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Authors: Celia Jerome

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BOOK: Night Mares in the Hamptons
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First she stared at the poster, then at me and the Pomeranian in my arms, making both of us squirm.
“It's too hot to leave the dog in the car, even with the windows open,” I explained, knowing damn well that no dogs except Seeing Eye guides were permitted in the office.
“It's a boy.”
“Yes, his name is Little Red. My mother rescued him from a really bad situation, but he's learning to trust people again.”
“Not the dog.”
“Me? I'm not pregnant, Mrs. Ralston, I swear.”
She tapped one perfectly manicured finger on the poster I'd put in front of her. “The horse, Willow. It's a colt.”
“Are you sure?”
She gave me that hard stare again. She was never wrong about those things. If I ever wanted a clamming permit, I'd better apologize. “It's just that it's not a human baby, and it's already born. And . . . and it's not even here for you to look at.”
“You dreamed it, didn't you? You drew it, didn't you? You put as much feeling into the picture as you could, didn't you?”
“Yes.”
“It's a boy.”
“Okay, that's a help. I can't change the posters, but I can tell people to concentrate on a colt. Maybe that'll reinforce the positive thoughts.”
Mrs. Ralston said she'd tell the mayor, when he remembered to come in to work. Mayor Applebaum had been forgetting the office hours and board meetings as long as I remembered, but no one ever ran against him.
I shook my head when I was back outside. “This place gets weirder and weirder,” I told Little Red. He growled at a squirrel across the street.
 
Paumanok Harbor had a volunteer fire department, so only one man was there, a young high-school kid, he looked like, washing the already gleaming fire trucks. I didn't know him, didn't know if he was one of the Paumanok paras or just a recent newcomer to the village.
He knew who I was, though, and knew about the mares. He looked as if he hadn't slept well for days. He said his name was Micky.
I explained about the missing colt. “At least, Mrs. Ralston at Town Hall says it's a male.”
He nodded. “If my aunt says it's a male, it's a male.”
Which answered that question.
“Can you . . . ?”
“Nah, but I can always tell if a guy is gay or not.”
“That would come in handy in some Manhattan bars.”
“East Hampton ones, too.”
 
I left my car near the police station because I hoped to talk to Uncle Henry if he got back soon enough. I walked through a parking lot and an alley toward the commons, with Red anointing every fire hydrant and bush. I tried to discourage him from the neat flower beds my grandmother and the Garden Club tended. I also used a plastic pickup bag, good citizen that I am.
You could usually walk the square of the commons in less than fifteen minutes. Today it took me nearly two hours. I wanted to talk to everyone, to hear what they knew. I wanted them to look at the poster and think encouraging thoughts, just in case the kidnapped colt could pick up anyone's thoughts. Hey, in Paumanok Harbor anything was possible.
The bank was my first stop. Mr. Whitside barely glanced at the poster, but tapped his head and said, “I've got it here.”
I wanted him to take a closer look, so I could judge his reaction, but then I recalled he had an instant eidetic memory. He'd remember. He never forgot a customer's name or an overdraft. He promised to help with a ransom, anything to get people spending money again instead of shouting at each other.
 
At the Seaview Real Estate office, Martha was crying at her desk. I let her pet Little Red for consolation. She was so tired from having her sleep so disturbed, she'd tossed her live-in boyfriend out this morning. They hadn't made love in five days, anyway.
Hell, I hadn't had sex in over a month, but I told her I was working on it—the nightmares, not the sex. She promised to fax me a list of every property she knew that had a barn or stable. And if I needed directions, she had a compass in her head, better than a GPS.
 
Joanne at the deli handed me an iced coffee before I could order. I thought I wanted iced tea, but Joanne said I needed the extra caffeine. She was right, as always. The coffee was delicious.
She'd seen the mares yesterday on her way to open the deli. Last night she'd thrown her current boyfriend's guitar out the second-story window. Then she'd tried to throw the boyfriend out after it.
“You want me to think happy thoughts so the colt will know we're working for him? Well, how's this? I won't have to listen to that freaking guitar anymore.”
The hardware store had a customer I'd never seen before. He was wearing ironed jeans, loafers with no socks and a gold chain around his neck. He was asking Bill about keeping deer out of his ornamentals. Definitely a summer resident.
I was circumspect, showing the poster to Bill when the customer picked up some ant traps. I said I hoped the night mares would leave soon.
The customer glanced at the poster without really seeing it, then sneered at me and Bill. “Between the traffic and the taxes, this place is a nightmare, all right, but you locals forget where your money comes from. It's people like me who pay your rip-off prices, so you could show a little respect.”
He stormed out, but somehow stepped on a tack that went through his fancy loafers and into his sockless foot.
Never mess with a cranky telekinetic in a hardware store.
 
Mrs. Findel at the grocery store was always unfriendly, so it was hard to tell if today's irascibility was caused by bad dreams or her usual bad temperament. She didn't want any stupid posters cluttering up her window. Besides, I'd been shopping out of town, so why should she do me any favors?
“For the young horse's sake?” I suggested, vowing not to shop here in the future, either. “Or for the townspeople?”
She cracked her chewing gum. I guess the rest of the locals shopped elsewhere when they could, too. I asked to speak to Mr. Findel, who was always nice to me, but she said he was gone. I wouldn't blame him if he never came back. I left one of the posters on the counter anyway.
 
I found myself at the eastern end of the commons, facing the library, Mrs. Terwilliger's domain. She of the new gun permit.
I looked at the stately library building. I looked at the posters in my hand. I looked across the square and decided to go to Janie's Beauty Parlor and the drugstore first.
CHAPTER 8
“A
W, SWEETIE, I'M SORRY ABOUT YOUR boyfriend,” Janie said, giving me an enthusiastic hug that slopped the coffee onto my jeans and set Little Red to barking in panic.
All the other ladies getting their perms and weekly sets nodded in sympathy. It wasn't that the town was telepathic; they were just terrible gossips. By now, they all knew my business and my mission. I didn't have to say a word about the horses or the kidnapped colt. Janie took the poster from me, said, “We'll find you, baby,” and hung it in the shop window.
Then she walked around me, studying my hair. “Time for a new cut, sweetie. You know, out with the old, in with the new, just like last time. Or maybe a different color.”
I'd let her cut and highlight my streaky blonde hair last spring, after I made a break from a loser named Arlen in the city. I hadn't done much with my hair since, and it showed, darker roots and all.
“I'm kind of busy right now.” And I liked it longer, so I could clump it back with a scrunchie and be done. Then again, Janie always knew what made a woman look her best.
She returned to putting Mrs. Chemlecki's white hair onto big rollers. “I guess it's just as good you and the hunk split up. It never works out when the groom is prettier than the bride.”
Mrs. Chemlecki quickly added, “Not that you're not an attractive woman, Willow dear.”
Janie agreed, kind of. “But no one dumps on a gorgeous redhead.”
“He didn't dump—”
“Of course not.”
 
Red and I slunk out of Janie's and headed to the drugstore, feeling about as attractive as the pot of wilted geraniums out front that someone had forgotten to water.
Walter, the pharmacist, made me feel better. He took the poster and said, “You'll find the poor bugger if anyone can.” Then he handed me a paper bag.
I looked inside to find a sample pack of condoms. “But I'm not—” I sputtered. “That is, Grant and I . . . He's not . . . I don't need . . .”
“You will,” he assured me.
I smiled at him. “That's right. Blondes have more fun.”
He winked and I held my head higher when I left, until he said, “Doc Lassiter doesn't usually prescribe drugs, but if he thinks they'll help, I'll make sure I have a bunch in stock.”
Shit. Dumped, dumpy, and deranged, what a combination.
 
On that low note I dragged myself next door to the liquor store. I figured I better get my mother another bottle of Kahlua to replace the one I'd been sipping. Or slurping.
After discussing the horses and the hopes of reassuring the mares and the baby with Alan, the sales clerk, I paid for the bottle. And decided to buy a lottery ticket, one of the scratch-off kinds. Not that I felt lucky, but maybe my luck was due to change. I pointed to a one-dollar ticket that had fortune cookies on it.
“You don't want that one,” Alan said.
“The one with the hearts?”
He shook his head.
“The penguins?”
He flashed his eyes toward the stack of horseshoes.
“That one?”
He winked again.
You learn not to question things in Paumanok Harbor, especially when they win you ten bucks.
 
One of the questions you don't ask is how come the postmaster has a Seeing Eye dog. The mail always got sorted properly and delivered on time. Outgoing letters and packages got the correct postage. Customers got the right change. Yet the old man in the bow tie couldn't see a thing.
I asked if I could hang my poster up on the bulletin board with the wanted flyers and the church schedule. Mr. Kendall took it from my hand.
“Handsome horse. About six months, I'd guess. He'd have to be, to be weaned.”
Like I said, you learn not to ask questions.
 
By now I was at the far end of the square, nearing the church. I'd been here in the spring for the Patchen girl's wedding, but not since, which I did not want to discuss with Reverend Shankman. I hoped he was out visiting the sick or writing his sermon—not that many people listened, he was so long-winded and boring—so I could hang my poster on the bulletin board in the vestry and go.
Red was too tired to hop anymore, besides being exhausted from barking at everything bigger than he was. I juggled the Pom, the bottle of Kahlua, the condoms, and the rest of the posters to open the heavy wooden doors into the dark entry hall.
The church was empty, thank God, who might not be as grateful. The sanctuary was not well used in a place like Paumanok Harbor where the truth came in lots of colors, and the minister became tedious. Temple Yisroel used it on Friday nights, and two African-American Muslims prayed there to the east, or to Montauk, twice a day.
I started to lay my burdens down—the physical, not the soulful—starting with Red, when Reverend Shankman suddenly rose up from the last pew. Startled, I dropped the sack of condoms, which naturally spilled out across the marble floor. The bottle of liquor didn't break, but it did roll across the hall. And of course Little Red bit the reverend's ankle.
Proving his dedication, the man did not curse, just hopped once or twice while I stuffed everything back in their bags and grabbed Little Red's leash.
BOOK: Night Mares in the Hamptons
4.3Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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