by Nic Saint
Fee put the phone to her ear. A few moments later, she put it down again. “Huh,” she said, looking perturbed. “He declined my call. Can you believe that? Virgil never declines my calls. Never. He’s always happy to pick up, even when his mom tells him not to.”
She shared a look with Alice. Rick knew exactly what that look meant: something was up. He felt his reporter senses tingling. And since no reporter misses an opportunity to dig deeper into a potential story, he was next to try Virgil. “Weird,” he said after a moment. “He declined my call, too!”
“He won’t ignore me,” said Reece confidently. “Virgil and I share a bond. I once saved his life from an exploding nuclear power plant by flying him out of there in my helicopter. And a bond like that cannot be broken.” He picked up his phone with a cocky grin. Moments later, the grin had faded. In fact he was frowning—something he only did in unguarded moments, as he didn’t want to destroy precious collagen. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. He then looked up and wiggled his upper lip, the way Hercule Poirot would when he sniffed a case. “Mon ami,” he said, “something is seriously wrong here.” And it was a credit to his acting skills that he actually sounded like the famous Belgian detective. Or at least a little.
Chapter 6
Chief Whitehouse sat in his office scowling at no one in particular. He was, after all, a scowler. Even when in repose, with no one present, he scowled. He’d once read that the expression you adopt the most will be your default expression for the rest of your life. There was some truth to that. The fact of the matter was that as the person in charge of the safety and wellbeing of the citizens of Happy Bays, that bucolic little town located right in the heart of the Hamptons, he was well aware of the burden heaped upon his shoulders. A burden he did not take lightly. And as he scowled into the middle distance—or in actual fact at the potted plant Mayor MacDonald’s wife had once gifted him and which he hated—the plant, not Eve MacDonald—he found his idle thoughts suddenly drifting to his daughter Alice.
He only had one child, and fathers with only one child tend to fret—a fact of life. Father a dozen kids, and the sheer magnitude of parenting what amounts to a soccer team takes the edge off. You focus on the big picture: are they fed, washed, clothed, are their noses wiped? Alrighty then. With only the one child in the picture, a dad can’t help worrying about every little detail of that child’s life. How about career prospects? Is she making the most of her God-given talents? What about dating? Is she dating the kind of future husband any father would love to clasp to his bosom and invite over for Monday Night Football?
On both accounts the Chief—Curtis to friends and family—was less than satisfied. He’d long felt Alice wasn’t living up to her full potential by working for Mickey and Charlie. Even though he was fond of his brothers, a gun store or funeral home wasn’t exactly the kind of career trajectory a proud and ambitious father would have picked for his little girl.
Following in his own footsteps was more the kind of thing he’d envisioned for Alice’s future: join the force, work her way up and eventually—hopefully—one day take over the mantle of Chief of Police and become the first woman Chief in Happy Bays history. Unfortunately Alice had failed the academy so many times she’d become a cautionary tale.
And then there was the boyfriend issue. He was fond of Reece, in a nebulous sort of way, though he’d always felt he and Alice were like ships in the night: they’d meet and then say their goodbyes, never to meet again. Instead, Reece had become something of a fixture in Alice’s life, and had even moved into the house she shared with Fee.
Curtis shook his head, still eyeing the potted plant with the kind of malice no potted plant deserved to be subjected to. He knew it was silly to hold Reece’s profession against him, but there it was. He didn’t like the fact that his future son-in-law was an actor. They were a fickle breed, and more often than not prone to the kind of lifestyle your garden-variety police chief will vehemently protest against: drugs, drink, association with kingpins of society’s criminal underbelly, and, of course, loose sexual morals. No father wants his daughter to be upstaged by the Emma Stones, Jennifer Lawrences or Scarlett Johanssons of this world, and those were the kind of women Reece rubbed shoulders with all the time.
Filming kissing scenes. Going to premieres. Sharing those big-ass trailers...
Curtis was a man of the world and whenever he saw Reece clapping his lips onto yet another gorgeous actress, he cringed in vicarious embarrassment. Alice had told him more than once that it was all acting. That Reece didn’t actually have feelings for these women, but Curtis wasn’t so sure. He would have preferred his little girl to pick a regular guy instead of a Hollywood mega-star. A cop, for instance. Not a flashy profession but honorable. And no hot co-stars to contend with, or fancy parties with silver salvers full of cocaine and whatnot.
Virgil Scattering, for instance. Not the brightest star in the firmament, maybe, or a picture of attractiveness, but Virgil was a good man, and Curtis knew for a fact that he adored the ground Alice walked on and would never cheat on her. The only thing he didn’t like about Virgil was the kid’s mother, but that couldn’t be helped. We all have our crosses to bear and Virgil’s cross was Marjorie Scattering. A widow since before Virgil was born and the specter that hovered over that young man’s life and career, Marjorie gave new meaning to the word overbearing. The thought of that woman becoming his sister-in-law gave Curtis a shiver every time he thought about it, but it was still preferable to having to watch his son-in-law kiss other women on the big screen every chance he got.
So it was with an uplifting of his spirits that he picked up the phone when he saw that Virgil was trying to reach him.
“Virgil, my boy! How nice to hear from you!” he said with profound fondness.
“Chief,” said Virgil, and immediately Curtis could tell something was bothering him.
“What’s the matter, son?”
“I—I think I made a big mistake, Chief. A really big mistake.”
Chapter 7
“I think there’s been a mistake.”
Juanita Pong looked the woman over. She’d never seen her before, but then that was par for the course for Shoeppe, the pop-up boutique Juanita operated on Happy Bays’s Main Street. Summer brought loads of tourists to the Hamptons, many of them from out of state. This particular woman was exceedingly well-dressed. In fact it wasn’t too much to say she was strikingly handsome, with the kind of long blond hair you just want to touch. She refrained from doing so, though, professionalism not allowing her to paw the clientele. At least until they asked for her assistance fitting into a pair of Manolo Blahniks or Louboutins.
“No mistake,” Juanita told the woman. “We’re all out Jimmy Choo shoes.” She permitted herself a tiny smile at the little joke. “But please don’t despair. We carry many other brands and models…”
“But I don’t want another brand,” said the woman with a little toss of the head, making that gorgeous mane swish as if it were composed of the softest strands of pure silk.
Gah. What she wouldn’t give to know the secret of that coiffure. Juanita’s own hair was dull and lustreless, at best, lacking the sort of shine she’d always suspected was only available in L’Oréal or Pantene commercials. And now here it was, in the flesh, as it were.
“Um, but we really are all out,” she said, hating to disappoint this most elegant of customers. “So…”
“I don’t believe you,” said the woman imperiously. “I think you have at least one or two pairs tucked away, put aside for a very special customer.”
Before she could stop herself, Juanita said, “How did you...” Then she got a grip and said, “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do for you. They sold better than we expected.”
But the woman had discovered the chink in Juanita’s armor, so she changed tack. She reached out a well-manicured hand and touched Juanita’s long auburn locks. “Who does your hair? It’s gorgeous.”
“Gianni on Shelton Str
eet,” said Juanita, happy with the compliment. “Though obviously he can’t compete with your salon. Your hair is absolutely amazing.”
“Thank you,” said the woman with a hint of smugness. “My hairdresser is an old friend. Perhaps you know him. His name is…”
Juanita’s lips parted, and she leaned forward ever so slightly. She so needed to know the name of this woman’s hairdresser. Her life depended on it. Or at least the next few dozen Instagram pictures she would send out into the world if she had hair like that.
But the woman bit her lip, and shot Juanita a coy look. “I’m so sorry to keep harping on about this, but I really do need those Jimmy Choos. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on them for ages—ever since I saw them on Lady Harmony’s feed.”
“Oh, you follow Lady Harmony?” asked Juanita, happily surprised. “She’s so great.”
“She’s the best. She’s the reason I came to you.”
“Yes, we sell that particular model exclusively. But like I said, after Lady Harmony made that post, we sold out in less than a day. So sorry.”
The woman leaned forward, dangling those amazing locks within touching distance. Juanita could actually smell the customer’s delicious perfume—like a summer’s breeze.
“How about it?” asked the woman, for the first time lowering her sunglasses and flashing a pair of outrageously beautiful cornflower-blue peepers.
Finally Juanita couldn’t take it anymore. “Can I…” She reached for the woman’s glossy blond locks.
“Oh, of course,” she said, and leaned in a little more.
Juanita actually held her breath as she touched the woman’s hair. It felt... divine. Light like gossamer, flowing through her fingers like water. Amazing. She made up her mind. “I’ve actually been saving a pair for a customer, but I guess I could always tell her I forgot.” She bent down and picked up a box from underneath the counter and placed it on the top. Then, after a moment of indecision, she slipped it across. “It happens to be your size, too.”
The woman rewarded her with a radiant smile, flashing a pair of the most perfect pearly whites Juanita had ever seen.
“Thank you so, so much. You don’t know how much I’ve wanted these.”
Juanita’s eyes suddenly widened. “Oh,” she said, clasping a hand to her face.
“Oh?”
“Oh, no!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Miss Grabarski? Miss Gertrude Grabarski?”
The woman hesitated, but only for a moment, then she said, “That’s me.”
“I’m so, so sorry! I didn’t recognize you! I’ve only worked here for three weeks, you see. I’ve been following your feed, of course, but you look even more stunning in real life than in your pictures and videos.”
“It’s fine,” said the woman, smiling. “Easy mistake to make.”
“These shoes are yours,” said Juanita.
“I know. You just gave them to me.”
“No, I mean—you’re the customer I was keeping them for.”
The smile widened. “Of course I am. And I’m glad you finally remembered.”
“Phew!” said Juanita. “What a trip.”
Gertrude picked up the shoes. “So what do I owe you?”
“Nothing! Your dad settled the bill.”
“Great.” Gertrude flashed a quick grin. “Lucky me, huh?” She made to leave.
“So about the hairdresser…”
“Yes. Revolution Cool. It’s on—”
“Hutton Street—I know.” She could hardly believe her luck. “I had no idea they were this good.”
“Oh, yes, they are.” She opened the shoebox, took out one of the glittery platinum pumps and admired it. “Best hairdresser on the East Coast—swear to God. All my friends go there. I don’t know how he does it, but that man has the magic touch. For real.”
Juanita was satisfied. She hadn’t alienated an important customer. “Can I… Can I take a selfie with you?”
Gertrude hesitated. “Maybe some other time. I’m not looking my best right now.” And with these words, she strode out.
Wow, Juanita thought. If that was what Gertrude Grabarski looked like when she wasn’t at her best, she wondered what she looked like when she was. What a star.
Chapter 8
A round-faced freckled youth walked into the store. He glanced around, pulled a mask over his face, took a gun from his pocket and held it up, shouting, “Nobody move!”
There were the customary screams and shouts, with one woman even dropping to the floor, evidently in the throes of some extreme emotion, but Flint didn’t mind. He was used to this. When you order a bunch of strangers at gunpoint not to move, they all start moving and bouncing about like a bunch of bouncy balls. It was fun to watch the first two or three times, but it quickly became boring.
He moved towards the checkout counter, where the checkout girl, a busty blonde with soulful eyes he wouldn’t have minded asking out if he wasn’t so busy robbing her store, held up her hands.
“Please don’t shoot me, mister,” the blonde said.
“I won’t shoot you if you do what I tell you.”
“It’s just that… this is a new blouse. I just bought it last week. I’d hate to get blood on it. Or holes. Blood doesn’t wash out, and holes are a total disaster.”
He could have told her he had no intention of making holes in her nice new blouse but that would have messed up his negotiation position so he didn’t. Instead, he gestured to the cash register. “Give me everything. Paper only.”
“Sure, sure,” she said.
He glanced around at the customers, who now effectively stood frozen in place. He saw his old high school teacher, Mrs. Merton, who gave him a sour look—the exact same look she used to give him throughout his long and checkered career on her class benches. He saw Mr. Norton, the bank manager—now wouldn’t he have money he could extract? He decided not to find out. Short and sweet, that was his motto. In and out, quick as a flash.
The girl had finished collecting the money and was now holding it up to him. She’d crumpled up all the bills and was holding them out—a mass of paper. He breathed through the annoyance. Cooperation. Why couldn’t he get a little cooperation from these people?
“Stuff them in a bag,” he said gruffly, making every effort to change his voice. He didn’t want either Mrs. Merton or Mr. Norton to recognize him, or the checkout girl, for that matter. He was in here all the time, and would hate for people to know that he enjoyed robbing convenience stores from time to time, apart from visiting them as a customer.
Don’t shit where you eat, a wise man had once told him, but he needed money and he needed it fast, and so Grub Hop had seemed like a target as good as any.
The girl gulped. “We don’t have plastic bags, mister,” she said.
“What?” He turned to her. “What are you talking about? You had plastic bags last time I—” Oops. He probably shouldn’t have said that.
“I know, but management has decided to phase them out and today’s the last day of the... phase. Plastic is bad for the environment,” she added, sounding like a parrot who’d carefully rehearsed its lines.
“I think it’s an outrage,” said Mrs. Merton, transferring her disapproving scowl from Flint to the checkout girl. “Are we now supposed to bring our own bags? What if we forget?”
“I think it’s great,” said a teenager, clasping a skateboard under her arm and chewing gum with a vengeance. “If we don’t think about the environment our future is doomed.”
“Just the sort of thing you would say, Nancy,” said Mrs. Merton.
“No, but it’s true,” said the girl, who had blue hair with pink streaks. “Didn’t you all see that video of that turtle caught in those six-pack rings? The poor thing. That’s what happens when you use plastic: it destroys this planet we all share. Save the planet! Ban plastic!” she shouted, now hoisting her skateboard like a banner.
“I think it’s fine if alternatives are provided for,” sa
id Mr. Norton.
“What alternatives, dude?” asked Nancy the rebellious teen.
“Well, a canvas bag, for instance, like Bud Bouchard now does. Or even Rafi’s Deli.”
“Those don’t come cheap,” said the woman who’d fainted but now seemed to be all right again.
“Yes, you have to pay for those,” said Mrs. Merton.
“We only charge twenty cents a bag,” said the checkout girl apologetically.
Flint was losing it. This was taking way too long. “So put the money in a canvas bag,” he told the girl.
“We’re all out,” she said, with the look of someone who expects a harsh rebuke.
He felt personally insulted by the look. He had never in his life raised his hand against a woman in anger, and he wasn’t about to start now. “Don’t you have something to put the money in? Anything?” he asked, now starting to sound a little whiny to his own ears.
“Here,” said Nancy with the skateboard, handing him a shopping bag. “You can have mine. It’s made of recycled plastic bottles.”
“Thanks,” he said, surprised by so much generosity.
“No problem. You weren’t really going to shoot us then, were you?”
“No, I wasn’t,” he heard himself say.
“Cool,” she said, nodding as if in silent conspiracy. She’d taken out her phone. “Mind if I film you? I haven’t posted anything on my Instagram feed since yesterday.”
“Yes, I do mind if you film me!” he cried.
“You don’t have to get worked up about it, dude,” the girl said, smile disappearing. “You do something nice for people, and then they just snap at you for no reason.”
“Look, I’m sorry I snapped,” he said. “But I’m under a lot of pressure here.”
“Whatever, dude,” she said, shaking her head.
Flint handed the bag to the checkout girl. “Fill this up. And be quick about it.”