Trolls in the Hamptons (22 page)

“You can go into town and hand these around,” my grandmother said. “You'll do better than Lou, who is a stranger. And it's a good way to reintroduce yourself to folks, so they know you're home.”

I did not interrupt to say this was not my home.

“Good to be in the public eye,” Lou added. “Instead of off by yourself.”

The old safety in numbers ploy. I didn't mind, now that I wasn't trying to work on my book.

“And you can remind people about the poor Ryland girl and her son. Tell everyone the police think he's back in this country, but they need help finding him. Make sure you say that he won't be going back to that nasty drunk of a grandmother, or no one will bother to call if they spot him.”

I picked up the flyers and decided to add my mother's phone to the 800 number listed. I knew this close-knit community. They'd talk endlessly among themselves, not so openly to newcomers. I'd check the messages whenever I came to feed Little Red. “Sure. I can do that. I need to get some milk and bread anyway.”

I took another muffin and the list they'd compiled of places to leave posters, glad to have a job and a plan.

I stopped by Susan's house on the way back to get the car. I carried Red like a furry fox stole. Every once in awhile I'd pet his back or rub his ears and he'd sigh. “I suppose you'll want to come to town, huh? Maybe someone will see how cute you are and offer to adopt you. How's that sound?”

Susan was just starting her day, still in a nightshirt with Snoopy on it. She liked dogs? I had the perfect one for her—until Red snapped at her fingers when she reached out to pet him. I guess my plan needed a little more work.

Susan sipped at her coffee. “It was a late night at the Breakaway. Two carloads of East Hamptonites came just before the kitchens closed. Trolls.”

I almost dropped the dog. “Did you say trolls?”

“You know the kind, rich enough to think they own the world, with no manners. They criticized the wine list, made the waitress cry, threw fits when we ran out of lobster tails, sent two perfectly cooked meals back to the kitchens, then left a puny tip.”

That's not what trolls did, but I wasn't supposed to think of Fafhrd. “What did Uncle Bernie do?”

“He told them to get out and never come back. We had enough assholes of our own without importing any from East Hampton.”

“He didn't use those words, did he?”

She smiled over her coffee cup. “He did, and the wait staff applauded, but now I worry that we'll lose a lot of business. They say the economy is so far down, we'll have fewer diners this summer anyway.”

I tried to put Red down again. This time he latched onto my watch, so I gave up. “You don't need that kind of customer.”

“We do if we want to stay in business. The winter was really slow. I feel bad Uncle Bernie had to pay for my health insurance.”

That was the problem with being a summer resort;you had two or three good months to make a year's worth of income. So you had to put up with the demanding, overbearing ogres. I would not insult Fafhrd by calling them trolls. Quickly, before I could think about Fafhrd at all, I asked, “What do you hear from your mother?”

“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.

Y
OU 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.