by Celia Jerome
“I just got off the phone with her. The hotel smelled of cigarettes, even though she ordered a nonsmoking room, and Daddy can come home if we get the visiting nurses to come administer the IV antibiotic drip. I’m making calls this morning.”
“Great.” Then I asked her to take one of my flyers to the Breakaway when she went in to work. “You know the story, so tell people to keep an eye out for a little boy with a speech defect who’s with someone that may be pretending to be his uncle.”
“So that’s what Grant is working on?”
“Yes, it’s an international case.” Not the whole truth, but enough of it to satisfy her, I thought.
“And a personal mission?” she asked, prying, smiling. She’d find out soon enough anyway, so I admitted he was coming to the Harbor, to stay at Rosehill with me.
“Good. I’m glad you two made up. I liked him.”
So did I. I wondered if he liked dogs.
CHAPTER 21
YOU KNOW HOW, when you buy new sunglasses that have a different color lens, or cheap ones that aren’t quite in focus, you see things differently? Or when some realtor’s trying to sell an expensive piece of land and they build a wooden tower to show buyers the water view they’d have if they blocked the neighbor’s? You get a different perspective, a look from another angle.
That’s how I felt walking down the main street of Paumanok Harbor, all three blocks of it, with the Pom in my arms. Red suddenly seemed to have lost the use of his three good legs, and much preferred being carried around like a pocketbook. At first I thought he was a great conversation starter with people on the sidewalk, but he stopped the chatter just as fast. “How cute” turned into: “How could you bring a vicious beast like that out in public.” He never drew blood, at least, and I quickly learned not to let anyone pet him. But then I realized everyone recognized me, whether I remembered them or not. Maybe they recognized Red as one of my mother’s rescue dogs, but total strangers called me by name, asked about my books, my dad, and did I know if Mr. Parker was coming out to Rosehill soon.
Was Paumanok Harbor just a small town, or did it have a big dose of the supernatural, as Grant believed? I decided to put Red back in the car, in the shade, with the windows open. God knew, no one was going to steal him.
I went into the library and sure enough, there was old Mrs. Terwilliger still behind the desk, smiling over her half glasses, and holding out a book for me. Know Your Pomeranian.
My throat went dry. “How . . . ? Are you really psychic?”
She laughed. “No, dear. Your mother ordered the book through interlibrary loan. As soon as I saw you come through the door, I knew you were here to pick it up.”
I hadn’t known anything about a book, but I took it and said thank you. Then I showed her the picture of Nicky as the authorities thought he might look now at age eight.
“Such a sad story,” Mrs. Terwilliger said. “I remember the poor little boy’s mother.” She shook her silver-haired head. “Tiffany read steamy romance novels, and look where that got her. At least she read. Her mother Alma never stepped foot in the library.”
That seemed to be a greater sin than abandoning one’s pregnant daughter and calling one’s grandson a freak and a bastard.
“I always assumed the child’s father came to get him in England, whoever he was. Maybe he loved Tiffany Ryland with all his heart, but was already married. Then, when Tiffany died in that accident, he took the boy to have a piece of her with him forever. He’d make a good father, and Nicholas was such a pretty baby the man’s wife would accept him and love him. And teach him to speak, of course.”
Of course. I guessed old Mrs. Terwilliger read romance novels, too. I saw no reason to remind her that Tiffany always claimed she’d been drugged and raped and never knew the father’s identity.
“He still shouldn’t have stolen the child away, I suppose, even if he was the rightful parent. And you say the authorities in England have been looking ever since the accident?”
“Yes, with the help of the Royce Institute.” I watched for a reaction, but she just nodded.
“That was the best place for him and his mother. I helped write the letters to get them accepted there.”
I wanted to ask why Royce was such a good choice, when Tiffany’d been killed there and her baby abducted, but Mrs. Terwilliger was going on: “So now the people at Royce think young Nicholas Ryland might be in our vicinity?”
“That’s what they say. I’m not sure how they came to that conclusion.”
“Oh, because so many people can help him here. A lot of Harborites offered to adopt him, you know, after the accident. Not his own grandmother, I’m sorry to say, and the grandfather died years before.” She looked around to make sure no one else could hear. No one else was in the library at all, but she still whispered. “His liver, you know. Drinking. At least Tiffany never did that.”
Except for the night she was out partying and ended up pregnant.
Mrs. Terwilliger went on: “Scores of families in England wanted him, too, I recall. But they never found him, poor child. You say the man he’s with is claiming to be an uncle? Impossible. Tiffany was an only child.”
“We—that is, they, think the man is lying. He could be anyone, with bad intentions.”
“Oh, the Evil Genius you use in your books.”
I was touched that she knew my stories so well. Not so touched to think she simply accepted a villain in real life.
She didn’t. “Well, the people at Royce know how to take care of any scoundrels. Don’t worry, dear, you can trust them.”
I figured she was just reciting the standard litany of praise for the school that paid college tuition for the local kids.
“And that nice man who is coming. You can trust him, too.”
I swear she winked at me. The woman had to be Grandma’s age, and she winked! And how the hell did she know about Grant, or my involvement with him, anyway? Susan was the only one I’d told.
Except Grandma and Lou knew, and the guys at the guesthouse and everyone else they’d spoken to. I told myself the gossip was nothing out of the ordinary, just the small-town grapevine. Until the perennial librarian handed me another book.
Principles of Etymology of Ancient Languages by T. Grant.
My Grant? I swore I did not say it aloud, but Mrs. Terwilliger answered anyway.
“Oh, no. That’s his father.” She handed me another book to add to my pile. Metzger’s Dog by Thomas Perry. “Your Grant likes mysteries.”
Janie at the beauty parlor in the back of her house stuck Nicky’s picture in the mirror. She worried no one could spot an unknown eight year old once school was over and all the tourists and second-home owners came out for the summer with their kids and grandkids. And no telling what story the “uncle” would use. But she’d keep an eye out, and show the picture to all her customers. Oh, and didn’t I want to add some highlights to my hair before my gentleman arrived?
The pharmacist at the drugstore was new, but he’d heard the story about Nicky and hung up the poster near the cash register. He closed his eyes and declared the child’s eyes might be green, not the blue mentioned. I checked his diploma on the wall. Yup, the Royce Institute. Turned out he’d studied under Grandma Eve one summer, too, and was going to her place for dinner on the weekend. He slipped some sample condoms into my bag of toothpaste and deodorant.
The post office already had a stack of flyers, and so did Town Hall—all three offices of it—and the one-room, one-cell police station around back. Uncle Henry, who wasn’t really my uncle, was the police chief. He gave me a hug, asked about my father, and told me I’d left my car keys at the drugstore.
Sure enough, there they were. I thanked the pharmacist for calling Uncle Henry.
“I never called anyone. I didn’t know whose keys they were, but figured whoever lost them would be back soon. Can’t get far without the keys, can you?”
I needed cash, and the bank was on my list, so I went around the corner. I
used the ATM, but went inside to hand Mr. Whitside the poster. He stared at Nicky, handed the picture back. “I’ve got it here,” he said, pointing at his head. Then he told me my father’s heart attack was the best thing that could have happened.
I gave a half nod. “Now maybe he’ll take better care of himself.”
“No, now your mother will take care of him. They are meant for each other. It’s in the stars, you know. Don’t ignore yours, either.”
At the deli, Joanne handed me a turkey on rye.
“How did you know that’s what I wanted?”
“Seems half the town knows what you want, Willy. We’re just waiting for you to figure it out.”
That was Paumanok Harbor for you. Weird. I guess I just accepted it as a kid. If it’s all you know, it’s nothing exceptional. Except maybe it was.
And not always in a friendly way. My last stop was the market. You couldn’t call it a supermarket because of how small it was, but it stocked the necessities. A lot of folks drove to Amagansett for better variety, and a lot went out of town altogether, to the big King Kullen in Bridgehampton or all the huge new stores in Riverhead, where they had a warehouse club, Home Depot, and Wal-Mart. My family always tried to support the local economy by shopping in town. Besides, Mr. Findel bought fresh herbs and greens from Grandma Eve, and some of her preserves when the farm stand was closed for the winter.
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.
CHAPTER 22
THE 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.