Night Mares in the Hamptons (34 page)

I waited for Lewis to leave, but when he didn't, I introduced her to Little Red, warning that he didn't always take to strangers, but he seemed to like her or the chlorine on her skin. Now she smiled, just as I planned. Then I told her I'd come to convince her parents to let her take my course next week.

The smile left her face. “So soon? I thought we had time to work on them.”

“Sorry, but plans change. Have you heard about the riding exhibition we're working on bringing to Paumanok Harbor? It's going to be world-class. I thought I'd get the kids in the course to help me design the program.”

“Oh.” I could see the longing in her brown eyes. “I don't know if I'll get to go to the horse show. My parents don't like me out in crowds. Or near horses. They think I'll only feel bad that I can't ride. But I can enjoy looking at them, can't I?”

“I don't see why not. I look at expensive jewelry all the time. If your parents are home, why don't we try to talk them into it?

She told Lewis to ask her mother and stepfather to come out to the pool. I was disappointed that Mr. Froeler was around, figuring the mother was the easier one to convince, but I sat down where Letty showed me, at a grouping of tables and chairs and umbrellas set up at the far end of the pool.

She called after Lewis: “And bring refreshments, please.”

“I don't think that's necessary. Miss Tate won't be staying long.”

“My mother always offers
her
guests a drink. She says it's the polite thing to do. And the dog needs a bowl of water.”

Lewis clenched his hands into huge fists that were bigger than my thighs. This was one scary dude I wouldn't want to meet on any dark corner, but he listened to Letty and went through a set of sliding doors to the house.

“He wouldn't do it if my mother wasn't home,” Letty whispered. “But he doesn't like her to see how mean he can be.”

“He never hurts you, does he?”

She laughed. “He wouldn't dare. Where else could he work and live and have the afternoons and nights to himself unless they need him to drive somewhere? Mostly he makes me do boring repetitions while he talks to his friends on the phone. I don't mind. It's something to do.”

The parents came out. Mrs. Froeler hurried on her high heels, rushing to protect her baby from my evil influence. She was as pretty and polished as Louisa had said, and as twitchy. She took the tray from Lewis and put it on one table, then another, watching her husband all the time as if seeking his approval. Jeez, another marriage made in heaven.

Mr. Froeler himself wasn't what I expected, a storm trooper or something. He was slight of build, wore glasses and a comb over and was much older and several inches shorter than his wife. He should not be wearing khaki cargo shorts, not with those pale, thin legs. He sat down without shaking my hand or acknowledging my presence. He took the martini glass his wife handed him. The rest of us had lemonade.

He never looked at Letty or thanked Mrs. Froeler for the drink or the bowl of melon balls she placed in front of him. He did give me a brief, assessing look, sneered at the dog in my lap, and said with a slight German accent, “I hope you're not going to be as much of a pain in the ass as your mother.”

Letty gasped, but I forced myself to laugh. “I doubt anyone could be. I just want to get Letty”—the mother frowned slightly, trying to avoid wrinkles, I supposed—“to come to a class for young people that I am teaching next week at the arts center.”

“She already has tutors in every subject required by the state and additional on-line courses for advanced credits. Taught by instructors with the highest credentials, I might add.”

He might as well have said, “Instead of by a comic book hack.” I hated him, too. I know I was making snap judgments, and I didn't intend to stick around long enough to change them. “But this is a session on creative writing and illustrating, not schoolwork. I already know your daughter has a great imagination, which should be encouraged and nurtured.”

“What for? Will that get her into a better college? Find her a better job? My stepdaughter is handicapped. She needs to excel at her academics in order to compete with the other students who captain this foolish team or win that useless championship.”

“Expanding one's thinking helps in every aspect of life and learning. Besides, she'll have fun. We're starting next week, and the class goes for two hours, for two weeks.”

“She needs her therapy.”

“She needs playtime, too, don't you think? She's a kid. I'll pick her up and drive her, if that's a problem.”

Lewis was standing behind his boss' chair. He grunted.

“No, Lewis will drive. I do not trust anyone else with my stepdaughter's life.”

For such a caring, devoted parent, Willem Froeler did a good job of ignoring his daughter's presence. Letty might have been another servant standing behind his chair like Lewis for all the notice he took of her. No “Do you want to go, Letty?” or “Do you have any interest in this course?” For that matter, I would have trusted Attila the Hun before letting Lewis near any kid of mine, but if that got her into town, I'd be content. “Then she can come?”

I looked at Mrs. Froeler, but she just looked at her husband and wrung her hands together. Great relationship these two had, and no business of mine why she accepted such treatment. His business was funded with her money, wasn't it?

“Please, Father. I can make up the training later in the day. We can get one of the maids to watch me in the pool if Lewis is busy or out on the boat. I'd really like to go.”

Froeler still ignored her. He emptied his martini glass and fished out the olive. “Tell me about the horses,” he demanded of me. “Are they gone?”

“I don't know. No one has seen them in a couple of nights. I am still looking for the lost colt.”

Now he smiled, showing teeth so white and perfect they had to be implants. “Are you? I doubt you'll have any luck. Is that cowboy looking, too?”

“No, Mr. Farraday is too busy planning the riding show and looking into establishing a horse ranch at Bayview.”

Lewis grunted again. Froeler frowned at him. “I need another martini, Lewis.”

“Yes, sir.” I could tell Lewis hated being treated like a servant. Those clenched fists were held tightly to his sides.

“Farraday will never get it through the local planning board. They give preferential treatment only to locals, and no Texan is going to get by putting that much manure into the underground water supply. Times have changed since Scowcroft owned it. Rules and regulations are much stricter.”

There was talk about a small composting facility on the grounds, so the manure could be turned into valuable fertilizer for people's gardens, or another income-producing business. I saw no reason to discuss that with Mr. Froeler.

He wanted to know what I did for a living, my credentials for teaching a course. I padded my bio a bit, lied a bit, and turned the table by asking what he did for a living, although I had a good idea, from Louisa. “You're not a banker, are you?”

His wife poured herself another glass of lemonade, the pitcher hitting the glass. “My husband is a medical researcher. He is going to find a cure for Letty. His company is looking into building another facility near here so he does not have to commute.”

Ah, he mightn't be hoping to build on the Bayview Ranch property, by any chance? They'd never permit a medical facility there. My mother would be on it like an ant on a peony. So would Grandma Eve.

He took his martini from Lewis without commenting on his wife's burst of information and conversation. He asked again about the night mares, if I was affected, if I'd seen them, how I knew the colt was still nearby, where they went when they disappeared. He asked too many technical questions for someone supposed to have no paranormal sensitivity. I wondered if Vincent, the barber who saw auras, had ever cut his hair. I doubted it. Froeler would go to a city stylist—or a hair implant clinic—not a local barber where you waited on line for your turn. Luckily, I could be vague in my answers. I truly did not know enough about the mares myself to give out any details, and I knew better than to mention Margaret's weaving or Joe's scrying or Mrs. Desmond's alphabet soup. Or my dreams, for that matter.

He seemed angry that I had no answers for him. “You're Eve Garland's granddaughter, aren't you?”

I admitted I was.

“Did you inherit any of her talent with herbs and spices?”

“I can't cook.”

His eyes narrowed. “I meant her supposedly healing potions and poppycock.”

What, did he think I was going to steal his medical research? “No, I have no interest in what she grows or mixes.”

“Is she a witch?”

Letty gasped again, and Mrs. Froeler paled beneath her bronzed skin. I set my lemonade down and sat up straighter in my seat. No one called my grandmother a witch besides me. “My grandmother is a world-renowned herbalist. And she thinks my course is perfect for young people who don't use their brains for much more than texting and video games.” I smiled, showing my teeth, and I poked Little Red, so he showed his, too, only not in a smile. “She does not discuss the occasional frog who appears in her workshop.”

“Frog, eh? I suppose it wouldn't hurt Letitia to attend your course.”

It paid to have a grandmother with street cred.

I decided not to push my luck with mention of Ty's show. When they saw how happy Letty was with the arts center program, then maybe they'd relent about keeping her wrapped in a cocoon. She was grinning now, racing her wheelchair around the pool, laughing like a regular kid.

Her mother smiled. Froeler scowled at them both, and me. “I am sure we all have better things to do than make up fairy tales. Alice, the tennis pro says your backhand needs work. Letitia, if you are going to miss exercising next week, I'll insist on double time now. Lewis, I want to see if the mechanic fixed that throttle on the port engine. We'll take the boat out after lunch.

“And you, Miss Tate. Take your cur and leave. I am too busy for this nonsense about missing horses. Go write your little stories, but do not fill my daughter's head with such claptrap.”

Little stories? At least I wasn't promising to cure a paralyzed kid.

 

“Janie, do you know Joe the Plumber?”

“Sure. How is he, anyway? I heard Natalie came back to take care of him. Or to see if he changed the life insurance policy.”

“He's getting better, but he needs to get rid of her. He could use a little TLC, maybe some home cooking, a friendly face. You busy?”

“Can he fix the hose at the hair-washing station?”

“Maybe not today, but soon.”

“I'll stop by after work with some fried chicken.”

“That'd be great. Show Natalie he has woman friends of his own. Don't look at Joe—he's not at his best after the accident—but take a look at his bathroom if you get the chance. It's to die for. And he's kind of lonely.”

Janie grinned. “I hear what you're not saying, sweetie. Thanks.”

 

Two missions accomplished. Umpteen million to go.

A
NEW KIND OF CRAZY WHACKED Paumanok Harbor over the head. Not that Paumanok Harbor or the Hamptons needed another mania, especially in the summer season, but there it was: Ty Farraday's Ride for the Ranch. Suddenly the whole East End was turned into a rock concert fairgrounds, almost overnight.

It wasn't magic, but it was close. Huge trucks, tents, trailers, livestock, and mobile sound stages—and port-a-potties—moved into town, tying up traffic for hours, but few people were complaining. The merchants were swamped and happy. Even the grouchy owners of the little grocery store were pleased.

Everyone who could swing a hammer was put to work. So was every caterer, every lawn mower, every electrician and every computer geek to handle the new website for ticket sales. I heard they emptied the jails to fill the jobs that needed doing, commuting sentences to community service.

Every hotel, B&B, spare room, or campsite was filled. As soon as Bayview's front fields were cleared of brush and weeds, with permission from the Scowcroft Corporation, production trucks and entertainers' campers moved in. And sheep.

The Royce Institute agreed to let Ty's stage manager and roadies bunk in the elegant Rosehill mansion with its score of bedrooms. They were all filled and doubled-up, as were the guesthouse, the pool house, and the apartment over the garage. Connor moved into Ty's master bedroom, because everyone knew Ty was sleeping at my house now. Cousin Lily imported all her in-laws, distant relatives, and old friends to help cook and clean and chauffeur.