Night Mares in the Hamptons

by Celia Jerome

  “No, you cannot wait that long!”

  One agent in a blue windbreaker, obviously worn to cover his shoulder holster and weapon, told me the decision came from Washington. They didn’t want the drugs. They wanted the smuggler, the supplier, the dealer. He ordered me to stay away.

  But I was the one who found the airshaft. I was the one who led the police to Bayview Ranch in the first place. They wouldn’t even know the drugs existed without me!

  Grant pulled me away before the guy in the windbreaker put me in handcuffs. They’d handle it, he said. The situation was too dangerous for me anyway, what with murderers and drug runners. He gave one of my drawings to the Federal agent to show to the colt if they reached him.

  “I’m supposed to show a horse a picture of a tree?”

  When put like that, he might call for a straitjacket instead of handcuffs.

  Even Grant doubted H’tah was still alive, so long out of his own world without the proper food or comfort. Joe the Plumber saw him as sickly, I knew he was injured and weak, so how many days could he last? Besides, water might have breached the bunker or flooded through the airshaft. He might have drowned or suffocated.

  “No! He couldn’t have!”

  “Then where are his sendings? Why will he not reply to you, or to me? I’ve been trying to talk to him all morning.”

  I had no answers, only more tears. Now the windbreaker man thought we were both nuts.

  Feeling helpless, I left.

  And got home in time for a phone call from Mrs. Froeler.

  Her husband and Lewis were taking the boat out overnight for striped bass fishing, and he’d ordered his family to stay in the house while they were gone. Yesterday, he’d agreed Letitia could go to the benefit show, but today he rescinded his permission. Now Letitia was near hysteria, with her breathing ragged and eyes all swollen from crying.

  I couldn’t figure out what Mrs. Froeler wanted me to do about it. “I guess I could speak to her, but she’s still going to be disappointed. She’s been working on the programs and the alphabet book for two weeks, and the horse show is all she ever talked about.”

  “I know. I want you to take her.”

  “Without you?”

  “I cannot disobey my husband.”

  Now I was as angry at Mrs. Froeler as I was at her tyrant of a husband. “Of course you can. You’re not his slave or his subordinate. Besides, his demands are unreasonable and cruel. No one has to follow orders like that.”

  “Do you really think so? I. . . I try to please him to make up for what he’s missing. He wanted a son and I never . . . That is . . .”

  I almost said he had her money; that should be enough. I just told her, “You can take Letty yourself and have a good time. If you need help with the wheelchair, I can lend a hand. But watch out for her all night? That is your job. You also need to encourage her artistic talents. You’ll see, her drawings in the alphabet book are that wonderful. What Letty needs is to see the horses.”

  After a pause, Letty’s mother murmured that her husband was not himself these days. He used to be different.

  Oh, and Willem Froeler used to be a cuddly teddy bear of a sugar daddy? I didn’t think so. He was a petty tyrant who wanted a clone of himself—after he got control of Alice’s bank accounts. The pig. “You have to think of Letty and how happy she’ll be. Tonight could be the best experience of her young lifetime. What else does she have of her own, for her own pleasure? Another lap in the pool?”

  “You are right. I’ll do it. I’ll bring her tonight.”

  “Great. I’ll be in the bandstand. We’ll make room for you two, so you don’t have to chance Letty being pushed or not getting seats close enough to see everything. There’s handicapped parking at the base of Bayview’s street and special buses will bring you right to the show grounds.”

  After we disconnected, I wondered if she really had enough courage to show up. Hey, I faced a field of possible snakes and I was the biggest coward in five counties. And maybe Froeler would never find out they left the house.

  I didn’t know if I was jumping to conclusions because I didn’t like the guy, but I called Grant and told him about Froeler and his muscleman, Lewis, and how they were taking the boat out tonight. Sure, fish bit better by bright moonlight, but did they have to go tonight, when every other soul in Paumanok Harbor would be in town? That smelled more than fishy to me.

  Grant said he’d call Washington for background checks, notify the Coast Guard to monitor Froeler’s yacht, post agents on the beach to either side of the cove and more in camouflage on the top of the cliff.

  “Remind them not to get too close to the edge. Sand pebbles.”

  CHAPTER 36

  ONLY ONE THING COULD HAVE DISTRACTED me from worries about the white horse.

  Tonight wasn’t about me or Grant or H’tah or sex. It was about Paumanok Harbor, the sheer magic of the place, the ordinary magic of a whole village getting together to make something wonderful happen.

  Think Fourth of July and Christmas and Mardi Gras, all packed into a little town. Think goodwill and friendship and a common goal of saving something precious, and having a rousing good night at the same time.

  Think lights and music and glitter and cotton candy and eight thousand people—maybe ten thousand with all the overflow crowd watching from another projector on the village commons.

  Think pride and patriotism as the color guard marched in bearing the flag and circled the stadium, followed by the high school marching band in bright white uniforms playing “God Bless America.” Everyone stood.

  Think Ty Farraday, because it was his show. He walked in behind the band, leading the grand parade customary at circuses. I don’t know why he was on foot, but he was as commanding a presence as if he’d ridden in on an elephant. He wore a black shirt with white embroidery and aurora crystals to sparkle in the light, tight-fitting black pants, high boots with cutwork, and a white Stetson. He held the hat up and waved it to the crowd as he followed the flag to the imported mobile bandstand.

  The sound system was there; so was a professional announcer, the producer, director, and Ty’s manager, various state, county, and a couple of Federal dignitaries, Mayor Applebaum, Doc and Grandma Eve with Mr. Scowcroft, the Rivera family, Letty and her mother, K2 because he begged to sit with Letty and fetch her junk food, Chief of Police Haversmith, Grant, and me.

  Ty bowed as he reached the raised bandstand. Everyone applauded.

  Next came Connor Redstone, looking magnificent in Indian regalia atop Lady Sparrow. Both had feathers in their hair. Members of the Shinnecock Nation danced in next, followed by Indian drummers. Then came two tumbling rodeo clowns, four cowboys in leather vests and chaps riding on cutting horses, the dog handler and his three border collies with red, white, and blue kerchiefs around their necks.

  “Uh-oh,” the PA blared. “Someone’s missing. We can’t start the show, folks. Sorry.”

  The audience looked stunned for a minute, then started stamping their feet and chanting, “Paloma Blanca, Paloma Blanca.”

  Ty pretended to look around as if he’d misplaced his mount. Then he shook his head and whistled. From the far end of the field, from the chute the entertainers used, the white horse entered the arena. She wore no saddle or bridle, nothing but red ribbons braided in her mane, flying loose behind her as she trotted toward Ty.

  What a sight she was, enough to bring a lump to your throat. Like watching an eagle soar or hearing a bagpiper play “Amazing Grace.” No one made a sound until the magnificent animal stopped inches from Ty and arched her neck to bow her head. Then the applause thundered through the crowd. They loved her already.

  The mayor welcomed everyone, then the announcer cued the “Star Spangled Banner.” The high school band played and a young woman I hadn’t noticed on the field sang the difficult anthem. She should have won the talent contest.

  Then everyone left the field except for Ty and his horse. He walked to the center of the arena and she foll
owed, snatching the hat off his head. That was the sign this part of the show was all for fun.

  Ty wore a mike, so everyone could hear him giving orders, which the prancing mare didn’t obey. Instead she cavorted and spun in circles around him, keeping the hat out of his reach, to the amusement of the audience, especially the children.

  He pulled a carrot out of a pocket. She shook her head, and his hat, no.

  “An apple?”

  No again.

  “How about a kiss from my favorite girl?”

  She dropped the hat, skipped closer and pressed her lips to his cheek with a smacking sound heard through Ty’s microphone. The audience went wild. I wiped away a tear.

  After that, Paloma Blanca pirouetted, rose on her back legs, counted by tapping her hoof, and performed a dozen other circus tricks.

  While they were performing in the center of the field, the two clowns placed colored flags along the sidelines. Ty would tell Paloma Blanca to find the red one, and she picked it up and carried it back to him. Then he asked her for the hat. She grabbed his Stetson again, but dropped it when he shook his head. The mare trotted up the line, looking at the pictures on the flags. She brought him the one with the hat. Whatever he called for, she brought back to him, even when the clowns mixed up the placement.

  “One more question, Pal. Who is the prettiest female in the place?”

  She shook her mane, crow-hopped, and kissed him again.

  “Yes, of course you are. But who is the second prettiest?”

  This time she danced over to the row of flags still left, all colors, all different pictures. She looked at each, shook her head, then picked up a green one and brought it back to Ty.

  “A tree? The second prettiest female here is a tree?”

  The Lipizzan nodded. Ty turned the flag to the audience. “What kind of tree do you suppose this is?”

  The picture was projected onto the big screens so everyone could see. “A weeping willow tree,” thousands of voices shouted. “Willow. Willow. Willow.”

  I’d kill him. If I didn’t die of embarrassment first.

  “Stand up and bow, you idiot,” Grandma Eve said, giving me a shove.

  So I did, trying not to notice Grant’s scowl.

  Everyone applauded, Ty and Paloma Blanca both bowed, then they walked off the field to cheers and whistles.

  The clowns did some tumbling, then set up barrels for the cutting horses to race around in timed matches, then in a row. Not one barrel got tipped, not one clown got stepped on. The announcer told us that each of these horses had been a wild pony, considered excess by the US government but rescued by the Farraday Foundation and trained at his ranch in Texas.

  More applause.

  The Native Americans performed next: chants, drumming, and dances that impressed everyone with their stately beauty and reminded everyone there of their ancient heritage and culture.

  Then it was Connor’s turn. Still wearing buckskin with fringes and turquoise beads, he and Lady Sparrow flew around the barrels, then the flags put back in the field, with Conner leaning over to grab them, his fingers almost touching the ground.

  He did flying dismounts, remounts, leaps from one side of the horse to the other, with only one hand on the pommel of Lady Sparrow’s saddle. While she galloped, he stood on her back, turned to ride backward, did handstands, and finally stood in the saddle, arms up and open, like the condor he was named for. They completed an entire circuit of the field in that position, at that speed. Spectacular.

  The dogs came next. The shepherd had the three border collies by his side until a flock of sheep, some black, some white, some gray, were sent down the entrance chute, scattering in every direction. The people on the ground got ready to jump away, but the fence protected them. And the dogs got to work. In about five seconds they had the flock herded into a tight circle in the center of the ring.

  At a signal from the handler, the dogs separated the flock into three separate circles, by color. Then they moved them into rows of alternating colors. Finally they formed an odd, hard-to-recognize pattern, until I looked up at the screen. An overhead camera on the high scaffolding was projecting the view. The sheep formed a perfect bowlegged cowboy in gray pants, white shirt and head, and black hat and boots.

  The crowd went wild. No one had ever seen such a thing or knew it was possible.

  The dogs took the sheep off in an orderly run toward the exit, then came back for their bows.

  The emcee announced an intermission, during which a crew cleaned the field and repaired any uneven spots in the grass from the flags or the racing horses. The officials spoke, showed the tape the students had made, and reminded people of the location of the food tents and the restrooms.

  I handed K2 money and he brought back a tray filled with stuff I am sure Grandma Eve would never eat, nor would Mrs. Froeler let Letty, who couldn’t seem to wipe the grin from her face. K2 reported that most of the T-shirts were sold, and all of the signed posters and the alphabet books. All that was left were a few Stetson hats and a couple of my books.

  “My books? What are they doing here?”

  “Mrs. Terwilliger thought the library ought to help raise money, so she got your publisher to donate a box of your books. Now that everyone knows who you are, they’re buying them as fast as they can. You’re famous, Willow.”

  Yeah, as Ty Farraday’s girlfriend. Before I could mull that over, Susan brought food from the VIP tent, and Grant took K2 to fetch drinks.

  According to the program, which I knew by heart, only three acts remained, the clowns, then Connor and Ty again. Letty was already sad that the night would end. Her mother started to look nervous that they’d be caught out when they got home. They weren’t the only ones to wish the show could last forever. Me, too, except I had to pee. No way in hell was I using a port-a-pottie, not after a thousand little boys. I set my water bottle aside.

  The clowns did rope tricks. I swear they could make the ropes sit up and sway, like cobras in a basket. They lassoed each other, a chair, a girl from the audience, and one of the uniformed policemen stationed near the fence. The crowd loved that.

  Then Connor rode out again, this time in pure cowboy duds, if a cowboy was headlining in Vegas. His shirt was red-and-white striped-and-sequined satin, and his britches were silver. His long braid was caught up under a silver Western hat. He and Lady Sparrow trotted to the center of the grass and waited. Soon the flock of sheep was sent down the chute, chased by the clowns waving red, white, and blue banners. The clowns set the banners in front of three wooden gates and pointed. One of the white sheep had a red stripe on its rump. A gray one wore a blue star, while a black sheep had a white stripe. It was Connor and Lady Sparrow’s job to get the right color sheep behind the right colored gate.

  Horse and rider spun around, dashed into the milling flock and singled out each of the marked sheep. Then the mare almost sat on her haunches to keep the chosen sheep from doubling back to its friends. Horse and rider dashed and darted to and fro, with Connor leaning to one side or the other, Lady Sparrow at a flat-out gallop or a careful trot until the right animal was in the right place. It took about two minutes and a lot of cheering.

  After that, Connor herded the rest of the flock out the entry chute, then he herded the clowns out, too. For his finale, he leaned over the horse to pick up the flags, then leaped into a standing position on Lady Sparrow’s back again. He held up the flags and twirled them as the pinto raced around the ringed area.

  “Con-dor,” the chant started. “Con-dor.” Letty and K2 shouted the loudest.

  When the shouting died down, so did the lights. For a minute the field was in blackness while the announcer introduced the crowd to the art of high dressage and described some of what they would see: tempe changes, extended trots, caprioles. He asked for quiet during the performance because of the concentration required. Then he reintroduced Ty Farraday and the Lipizzan mare, Paloma Blanca, the white dove. A single spotlight suddenly flared down from the hi
gh scaffolding. Horse and rider were framed in the circle of light.

  I heard gasps from the audience, or was that from me? Ty was in formal dressage apparel, according to the whispered information from the PA system, skintight white breeches tucked into gleaming black, high boots, a short black jacket, yellow vest, and black silk top hat. He looked like the cover hero of a historical romance.

  “Shite,” Grant muttered beside me. “He’s gorgeous.”

  He was. “But I hope you remember that I ended our nonengagement before I ever met him or heard about him.”

  Grant squeezed my shoulder. “I know, Willy. But this is easier on my pride.”

  I smiled, relieved. He’d forgiven me. Then I forgot about everything except Ty. The announcer whispered to the audience that Ty and Paloma Blanca were going to perform a musical kur. “That’s k-u-r, a medley of songs, with a change in gait with every change in music.”

  Then he was silent. The audience was silent. Flamenco guitars thrummed through the speakers, and Paloma Blanca danced. She was gleaming, rippling muscle and the most graceful creature on earth. She swayed and she skipped and she pranced as the music changed, and never missed a beat.

  Ty’s mouth never moved, or his hands, or that absurdly elegant top hat. I’d always understood the rider guided the horse by subtle shifts in his weight, or pressure from his thighs. I knew the strength in those thigh muscles. They’d made me dance, too.

  The pair waltzed from one end of the field to the other, then did figure eights across the grass and on diagonals, then sashayed sideways across the short side of the ring, always moving to the music, never repeating a classical gait.

  Everyone held their breath as Paloma Blanca skipped to the center of the field, changing her lead at every step. They all knew what was coming for the finale, the signature movement of the Lipizzan stallions.

  But no one knew what was coming first, not even Ty. I was watching him, so never looked at anything else until I heard the gasps and a shout or two, then footsteps on the wooden bleachers.