Fire Works in the Hamptons : A Willow Tate Novel (9781101547649)

by Jerome, Celia

  I did not feel any of the usual inner warmth from the lightning bugs, just the cool, dank air with its permeating dampness, the kind of half-fog, half-mist that made you hate to put your head on a clammy pillowcase.

  “Don’t be angry,” I whispered.

  Matt must have thought I was talking to Piet, because he stepped away, giving us privacy. Piet ignored me. He was still angry that I’d brought a nonsensitive along, forcing everyone to maintain the pretense of normalcy. Now he was mad because he had to stay away from the real action.

  I left him with one of the cops and hurried after Matt so I wouldn’t have to pick my way through the wetlands by myself.

  The plan was for the Bay Constable to set reflector markers in the oil slick, then get himself and every other boat out of the area. When Mac received the all-clear, he’d set off a rocket over the water to ignite the oil and gas leak. Just in case, I gathered half a dozen beetles in my baseball hat before I left M’ma. On the way back to the bay I sent mind picture after mind picture of what was necessary to keep M’ma safe. When we got far enough from Piet, their lights came back on. So did the good feeling they usually spread. They understood.

  Mac set off his rocket. I set off mine. Fly, friends, get rid of the poison. Save the big guy.

  Mac’s first flare sputtered out before it hit the water. My lightning bolt didn’t. Soon the bay was on fire in streamers, with an acrid odor that overpowered the lingering smell of decay. Good. By tomorrow morning the officials wouldn’t find any toxins in the water, and no miasma on shore.

  “Come back, come back. Don’t get burned,” I yelled across the water, fear for the Lucifers making me forget to keep my thoughts unspoken.

  They landed on my arms and shoulders. I saw the tiny flames, but had no fear of being burned. Not from these creatures. “Good job, my brilliant beauties. Good work.”

  Uncle Henry stood next to Matt and the mayor. “You didn’t see that, Doc. Or hear it.”

  “No, sir. I definitely did not see Willow Tate send out a flare and then call it back onto her shoulder.”

  Uncle Henry patted the mayor on the back. “Good job, Applebaum.”

  Matt winked at me and mouthed, “Good job, Willow.”

  CHAPTER 33

  PIET WAS PISSED. He’d missed the good part, again. It was like every birthday party he wasn’t invited to because the candles went out, every backyard barbeque he had to leave before anyone could eat. The disappointment covered him like . . . well, like the maggots on M’ma.

  “But you got to see the alien being.”

  “I saw a lump of rotting flesh.”

  No, he’d seen a potential fire god. “Who knows what he’ll look like when he grows up? Now he’ll have the chance, thanks to you and everyone else.”

  That wasn’t enough for Piet. “All I’ve been is an effing babysitter. Even the damn vet got to do more.”

  And Matt got to drive me home while Piet made certain all the fires were out. I tired to soothe his jealous ego. “Look, we cleaned up the spill, so no one will be sniffing around the salt marsh. We got rid of Barry Jensen and Martin Armbruster. You should be happy.”

  “Your pet bugs are still potential firebombs. And Roy Ruskin is still out there using them.”

  I understood his frustration, I really did. Piet was a man of few words but a lot of action. He was used to being set down in the middle of a blaze, not trying to prevent one. “How can I make the situation better for you?”

  He brightened up instantly. “How about coming to bed?”

  I knew he meant his bed, or the couch or the carpet. I also knew part of me wanted to take him up on the offer. He was sprawled on the living room sofa, Little Red in his lap, his blue chambray shirt open. He looked like Mr. August on a fireman’s calendar: hot. And the look in his eyes could steam the stamp off an envelope. He wanted me. He deserved a reward for all he’d done. And yet . . .

  Maybe it was the worry over M’ma and the others. Maybe it was Matt, or Piet’s bad mood. Or maybe that fire had simply gone out. I did kiss his cheek when I went by on the way to the kitchen, leaving the hypothetical door open. “I know what’ll cheer you up. I’ll make s’mores in the toaster oven. You said you never had one.”

  At least that wouldn’t burn the house down, not with him nearby.

  While I gathered what I’d need, Janie called. Elladaire had no burning problems, and her grandmother, Mary’s mother and Jane’s sister, had come to take care for her. Best of all, Mary was out of danger.

  Janie and Joe the plumber decided to stay over near the hospital and the baby, do a bunch of shopping at the malls and the warehouse clubs tomorrow for the benefit dinner next week.

  Mary wasn’t the only one benefitting, then. I felt good about pushing Jane and Joe together after his accident. He’d needed someone to look after him, and Janie was a natural-born caregiver with too much time on her hands. Maybe they’d find the kind of happiness that lasted, not that I had much faith in forevers. No matter, they were adults. They could find satisfaction with careers, friends, even casual sex if that’s what they wanted. I would not turn into my matchmaking mother. I wished them a good time shopping, and promised to get out more posters for the benefit dinner.

  As if I’d conjured her up, my mother called. She sounded worried. One of my father’s neighbors had called to tell her the old goat had been in an accident. Was he all right? Should she go back to West Palm?

  “He’s fine. I spoke to him after the accident.”

  “So how come he couldn’t see that trouble coming before it hit him? Heaven knows he sees every other bit of doom and gloom.”

  “I guess he didn’t care enough about the woman in the car. You know he only sees danger for those he loves. Or he may have dreamed about hockey pucks instead of diaper trucks. You know how his talent goes. He can’t always figure it out.”

  Mom gave one of her sniffs that passed for an audible sneer. “What’s the old clunker good for, then?”

  Dad was only three years older than my mother, and his many lady friends had to think he was good for something besides oraclelike prognostications. It was always better not to mention the ladies to Mom, though. “Go ahead, admit it. You were concerned because you do care for him.”

  She sniffed again. “Is that a crime? Just because I don’t want to live the rest of my life with him? What should I do, take up golf or mah-jongg? Can you see me waiting in line for an early-bird dinner? Besides, you can’t trust him.”

  I wasn’t getting into that. I trusted my father and his wacky premonitions, but Mom wasn’t talking about his unreliable talent. She always believed he cheated, no matter what he said, or the fact that she didn’t have the truth-detecting trait. They loved each other, but better at a distance, and with reservations. Kind of like me and Piet. “No, Mom, it’s not a crime to care about him.”

  Susan bounded in, so I had an excuse to say good-bye and get back to laying graham crackers on a tinfoil lined tray. My cousin talked a mile a minute in her excitement, when her mouth wasn’t full of the marshmallows I needed.

  Everyone in town heard about the oil spill and the effort to get rid of it, she explained, breaking up the chocolate for me and eating half of that, too. As a result, half the Harbor’s population—the ones who were not on the beach or in patrol boats—came to the restaurant where she cooked. The Breakaway sat on one of the highest hills, facing the bay. A lot of times people came for cocktails at sunset. Tonight they came for the amazing sight of the water east of Paumanok Harbor on fire.

  “No one ever saw such a sight before!”

  Piet grumbled, “I didn’t get to see it. The animal doctor did.”

  “But I am making Piet s’mores, so don’t eat any more of the ingredients.”

  Susan’s eyes got big. “The animal doctor?”

  I shoved an uncooked marshmallow into her mouth.

  When she was done chewing, she decided to make coffee frappes, with a dash of Kahlua, to accompany the gooey snacks.
She gathered her ingredients, pushing mine aside. I almost ignored her taking over my kitchen until she said she was glad I had a part in the blaze. Maybe now she could stop having to defend me from all the gossip and finger-pointing. Maybe people would forgive me for bringing the whole mess down on the Harbor, once they saw I was fixing it.

  “I didn’t bring . . .” I needed a marshmallow myself.

  Before I could eat the whole bag, Piet snatched it out of my hand. “Hey, you’re eating all the goodies!” He had one, too, then twisted his lips. “That’s what I’ve been missing all these years? Rubber cement dipped in powdered sugar?”

  “You haven’t tasted the finished product yet.” I changed the topic by asking my cousin what she was cooking for the benefit dinner. And had a tiny sip of the Kahlua, which didn’t give me headaches, like wine did.

  Susan had more news, though, which interested Piet way more than gallons of clam chowder and buckets of brownies.

  Someone at the restaurant thought they’d seen a man on the Paumanok trail, a hiking path cut through woods and nature preserves and a few side streets throughout the east end. The man had a shaved head, which was not unusual, but he also wore long sleeves and a jacket, which were unnecessary on such a nice September morning. He carried a large shopping bag in one hand, beside the backpack over his shoulders. He held his other hand close to his body, as if it were injured, and put his head down when he passed the other man, not speaking, not looking him in the eye. The hiker reported him to the police, he said, when he heard they were looking for Roy Ruskin. The man he’d seen fit the description.

  Someone else heard that police were out on the path, but Big Eddie and his K9 search dog hadn’t turned up anything yet. The path crisscrossed roads, even had bridges over streams where a determined fugitive could wade to hide his scent. There were abandoned cabins, old foundations, and a few leftover munitions bunkers from when the Navy had a base during World War II. Roy could be hiding anywhere.

  Susan and I hoped he was gone for good.

  Piet didn’t think so. The man had shown too much thirst for revenge. Now he’d be like a wounded animal, twice as dangerous, with more reason to get even. Piet decided to join the hunt, as soon as he had his first Boy Scout experience.

  Not enough pieces for the three of us could fit on the toaster-oven tray at once. I set half aside and had to slap Susan’s hand to keep them safe.

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “I forgot to say how sorry I am that I sicced Barry Jensen or whoever he is on you. He seemed nice and I thought he’d help your career. I guess I’m no judge of character.”

  I remembered the men she’d paraded through the door in the past couple of months. “You think?”

  “Hey, I apologized for Barry, didn’t I?”

  Just then Ellen walked in the back door. “And I need to apologize for Martin. You were right. He’s a first-class ass. I didn’t realize how obsessive he was, how determined to advance his own career and reputation, no matter the consequences.”

  One look at her and Piet pulled her out a chair. I handed her an uncooked s’more, and Susan poured her a tumbler of Kahlua and cream over ice, with a scoop of coffee ice cream. Her hands shook, but she took both.

  “Can you imagine? I spent another hour in your jail. I’ve never so much as gotten a traffic ticket, and now I’m involved with actual criminals.” She started to cry.

  Piet decided to leave. The hero didn’t do well with women’s tears, it seemed. “But you’ll miss dessert.”

  He pulled me aside. “It sounds like I won’t be getting any sweet stuff later, either, not with the hen party going on. I might as well be useful out there. I’ll set up a search zone and patrol the neighborhoods.”

  “Be careful.”

  His good-bye kiss was almost scorching enough for me to tell him to come back in an hour or two, until I heard Ellen ask Susan if she thought it would be okay for her to sleep here.

  I was not going to add more kindling to the gossip bonfire. “I’ll leave the door open for you. Ellen can sleep in my room.”

  He sighed and left, taking another uncooked s’more with him.

  Ellen wanted to know why we weren’t using the outdoor grill, or the oven to melt the marshmallows and chocolate.

  “Good idea,” I said. “I should have thought of that. So what happened out there?”

  Ellen never went ashore that night. She’d stayed with the boat, already disapproving of Martin’s plan to get into the prohibited area. She only came onboard because of the kids. She tried to get them to stay away from the shore, too, but they wouldn’t listen.

  She swore she never saw any drugs or booze. “They must have had it in the cooler they took with them in the dinghy and the life raft. I thought it was filled with specimen bottles for the lightning bugs.”

  Martin told her to turn the boat’s lights off as soon as they were away, and she was so afraid of being caught that she did it. Then the youngsters came back, with police and other men who commandeered the boat and took it back to the harbor.

  They took her to the police station along with the kids and almost arrested her, too. “How could I explain that to my school’s director?”

  Luckily, someone believed Ellen when she swore she had nothing to do with Martin and Barry’s crimes. I figure the someone must have been the chief or Kelvin from the garage or one of the other truth-detectors in town. So they let her go, but state troopers were searching Martin’s house and wouldn’t let her in, not even to retrieve her car keys.

  “They most likely wanted to search your car, too, for illegal substances,” Susan guessed, sending Ellen into another panic.

  “What if they plant something there? I’ve heard how cops do that, to make a case look better.”

  “This one looks fine without you.” I tried to reassure her. “We’ll straighten it out in the morning. Don’t worry.”

  By now the first batch of s’mores was done, stuck to the tinfoil, melted into one sticky mass. So we got out knives and forks. Susan poured a little more Kahlua into the blender with the coffee and ice cream and crushed ice.

  An hour later, Ellen was still weepy, still afraid for her job, and still apologizing. “I’m so sorry, Willow, for trusting him. He seemed so intelligent and interesting. I never meant to hurt anyone, I just wanted to know what the insects were and you wouldn’t tell me.”

  So that was my fault, too?

  I said I forgave her and told her to go on to bed. I needed to walk the dogs. She didn’t offer to come, and I was glad.

  I forgave her in a way, but I no longer trusted her. She was upset by Martin’s involving the children—not by his plan to study, subjugate, and slaughter the fireflies. I felt I hardly knew this person I’d roomed with for three years. Our lives had taken such different paths; I didn’t see how we could be more than Christmas card friends.

  The dogs forgave me for ignoring them. They didn’t lie or cheat or take up with sleazy strangers—unless the strangers had hot dogs. I felt my heartbeat finally return to normal and a sense of calm spread through my body and mind. Then I realized what I sensed was the fireflies in my backyard.

  Only ten appeared this time, staying up in the trees, away from the dogs.

  Where are the rest of you? I asked, picturing the swarm of them from before.

  Soon, I got back, with the same picture.

  Hurry, guys. Help the babies fix M’ma if you can. Too many people know about you, and it’s dangerous. Piet is angry, I lost my old friend, and the town still blames me.

  Soon.

  A rainbow of peace washed over me. Everything would be all right. Soon.

  CHAPTER 34

  PAUMANOK HARBOR RELAXED. You could almost hear the huge sigh of relief like a Macy’s parade balloon deflating. Sure Roy Ruskin was still at large, but there’d been no more fires, few lightning bug sightings, and the kids were all right.

  Best of all, they’d gotten rid of the reporter. Now people could gather at the deli or the post office
or the barbershop and discuss events without fear of being overheard. They used circumspection, of course, around nonsensitives, but that was a habit, not a fear-driven silence.

  They’d come up with a good story to explain why the salt flats were cordoned off with high fences, a police guard at the land side, a marine patrol boat in the bay: A number of large wayward sea lion females had beached themselves to give birth, lumbering inland. Both mothers and infants died. Localized noxious gases and godawful smells resulted, along with a glow from the microscopic deep-water parasites that had driven the group to shore, then killed them. The officials were waiting for the full moon high tide at the end of next week to flood the channel and flush the unfortunate creatures out to sea where nature’s recycling center could take care of the disposal problem.

  Quite a few of the Harbor residents had a strange virus after telling the story. Some had rashes, some had stomach problems or eye twitches or runny noses. They’d breathed the bad air near the mama seals, they said, discouraging the curious. In truth, the lies made them sick, but everyone considered it worth the effort. With a little help from the Department of Unexplained Events, who sent a scary enforcer, people left us alone.

  The tourists went home—as usual after the summer season—and many of the stores and restaurants closed except for weekends, Main Street had empty parking spaces, the beaches didn’t smell of suntan lotion or sound like a rock band studio. The glitch was having to find a new science teacher after the start of the school year. On the other hand, the village now had a bunch of high schoolers owing a lot of hours of community service. Free labor never went unwelcome.

  Best of all, the year-rounders had a party to plan and look forward to. Helping one of their own was as important to these people as keeping their secrets.

  Ellen left.

  Piet wanted to. Forest fires burned in the west, brush fires in the north, oil wells in the south. He was needed other places.

  “You can’t go till after the party. You’re the guest of honor.”