Trolls in the Hamptons (23 page)

Mr. Findel's wife was at the cash register, as always, with the same sour disappointment on her face from when I was a kid. Maybe she always dreamed of marrying a prince, not standing on her feet all day making change and listening to complaints about the prices, the lack of choices, the narrow aisles and poor lighting.

“That kid? Who cares? Been gone five years, hasn't he? Likely found his feet somewhere, or dead like his tramp of a mother. A retard, wasn't he?”

If I hadn't unloaded my rickety cart onto the counter I'd have left. “No. He was possibly autistic, but undergoing therapy. He might be a genius by now for all we know.”

She stopped chewing her gum long enough to say, “No foal out of that stable could be a winner. And I've got too much to do to ask everyone who comes in with an eight year old if he's really theirs.”

“Just call my mother's number if you suspect anything not right.”

“Like knocking bottles off the shelves, switching price tags, eating the fruit before they pay for it? That's what the little trolls do, and that ain't right either.”

“Did you say trolls?”

“Monsters, the way people raise kids these days. And when are you going to have some of your own anyway, like your ma wants? Not setting any great example for the town, are you, shacking up with a foreigner you barely know.”

I decided I'd shop elsewhere in the future, no matter how far I had to drive.

Which reminded me to get gas.

Red was so ecstatic to see me, or the liver snaps from the grocery and the turkey sandwich from the deli, that he didn't try to bite my fingers until I tried to put him in the backseat. We compromised. He got the passenger seat. I got most of the sandwich.

Bud at the gas station took a poster and my credit card. I fully intended to keep a tally for my mother because I sure as hell wasn't paying for this trip. Then he told me to hurry home, a storm was coming. I couldn't see a cloud in the sky. So much for espers.

I checked my list. The community center was all that was left. I brought Red in with me because I couldn't find a shady enough parking space.

I hadn't been into the art part of the building since it opened, and I vowed to come back without Red to admire the incredible artwork on the walls. Having such treasures this far from Manhattan made it even more impressive. I sighed.

“Yes, we were lucky to get Mr. Bradford's collection when he passed away,” a voice said.

I turned to see a beautiful, very pregnant woman. “Louisa, it's me, Willow Tate.”

We hugged, Red made a lunge for her ear, but she laughed. Then she walked me to the other side of the building, where they held art classes, after-school activities, lectures, and programs. They had a gym and a senior center, too. Quite an accomplishment for such a small town.

Louisa told me she'd had to resign as manager of the whole community center because of her own rapidly growing family. She showed me pictures of laughing, happy children, and I could tell by her own smile that those pictures were more priceless than anything on the gallery walls. She invited me for dinner, but I didn't know when my company was arriving, so we left it that I'd call. She promised to tell all the kids who came to the center to keep a watch out for a newcomer.

What a relief, talking to Louisa, who made no sly innuendoes or nasty comments. She made me feel normal, too.

I still wasn't sure about the rest of Paumanok Harbor.

Then I had to drive home in a pouring rainstorm, with thunder and lightning. Bud must listen to the Weather Channel, I told myself. I told Red that sitting in my lap while I drove wasn't safe for either of us, but I didn't move him. I was afraid of electric storms, too.

Back at home—my mother's house—I dried off the dog, made sure he had fresh water and pee-pee pads, then checked the phone messages. There were five already.

The first was from Aunt Ellen, who was older than dirt, and no one's aunt that I knew of, but everyone called her that. Her raspy voice croaked, “Vern says a boy in trouble is coming next week. But he's not sure if it's the right boy.”

Vern was Aunt Ellen's husband, who'd been dead for twenty years.

The second message was from a woman whose dog was humping the drapes. She insisted my mother had to help her. She left the third message, too, indignant that she'd called twice with no reply. I wanted to tell her to shorten the drapes and get the dog neutered, but that was my mother's business, not mine. I made a note of her number, so I could call back to tell her Mom was out of town.

The fourth message was from Kelvin at the auto body shop at the edge of town. He'd seen the kid's picture at the deli, he said, and his left big toe started to ache. That meant the boy was Nicky Ryland. If his right big toe had itched, it wasn't.

The last caller hadn't left his name, just some real bad vibes. “Stop poking into the devil's doings. That boy is the spawn of Satan who should have died with his mother. We don't want him here. We don't want any of your kind here.”

I wasn't sure what kind I was, but I was pretty sure I knew why no one ever called our world Unity.

T
HE THUNDER AND LIGHTNING KEPT rolling, and Red kept whimpering in my arms. How could I leave the little dog here, alone? That last call had bothered me more than I wanted to admit. Someone thought Nicky should have died because his parents weren't married? Or because he was different, imperfect by that moron's standards? Poor Little Red was imperfect, too, with too few working legs and too many hang-ups. My mother hadn't let anyone kill him, and look what a love he was turning into. My new best friend was a comfort to me in the storm. I don't know who was more afraid of the noise and the flashes, but we had each other.

And a lot of older people's bones ached before a storm, didn't they? So Kelvin's throbbing toe didn't mean anything. I'd mention it to Grant, anyway. He liked that kind of nonsense.

The rain bothered me another way, too. What if Fafhrd came out to play? No, I wouldn't think of the you-know-what. I mentally pictured the poodles romping in the puddles instead. Damn, the poodles. The high-strung, nervous poodles. I had to get back to Rosehill. I had groceries to put away, too.

On the other hand, the rain cooled the temperature, so nothing was going to go bad so soon. Maybe the storm would pass. Thunderstorms seldom lasted too long. That's what I told Red, anyway.

I decided to call Grant in the meantime, to tell him about the locals and the phone messages. And to hear his voice.

He answered right away. “How are you?”

“Fine. I'm over at my mother's, with the Pomeranian.”

“You don't sound fine.”

I did not want to admit I was terrified of electric storms. “There's a lot of static on the line. We're having a thunderstorm pass overhead.” Before he could ask more questions, I told him about the Van Wetherings' grandson and Mr. Parker's search for a boy actor. He just went “Hmm,” so I described the phone calls next. “Aunt Ellen? That would be Ellen Grissom? If Vern says nothing will happen for a week, that's a relief. We need more time from here.”

“You believe Aunt Ellen? Vern is dead.”

“So?”

I couldn't tell if he was kidding or not. “What about Bud's forecast or Kelvin's big toe?”

“Maybe the gout. Maybe a guess. Maybe Bud listens to NOAA. Or he could be a weather dowser. I'll check his file.”

“And the nasty phone call about Nicky?”

“We'll find him first, worry about his welcome later. But I can have a tap put on your mother's phone so that we can trace the calls back. Then we can keep an eye on any threats, if they come.”

So he was taking crank calls as seriously as the real ones. As real as a ghost could be.

“If that's all right with you? I am asking this time, you understand.”

I hoped I understood what he wasn't saying, that he cared about me and my safety. “Sure, what's one more intrusion into my privacy?”

He laughed, deep and rich. Then another clap of thunder came, louder and closer. Red yelped. Or maybe that was me.

“What's that?”

“Just the storm. I guess I better get off the phone.” Only I didn't want to lose the connection. I liked his voice, his listening to everything I had to say, his caring. “When are you coming out?”

Not soon enough. They'd run a scan of computer records for crimes similar to the dead nanny's murder, and found another one: another live-in babysitter, another woman who did not speak English, another instance of the missing employer having a stolen identity. This murder took place a month ago in Florida, where the man was posing as a young boy's widowed father. The neighbors thought the child was severely handicapped, because he'd been carried into the house, limp, then never seen again.

“If it's Nicky, I bet the bastard keeps him drugged when they're on the move so he can't talk to anyone. If he can talk.”

“That's what I'm thinking, too. But there are a lot of sick kids out there.”

“Whose foreign-born caretakers have a habit of turning up dead, and whose guardians use aliases? That's too far-fetched.”

“There is another nanny who proved dispensable. This one lived, barely. She's in a hospital in Georgia, but she's in a coma so no one can figure out what language she speaks. I have to go tomorrow.”

“You?”

“I told you, I'm a linguistics expert.”

“Like your father.”

He didn't ask how I knew about his father. I suppose he assumed I'd done a Google search—which I intended to do as soon as I was back at my computer.

“And I am meeting a few people there, some who have helped people in comas, stroke victims, even autistic kids, that kind of thing. I'm hoping they have some ideas about Nicky, too.”

“Royce people.”

“Yes. Telepaths and Visualizers like you. Maybe we can get an image of the killer or a more current description of Nicky, even what car they were in. Anything that could help, if this woman is connected to them. If she is, we have the murderer's path to New York. Someone is bound to have seen him. So I cannot get to Rosehill as soon as I want, Willy.”

“I understand.” I was disappointed, but I knew how important his investigation was. Murder was a lot more immediate than Apocalypse by Aliens from another dimension. “Just how many languages do you speak, anyway?”

A clap of thunder interrupted his answer, if he was going to give one. I must have screamed. Red jumped down and ran under the sofa. I wished I could fit.

“Willy?” Panic was in his voice.

“Sorry. I just don't like all the noise.”

“Damn. I wish I could be there, to hold you in my arms until it passes. Should I have one of the men at Rosehill come over to sit with you?
Not
to hold you.”

“No. I am going back there as soon as the storm passes. I'll be fine, I promise.”

“Be careful.”

“You, too.”

“I'll get there as soon as I can.”

“I'll be waiting.”

A lot more than static flowed through those telephone lines. It kept my mind off the wild elements outside, and on the wild wanting thundering through my body. I almost suggested a little phone sex, but not during an electric storm. “Hurry.”

His breathing was as heavy as mine. “Count on it.”

I coaxed Red out from under the sofa with a bag of Milano cookies I found in my mother's refrigerator. Desperate times called for desperate measures, didn't they? I made sure to eat all the chocolate parts and only give Red tiny crumbs of the wafer. We watched the water pour off the eaves together, and tried to convince each other that the storm was passing.

Grandma Eve called to tell me the rain was starting to flood the roads. I should get back to Rosehill before they became impassable. Did I want Lou to drive me?

What was I, a wimp? I'd bet Grandma didn't pull an afghan over her head when the windows rattled with the thunder. The tough old bird most likely used the lightning bolts to boil up her potions. Of course I didn't want anyone to drive me. I just didn't want to leave Little Red.

“Who? Oh, the snapper.”

“Are you sure I can't bring him over to you? He'd like the company.”

“He does not get along with the other dogs your mother foisted on me. And he's too small. I'm afraid of tripping on the little monster. Or mistaking him for my fuzzy slippers. But there's a calmative in the right cabinet next to the sink. You can put a couple of drops in water, then take the bottle back with you.”

So add hopeless neurotic to my grandmother's opinion of me. Now I needed a home-brewed rescue remedy. “I'm fine. Not worried at all.”