cars away, put on their bullet-proof vests. I called Aunt Jasmine to warn her not to come by when she heard the sirens, and to tell Grandma Eve we were all fine.

  Soon the DUE agents arrived, taking up positions on either side of me and Matt. Finally the K-9 patrol car pulled up, right across the lawn. I guess we were all waiting for Big Eddie and Ranger, Paumanok Harbor’s bomb-sniffing, drug-sniffing, cadaver-sniffing, and fugitive-tracking dog. The old dog was another one of my mother’s rescues. He ate, he slept, and he looked suitably heroic in the orange K-9 vest. He couldn’t smell anything.

  Big Eddie could. Short and skinny, the young police officer looked anything but heroic, or big in his flak jacket. Except for his nose. That super-sensitive organ could detect animal, vegetable, or mineral, perfume, poison, perspiration, drugs. He could identify and follow thousands upon thousands of scents. The dog was window dressing for the outside world. In the world of Paumanok Harbor, Big Eddie was just another useful talent.

  I wanted him to stay back, to wait for Harris with his circle of protection. “What if there are so many layers of plastic you can’t smell what’s inside?”

  Big Eddie shook his head. That never happened. But the chief held up a hand and looked toward Lou, who looked toward Kenneth, the precog, who shrugged. “I don’t sense any danger, but Pinky has a point.”

  “Pinky?” Uncle Henry looked at me for the first time. “Jeez, Willy. It’s not even Halloween yet.” Which had all the local cops staring at my cotton candy mop, instead of at the package.

  One stepped forward, Robin Shaw, the only female on the force, and the best marksman in the county, if not the country. She winked at me, said my hair looked great, then waited for the chief’s nod of approval. When he noticed her, not my hair, she slipped a knife from her sleeve, a long, thin knife, and sent it toward the package. The blade sliced neatly through a corner of the mailing envelope, exposing
the contents to the air, if not our eyes. I guess her infallible aim worked for knives as well as bullets.

  “Now?” Big Eddie asked.

  “Now.”

  He stepped near the package, wrinkling his nostrils the way a rabbit did. “No metal or plastic. No suspicious chemicals. Paper. Um, Xerox toner. Blue, no, black Magic Marker. Real faint scent of, um, off-brand shampoo. Fried food. Dog turds. No, that’s from the lawn. Hard to say if the shampoo smell or the fried stuff came from the perp or the FedEx driver. Definitely not Susan. I know all her scents. But there’s nothing dangerous about whatever’s inside.”

  Uncle Henry looked at me and shook his head. “Pink hair? If you got us all out here for another one of your crazy stunts, I’ll send you back to Manhattan so fast your ears’ll turn pink from the wind rushing past.”

  Lou grunted. “It’s not a prank. Okay, Willy, you want to open it?”

  “No, I don’t want to touch anything from that female.”

  One of the cops shined a floodlight on the package, but no one offered to reach inside the envelope, no matter what Big Eddie said. The fact that he led Ranger farther away discouraged volunteers. Matt started to step toward it, but I grabbed his sleeve.

  “You don’t want to see the kind of things she sends.”

  Then Harris drove up in a storm of pebbles and dust, with Susan, damn it. I wanted my baby cousin safe. And safe from Harris the Hunk, who would never settle down. Lou called him over and told him to open the damn thing, with rubber gloves. Not to protect him, but to preserve any forensic evidence. Officer Shaw handed him the knife.

  Harris slit the envelope and pulled out exactly what Big Eddie’d said, photocopied pages, rubber-banded together, with a message across the first page in blue marker. Once they saw nothing but a manuscript, the others crowded closer. Harris read the message:

  “‘You should have read my book, bitch. Now I’ll publish this one myself. It’ll be on the Internet in the morning.’“

  Someone asked if that was possible. Susan said it was.