THE WITCH AND THE ROCK STAR

“LET’S GET THIS meeting going, folks, we got business to attend, and then something I think you’re all gonna be interested in—” The gavel which Mayor Harold Harper had been banging on the scarred oak table in a steady rhythm, like percussion punctuation, slipped out of his hands. As he stooped with an ‘oof’ to retrieve it, none of the Wyndham-by-the-Sea Board of Village Trustees could distinguish the rest of his words, but they didn’t care. They were too busy twisting in their seats, eyeing the young man sitting towards the back of the large, mostly empty room.

Muscular youths in tight blue jeans, black motorcycle boots, and leather jackets with little chains on the pockets worn over artfully ripped white tee shirts were not an unknown item in tourist-ridden Wyndham. But they were rare at Village Board meetings.

Sensing the mood of his audience, the mayor raced through formalities and reports and stopped on a dime at the point: “This young man, uh Mark Daniels is his name, is the personal manager—” here he paused to garner the attention of all the board members. An unnecessary ploy—they were rabid with curiosity. “—the personal manager of…Phantom. You folks know that name, I’m sure…the rock star?”

Only nine ladies and gentlemen sat on the board this term, but the hiss of their accumulated intaken breaths would have brought credit to the entire reptile house at the Bronx Zoo. Only one hapless soul asked, quaveringly, “Who…?” He was ignored.

“We’re faced tonight with an opportunity, it seems. But I’ll let my friend Mark, here, explain. Mark?”

Skip Dolan rose, paused for an extra dose of oxygen and a last reminder to think of himself from here on in as ‘Mark Daniels’, and ambled to the front. He stepped up onto the plywood elevated platform that served to remind the board that the mayor—although short in stature—was a man of importance, and faced the Board members. He nodded a thank you and smiled warmly at Mayor Harper, and then at the nine. Then he spoke:

“My boss, as you probably heard, covers the entire world on his concert tours. He believes, you know, in doing his part for democracy, bringing other countries the message through his music, you know…like an ambassador. Only not paid by the government.” He smiled again. They beamed back, obviously taken with the idea of an unpaid ambassador spreading the message of democracy.

“Well, as much as he loves everybody, loves democracy and the world, he gets so worn down that he has to get away now and then. You know. Away from people who all want to—to shake his hand, that kind of thing. It gets so he’s like a prisoner of his fame. And so, a friend of his told him about this cute little village, being so pretty and right on the water of Long Island Sound and everything, and he thought it’d be a great place to have a house. A real home, where he could sorta hide away from everyone and get himself back together. So he can do more tours, more shows, you know. He sent me to look it over and talk to you guys…that kinda thing.”

“A house?” repeated one of the Trustees, a compact dark man with black and grey stubble on his cheeks. Doctor Villas. He looked doubtful.

A tall dapper man with sleek silver hair, named Mr. Harder, snapped to attention. He owned a realty firm.

“What about drugs, booze, screaming parties, that sort of thing?” put in a tall woman. Ms. Bellwood. She owned a bookstore and valued the peace and quiet of Wyndham.

“Oh, no, ma’am. He doesn’t even smoke, for his voice.”

A few people nodded to each other and commented on how nice Phantom’s voice really was.

Skip waited until they settled down. “You see, when I say he gets tired, I mean he gets dead tired. Almost like sick. He’d be more interested in healthy food, quiet breezes, swimming in Long Island Sound, and no noise to disturb him. His nerves get shot, ma’am.” He paused and everyone waited expectantly.

“If you and I can reach an agreement, I’m supposed to scout out and buy property for him, hire a contractor, and all that. Construct a place for him tailored to his special needs. He wouldn’t be interested in any house already built. Like, I’d have to fix him up a sound studio. Don’t worry about the noise, though, that’s sound proofed so even he couldn’t hear himself in the next room.”

The board members tittered at the thought that he couldn’t hear himself.

The mayor cleared his throat. “And, Mark, where would Phantom get these materials, these contractors, the workmen, supplies, and so on? His food and services?” he asked, speaking with a heavy significance.

“Why, right here in Wyndham, mayor. Like we discussed before the meeting.”

Mayor Harper turned to the board and smiled meaningfully. “Got that, folks? Here in Wyndham. Where unemployment’s been godawful these last two years. Even the tourists been stayin’ home in times like these. Think of it. First the land, then a mansion—with all the accouterments—” (His eyebrows wiggled gleefully. He owned a hardware store.) “—housekeepers, groceries, gardeners, landscaping, God only knows. Spreadin’ his money around here for years. Forever, if we keep him happy.”

“And how do we keep him happy?” asked the doctor sourly.

The mayor, who’d never liked the doctor, leaned forward ponderously. “By keeping our damned traps shut, my dear sir. No gossip. He wants privacy and plenty of it.”

“But the publicity!” a lady in the second row with suspiciously bright red hair cried out. She edited the village’s local weekly newspaper. “Tourism could explode here if we could take advantage of his presence.”

“Great,” said Skip with a grimace. “People’d be climbing his gates. He’d have to hire bodyguards to get him in and out of the house. He’d be just as much a prisoner here as on tour.

“Listen, folks. People get mad if he’s not good natured with them every second. They stick their noses in his lunch, then complain how stuck up he is if he tries to move over. I know, ’cause he has to do it every day on tour. Think about it. Wouldn’t that drive you people nuts? If he doesn’t find a place to go, a place just to be quiet and rest, he’ll go stark raving crazy. Do you know where he has to go to get away nowadays? Like a vacation? He checks into a hospital.”

“No.” Ms. Bellwood, was aghast.

“Yes,” insisted Skip. He knew it was true because he’d read all about it in the newspaper while eating a snack in Atlantic City. He’d been struck then by how sad that was. “He wants to stroll down into the village and shop, just live quiet, like everybody else.”

“Hear that?” put in the mayor eagerly. “He wants to shop!”

“But—” the red-haired lady began again.

A man in a suit of obvious foreign cut and astronomical cost, a Board member who hadn’t spoken before—Mr. Drexel—held up a single finger, which silenced her. It silenced everybody. He held the second highest executive position in Wyndham’s single industrial business—which paid the majority share of village taxes. He nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard that, about the hospital. It’s true.”

Mayor Harper grimaced at him. Deferring to others didn’t come easily to the mayor. “You’re right, sir. You’re a wonderful judge of character, as we all know. When you meet him, you won’t get over just how plain, down-to-earth Phantom really is,” continued the mayor expansively to the entire Board, draping one arm over Skip’s shoulder in a brotherly fashion.

“How would you know?” asked the doctor skeptically.

“Why, Mark told me. True?” he asked Skip.

“Oh, true,” said Skip. He smiled again. His cheeks were beginning to ache.

“Well, great, but you can’t hide him here forever. People’ll recognize him. Word’ll get out,” said the doctor.

“If you don’t think you can do it…” Skip shrugged doubtfully.

“Now hang on. You know what? We won’t wait for people to find out, we’ll tell them.” The mayor leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “We’ll get the whole village in on it. He promises to spend his money here—well, we’ll promise to keep his presence to ourselves. Totally. It’s the only humane thing to do.”

“We could adopt him,” said Ms. Bellwood, standing in her enthusiasm. She had a kind face, thought Skip. And she was attractive for a middle-aged lady, he thought further. Nice body for a thirty year old.

“That’s a great idea,” declared the mayor. “We’ll adopt him. Phantom will be Wyndham’s Secret Son. I think people’ll like thinking about him that way. He needs us to help him rest and recuperate. We’ll make sure he gets his slightest wish fulfilled. We’ll make his life here…a joy. An absolute joy.”

“And he’ll pay for it,” said the doctor.

The mayor eyed him suspiciously, but the doctor seemed agreeable. Then again, Mayor Harper thought, doctors usually were agreeable about money. As were mayors, sighed Mayor Harper truthfully to himself, but only to himself.

A short man with white hair lifted a timorous hand as he rose from his seat and began making his way to the front. “You’ll be wanting to talk with me, young man.”

The mayor said, “Ah, yes. May I introduce Horace Arsdale—our banker, Mark.”

After more discussion, endless questions which Skip answered patiently, and then handshaking and introductions all around, he left with Mr. Arsdale clinging to his arm.

Skip’s facial muscles twitched all night in his sleep from strain, but he was at Mr. Arsdale’s bank early the next day, regardless.

Mr. Arsdale beamed as brightly as the spring sun as he retrieved Skip’s check for $45,000 from his desk, with Skip’s parting words ringing majestically in his ears: “This’s just a small token to open the account until the boss transfers building funds, and of course his living funds, from his regular bank.”

Mr. Arsdale had been positively thrilled to approve Phantom’s unsecured loan for a private residence. Everybody knew Phantom. In his mind, Mr. Arsdale feasted on the future delights of a friendship with this international celebrity. Horace M. Arsdale—banker to the stars. Harry and Phantom—pals.

To save time, Skip took Ernie Block, a local builder he’d hired on Mayor Harper’s recommendation, with him when his realty agent, Conrad Harder, Jr., (beloved only son of Mr. Harder the Trustee) drove him to see the first piece of property. Since the property didn’t border Long Island Sound, Skip rejected it immediately.

“I did think I’d mentioned it last night to your dad, Conrad. That we want to be on the water, you know?”

“Ah, you’re right, sir, you did, sir.” Since Conrad was at least twice Skip’s age, Skip had to conceal a grimace at the ‘sir.’

At the next location, Skip got out of the car. Conrad was practically quivering with excitement…not an attractive sight in an older man, thought Skip. Obviously, here was land Conrad ached to sell him.

A grassy twenty foot cliff overlooked a stretch of pristine beach and a view that could soothe the most ragged of nerves. Beyond the beach, the vast Sound stretched, disguising the distant Connecticut shore as a misty Camelot. On this side, the waves hushed and sighed serenely against the sand. The property was vacant except for a large deck made of age-silvered cedar that jutted out over the cliff’s edge and trailed ramshackle steps down to the beach—perfect for al fresco anything. From the vantage point of this deck, Skip turned his back on the water and scanned the property edges. Wide and deep, bordered on the east and west with wooded hills—this lot was within the price range outlined to Mr. Harder, Sr.?

But Conrad confirmed it. Conrad admitted it’d been on the market for years…recession, he explained with embarrassment. Well, Skip could certainly understand tough financial times. They shook hands and Conrad raced back to the office to begin the paperwork, leaving Skip and his builder pacing outlines in the grass.

That same afternoon, a check for earnest money to each of the builder and the realtor was exchanged for special permission from the absent owners to begin building right away, to accommodate Phantom’s pressing schedule. The transaction might have been unconventional, but no one minded.

On the day the bulldozers arrived to start digging the foundation, a tall thin figure, silhouetted against the morning sun, appeared on a hill to the east of the property. Wrapped in black robes being whipped by the breeze, he, or she, stood gazing down on the proceedings.

Eyeing the dark figure uneasily, Skip asked the builder who could this be? Ernie, an easy-going older man with a pot belly, possessed a shrewd intelligence that Skip had quickly learned to trust. He and Ernie had felt at ease with each other’s good sense right from the start.

Ernie grinned at Skip’s nervousness. “Just our local witch. Mrs. Risk. She’ll be your neighbor come the end of sixty days and we get this house finished.”

“A real witch?” Skip gave Ernie a sideways glance to see if he was being ragged.

Ernie removed his Giants cap and scratched at his thinning hair. “Well, that’s what some say. She does seem to know things nobody else’d even guess at.

“Nice woman, I think, although some’ll tell you different. The thing is, the ones who disagree are those I wouldn’t trust with a bent nail.” Ernie shot a glance at his young employer. “It’s been said that if people get into trouble—which, just about anybody alive does, y’gotta admit—she’s awful good at doing what needs to be done.”

Skip gave a short laugh. “For them, or to them?”

Ernie wagged his head side to side, “She is an odd bird.” He grinned at Skip, then picked up his sheets of plans. “Got a sharp tongue on her, too,” he added as if in admiration. “I got the idea that a long time ago, when someone first called her ‘witch’, they were thinking the word started with ‘b’. Some just can’t stand a woman smarter than they are who doesn’t hesitate to tell them unpleasant truths.” He chuckled to himself, then concentrated on his layouts.

Skip stared curiously at the figure until she suddenly turned and descended the rise, disappearing from his sight. Then he forgot her and began discussing stucco walls with Ernie.

He didn’t even remember her two days later when the carpenter was killed, picked off by a rifle shot from where he rested, perched on a piece of stone, while his buddy fetched more nails from the truck.

After the village constable called in the County’s Sixth Precinct homicide squad, and they finally allowed the carpenter’s body to be taken away, the shock was still severe. Skip cancelled everything for the day, even deliveries.

After buying the men a restorative beer at Murphy’s, he watched them hurry to their various homes. He thought about how someday he’d be hurrying home to Alexia in times of trouble…if he could pull this off.

It baffled him why anybody’d shoot the carpenter, who’d seemed to be a pleasant guy, a hard worker with a family. As he ordered himself another beer, he wondered uneasily if it had anything to do with his scheme…

He painstakingly re-examined the details of this last—his very last—attempt to solve his problem. The problem wasn’t a new one to mankind anywhere—he needed money. Lots of money.

At first he’d tried saving it, skimping on food and clothes. But as he lost weight and stuffed cardboard into his work shoes, he realized that even if he starved, it could take decades to accumulate the nest egg he needed. He’d tried investing in a small enterprise a school friend had started, and lost both his money and his friend. Other schemes had made him rich only in experience, but at least he’d kept the rest of his friends.

That’s when he’d begun working the lottery…buying hundreds of lottery tickets…until it became obvious that he wasn’t destined for any winning ticket—anywhere—anytime.

Then, down to the last of his savings and out of ideas, he’d driven to Atlantic City. In this final, desperate ploy, either he would win enough money to marry his angel, the female he ached for with every ounce of his being, or…he could think of nothing else to do…he’d jump into the cold dirty ocean that ran alongside the casinos and drown himself.

It would take a miraculous run of luck, but how else could he ever marry Alexia—gorgeous, laughing, light as air Alexia, whose parents had always provided her with the finest clothes and a luxurious home? Alexia, who, Skip never doubted, could choose any man she wanted…and she’d chosen him. How could he ask her to accept so much less than what she was used to having?

He remembered that last fatal day, the final day when everything had happened, when fate had brought the edges of his plan together…he’d gone to pick Alexia up from her job as a grocery store cashier. He remembered thinking as he’d stood to one side, watching her finish with the last customer of the day, how she was the object of his dreams, the future mother of his future children, the most breathtakingly beautiful female he’d ever seen in his life.

After pulling her jacket from under the counter and holding it for her, he’d swept her to his chest with one well-muscled arm. She’d giggled and squirmed out of his clutch. “Outside, Skip. Wait a second, will you?” he remembered her saying.

He’d yielded and followed her outside, but for the thousandth time he was dizzy with both bliss and despair as he watched her walk with dancing steps through the automatic doors.

When they reached his pickup truck, he opened the door for her. As she beamed at him, he remembered noticing how, when her pale hair moved in the cool breeze, it caught the light the same way that fishing line catches the sun on a sultry afternoon.

He’d driven her home, only letting her escape after ransoming herself with dozens of sweet-tasting, tender kisses. She’d whispered in his ear that she loved him, but by then he’d become so sunken in misery that he hardly heard her. Would he ever see her again? Only luck would decide.

After topping off his gas tank at the self-service station, he’d begun the trek to Atlantic City in New Jersey. He’d had plenty of time to think, then. To worry.

An apprentice carpenter’s salary was better than a gas station attendant’s, and he wouldn’t be an apprentice forever, but the fortunes of those in the building trades rose and fell with roller-coaster irregularity. What could he give her besides babies and bills and a sorry little house in mid-island? She only worked as a cashier now because she thought she was too old to be totally dependent on her parents. He certainly wouldn’t want her to keep working when the babies came.

She had soft hands, soft lips, a soft voice, and soft skin, like a princess. Skip had seen what a penny-pinching life took out of a woman. How it roughened their skin. Harshed-up their voices. Worry could squeeze the sweetness right out of a woman’s nature. He’d seen it happen to his mother. He wouldn’t risk that happening to his Alexia.

He remembered patting the rolled up savings that made a thick ball in his pocket before gripping the steering wheel with the white knuckled fists of determination.

Seven hours later, he’d found himself counting out with the house manager…twenty thousand, twenty thousand five hundred…in a voice hoarse from shouting at the dice, lack of sleep, and too many coffees alternated with whiskeys.

At the end of the count, he breathed deep to steady himself, then rolled it all up into four bundles which he shoved deep into his pockets. He walked out of the casino, across the boardwalk, onto the sand, then leaned against a piling and inhaled the salt air, ridding his lungs of stale smoke and bar fumes.

Fifty thousand dollars. His shocked elation made him dizzy—until he suddenly remembered Alexia’s last birthday present from her parents…the sticker price for that little convertible came to double what Skip paid in a year for his apartment. His precious goal, which for a few seconds he’d imagined won, slipped tortuously far from his grasp—again.

Fifty thousand dollars might seem a fortune to Skip, but to Alexia…he knew it wouldn’t be enough. He glanced swiftly up at the sky after that admission, ducking in case of retribution for ingratitude, because he’d lit a candle in church before coming.

Well—that’s it, he thought. And he meant it.

No longer despairing, feeling only numb from hopelessness, he walked off down the beach to work a few kinks out of his cramped muscles…in preparation for diving, once and forever, into the water that beckoned beyond the pilings.

And it was while he was walking that he got it. The whole idea. It burst into his head full grown, bypassing babyhood and adolescence. It stopped him dead in his tracks. He spent several minutes examining it up and down and backwards and inside out…but found no flaws. And so he drove home…

The next day the homicide detective told Skip that the bullet was a common .303 used in hunting rifles. Though the killing was tragic, it probably was a hunting accident. The woods around Phantom’s long vacant property were known to be full of small game. Lots of hunters in the area, more than usual in the last few economically lean years. The perpetrator would possibly never be discovered.

Skip explained all this to Ernie and Ernie’s crew. Even though the men were understandably upset at the loss of their friend, several shoulders lowered in an easing of tension at hearing that it could’ve been a hunting accident, and work resumed.

After few more days, the crews were working up to speed again and the shock faded.

Then, a week later, Ernie stepped into an animal trap. Ernie, a normally soft spoken man, screamed in a shrill agony that caused the men to drop their tools and run to him from all over the site. The trap, an old iron one that Ernie swore hadn’t been there the day before, was big enough to incapacitate a full grown bear. Although the rusted jaws could’ve severed his leg, Ernie was lucky to be wearing work boots that limited the damage to broken bones.

As the ambulance trundled an agonized but sedated Ernie to St. Charles Hospital, the men stared at each other with white faces. Skip was speechless. Without being told, Ernie’s assistant, using Skip’s car phone, called the constable, who immediately called homicide again.

…After much discussion, even Skip had to admit that the detective’s theory—that it was only more hunting equipment, long forgotten and overlooked by Ernie’s crew—was somewhat reasonable.

The lot, he remembered Conrad saying, had stood vacant for years. The men agreed with the detective, although he could tell they were uneasy about it. He didn’t blame them. He wasn’t too convinced, himself, but at least Ernie would definitely be okay, suffering only a broken leg…unlike the poor carpenter. After an hour’s milling and an early lunch, the men returned to work. It sure was a puzzle.

A few days later, Skip ‘heard’ from his boss.

Skip called an impromptu meeting at the mayor’s office. After off-handedly pointing out the report of Phantom’s whereabouts in the Newsday newspaper (Liz Smith’s column) to Mayor Harper, Mr. Drexel, Doctor Villas, Mr. Harder Sr., the nice-looking Ms. Bellwood, Conrad, and Ernie’s assistant, Skip showed them the message Phantom had faxed direct from Eastern Europe where he was doing benefits for the newly formed ex-Soviet Satellite countries..

The lengthy communication, typed in faded, ‘foreign looking’ letters, complimented his manager, Mark Daniels, and the people working so hard from the village of Wyndham-by-the-Sea, for their quick work in carrying out his—Phantom’s—wishes.

However—and it was a big however—Phantom stated that he was walking a mental and physical tightrope that could snap at any time, so he’d be flying direct to Wyndham in his private jet from the location of the last gig on his tour.

‘Mark’ must speed up work even more, and arrange safe shipment of his furniture, art collection, sound equipment, etc., from where they were presently being stored so that all would be in place for his arrival. Phantom’s tour was at a particularly manic stage. In lieu of transferring funds from bank to bank—a nightmarish tangle of transactions when attempted from deep within the Eastern Bloc—he promised to settle all accounts fully the day he arrived. Then from that point, Phantom stated, he looked forward to the complete rest and total quiet promised him by the villagers of beautiful Wyndham-by-the-Sea. “See you all soon. Phantom.”

Mr. Harder and Mr. Arsdale, who’d jointly been pressing Skip for additional deposits and signed papers, retreated in awe. ‘All accounts settled fully’…the words floated in the air like the promise of paradise. With a flourish, Skip wrote out another draft on the borrowed bank funds and handed it to Ernie’s assistant.

“To hire new crews?” asked the assistant.

Skip nodded gravely.

“You got it, boss,” he said, and he marched smartly out of the mayor’s office to notify Ernie and collect more men.

Conrad prodded his father with an elbow and Mr. Harder, Sr., cleared his throat. “Well, I hate to bother you, Mark, but you know, we haven’t closed on this property yet. Strictly speaking, the owners have every right—”

Before he could finish speaking, Skip wrote out a check to ‘cash’, for $10,000. Word had trickled back to Skip through the sub-contractors and thus through Ernie that Mr. Harder himself was the absent unnamed owner, but Skip felt no need to mention it. He handed the check to Mr. Harder, Sr. “As an extra bonus,” Skip said, “for the property owners, for their kind cooperation. This doesn’t go into escrow, and it doesn’t apply to the purchase price. Do you think it’ll help their patience any?” Now Skip had $10,450 left of his original bankroll and owed the bank an astronomical amount of money.

“Oh,” Mr. Harder, Sr., said. He laughed nervously, taken aback. “Well, hey…” He slid it into an inner breast pocket of his jacket. “Thank you, Mr. Daniels,” he said with dignity. He and Conrad left the office smiling. Skip shook hands with the remaining board members and left. Everybody was happy.

Ernie returned to work the next day in a wheelchair, defying his doctor’s command to rest. Two hard driving, back breaking weeks passed, during which time the foundation was filled, the shell of the house was finished, the stucco was beginning to be applied, work on the fence circling the property (with electronic sensors in the gate and an intercom system) was completed, and the terra cotta roofing had arrived. Drywallers and decorators swarmed the interior.

Best of all, the plumbers finished hooking up the septic system, which perked up the entire exhausted crew. Port-o-lets can become downright uncivilized when accommodating so many users.

But when the well was dug, and a pump rigged to provide a convenient on-site source of water for the men, the water tasted so odd that the men avoided it. Several of the crew worried what Phantom would think of the taste, but Skip had no time to deal with it. He just resumed deliveries of bottled water, and moved his attention to other, more urgent, matters.

Summer arrived and the days warmed enough to become uncomfortable for the hard working crews. One sweating plasterer was filling a thermos at the stand of icy bottled water when the skidding, gravel-flinging arrival of Skip’s truck startled him. He froze in astonishment as Skip sprinted towards him and knocked his thermos to the ground.

“Did you drink any of that water?” Skip shouted into the plasterer’s face.

“Uh…no,” he said. “Not yet.”

“Who did?” Skip turned and screamed to the halted, staring work crew scattered all over the large house, “Did any of you drink this water?”

It turned out that a few had. Skip called an ambulance, shouting instructions into his car phone. A few of the men began rubbing their bellies and grimacing. By the time the ambulance arrived, eight men were vomiting and needed no urging to go to the hospital. Skip drove the overflow from the crowded ambulance in his truck. He looked ten years older by the time they pulled up to St. Charles Hospital’s Emergency entrance.

The waiting attendants whisked the by now seriously ailing men in to the doctors who’d been warned and were standing by. Then Skip turned around and drove back to those waiting at the building site. They wanted some answers. So did he.

He pulled in right behind the homicide detective and the constable. The detective just gazed at Skip and shook his head. He sent a water sample in to the lab for immediate testing, taped up the remaining bottles, then left the constable in charge. After all, no one had died. Yet. This time.

Ernie, who was getting around on crutches now, sat down heavily on the hood of Skip’s pickup truck. The men gathered around. A white faced Skip stared at the bewildered men.

“How’d you know?” Ernie finally asked, voicing one of the main questions on everybody’s mind. The other questions were ‘who’, ‘how’, and ‘why,’ but not many of them really thought Skip, who they all liked, would know the answers to these.

Skip’s pale lips moved before any words emerged. When they did come out, they sounded parched and shaken. “I visited the site this morning early, way before the rest of you were due. Took a drink. It felt odd in my stomach. Traveling with Phantom so much, you learn to recognize bad water…stuff like that. Made myself throw it up. Figured you guys didn’t need to get sick, too—came as fast as I…” he was unable to finish. He swallowed hard. It’d taken him the entire drive from his house to the property to dream up that explanation.

He looked around him. The men seemed convinced. Before they moved back towards their unfinished work, a few punched him sympathetically in the bicep, which brought a choked feeling to Skip’s throat that had nothing to do with dust.

Just then, the constable ambled over towards Skip and Ernie, a troubled look on his face. “Got it over the car radio. The lab nailed it soon enough to save the guys, thank God…sodium triouroaetate.”

“Uh, what?” asked Skip.

“Pest control. Rat killer. Used to call it ‘Tri-Zan.’ All the waterfront industries used it to control the rat population back in the early ’50’s, until it got banned,” said the constable. “Pathologist said they hadn’t seen the stuff in decades. But with the location, and the symptoms, an old guy in the lab thought of it right away. Lucky he did.”

Ernie explained to Skip, “This used to be a big shipbuilding region. Where there’s water and ships, there’s rats. I remember now that the stuff damn near killed off the whole town, years ago. Real disaster. Takes just a tiny bit…”

The constable nodded. “You probably saved the lives of every one of those guys who drank any. Odorless, and practically tasteless.”

Involuntarily, the three of them looked up at the sun nearly directly above them. It would be noon in less than an hour, and the air palpitated with heat. Everyone would have taken some water at one time or another.

“My God. My God.” Skip sat down hard on the hood next to Ernie, his eyes huge with horror. After a few moments, he stood up again. “Send ’em all home, Ernie.”

Ernie struggled to his feet, fumbled for his crutches. “What?”

“You heard it, send ’em home. Now. Stop the work.”

“You can’t do that, we got a killer schedule as it is. We can’t lose—”

Just then, a caravan of cars pulled in behind Skip’s truck, led by the battered Chevrolet driven by the homicide detective. Doors slammed and a crowd of people bustled towards them, joined, Skip was startled to see, by the witch, who walked briskly in from the fringe of trees that separated her property from Phantom’s. He waited uneasily. Had they all figured it out? Was his cover blown? The crew, seeing the new arrivals, stopped work again and drifted curiously towards Ernie and Skip.

Ernie had his crutches under control now and he stood at Skip’s side. The men gathered behind Ernie. To Skip’s surprise, at the witch’s arrival, Ernie tipped his hat to her like a guy in an old movie. “Ma’am,” he heard Ernie murmur to her. She nodded back, rewarding Ernie with a wry smile, but said nothing.

Mr. Arsdale, the banker, who was at the front of the crowd with the detective, started barking at Skip like a nervous terrier: “We heard about the ruckus up at the hospital from Dr. Villas. He said mass murder was taking place here. We won’t—” The detective stopped Mr. Arsdale with a pained look and an upraised palm. The banker subsided immediately, but cast round-eyed appeals among the other Trustees for support. He didn’t get any.

The mayor and every Village Trustee except Dr. Villas were present, plus some others Skip didn’t know.

Now the homicide detective asked in a polite, but firm, manner how ‘Mark’ had come to the conclusion ahead of everybody else that the bottled water was poisoned. The group hovered close, anxious to hear. Skip repeated his story.

When he finished, the mayor led the shouted protests to the detective that ‘Mark’s’ explanation was a good one, made sense, and didn’t he think—the detective interrupted the mayor’s suggestion of what to think and said, “We’re going to have to close down the activity here until some explanation is found for this water contamination.”

“Yes,” said Ms. Bellwood, the bookstore lady, her gentle voice unusually sharp in her vehemence. “No lives are worth any amount of financial benefit. We must stop this…this…” she halted, speechless with anxiety.

“You got it,” said Skip in a flat voice. She exhaled and smiled gratefully at him.

Some people were unhappy to hear that. Many in the crowd shrieked reasons at the detective explaining why it was a bad idea. The detective remained as polite, but as firm, as before.

“We can’t afford—” bellowed the mayor.

“—we can’t afford to risk any more lives,” interrupted the detective. “I’m considering this poisoning intentional until I find out different. If a man hadn’t already lost his life here, and Ernie nearly lost his leg, it’d be a little different. But as it stands—”

The clamor was deafening.

“We’re willing to work,” shouted a few of the sub-contractors, earning Skip’s gratitude, but increasing his anxiety.

“We’re not idiots, we just won’t—” began Ernie.

“—won’t do what? Could you have predicted that animal trap? The rifle bullet?” The detective looked at the crew with compassion. He knew that many of them hadn’t had work for months. This project was invaluable to them. To the whole village. He sighed. “I know it’s hard, but surely you can see that the men here are endangered. Until we find out what that danger is, they’ve got to stay away.”

Ernie subsided, but looked frustrated.

“But they’re working to a deadline,” wailed Mr. Harder, Sr., flushing with the heat in his three piece suit.

The detective shot him an uncomplimentary look without bothering to answer.

“I think,” began Mr. Drexel, immediately reducing everyone to respectful attention, “I think that the detective’s right, Mayor Harper. I think we can do no less for these men. I’m sure this Phantom will understand. He seems to be a compassionate enough fellow, doing all these benefits.”

Mrs. Risk suddenly spoke, startling everyone. They’d nearly forgotten she was there. “I believe Mr. Drexel expresses a valid observation about Phantom. In addition, Detective Hahn has the authority to enforce his request, unless I’m mistaken. He’s being gracious, but I don’t think you’re actually being given a choice. Am I correct, Michael?”

The detective nodded. “That’s the way it is, folks. The lady’s right. Break it up now. You men get your gear together. I know you’ll want your tools in case you get another job, and I’m going to have to inspect everything taken from the site.”

“Jeez,” muttered Ernie’s assistant, but he began collecting tools.

The crowd climbed back into their cars, murmuring among themselves, wondering what was going to happen and how long the hold-up would last. Detective Michael Hahn turned to thank the witch for her help, but discovered she’d already gone.

Skip was deeply relieved at the detective’s action. He walked slowly over to the deck that hung over the beach, then stood there gazing back at the unfinished house. His plans were in shambles. He needed to think. For no reason he could explain, he then turned and looked to the East.

As if she were an apparition conjured by his thoughts, a young woman with wildly curling long dark hair stepped up onto the deck, startling him so completely by her sudden appearance that he was forced to clutch at the deck’s railing to keep from falling backwards. While the thumping of his heart subsided, he stared, taking in the lush figure barely confined by the white silk shirt, tight jeans, and slim leather cowboy boots she wore.

“She sent me to fetch you,” the apparition announced.

“Uh—who—?”

She shifted impatiently. “Mrs. Risk.” At Skip’s continued blank look, she added, with a roll of large, lovely eyes, “The witch?”

Skip blinked at her. Sighing with exasperation, she grabbed his hand and pulled gently. “C’mon,” she said, as if to a small child. He came.

The young woman who’d been introduced to Skip merely as ‘Rachel’ settled the tray of drinks on a low cut, highly polished tree stump and handed Skip his beer.

“The letter told me about the poisoned water,” Skip said as he accepted the tall frosted glass. He wiped perspiration from his forehead with his arm and continued staring down at the grass on which he sat, remembering. The surrounding trees rustled in the breeze as if they were whispering about the situation.

Mrs. Risk crossed long legs, draping her gauzy black skirt in graceful folds across them. She poured herself and Rachel glasses of glittering gold wine, cradled hers in both hands, and leaned back in the rope hammock to listen. Rachel pulled an old aluminum lawn chair closer to Skip and sat.

“And because the other letters had been—been accurate, I drove like a maniac out to the site, and, as you know, was just in time to stop the—the…” He seemed unable to go on.

“The carnage, so to speak,” she finished for him.

Rachel made a small unidentifiable noise.

He nodded, his eyes sick with memory.

“Please relax, Mr. Daniels. You’ve averted a tragedy. Also, your anonymous letter writer demanded that you stop all work, and you have, so you’ve no reason to expect further atrocities. Isn’t that correct?”

Skip nodded again.

“The letters—tell me about them. Were they typed? Were they mailed from Wyndham? That sort of detail might tell us a great deal.”

Skip shrugged. “I never noticed. They were sent to me at a Post Office Box I hired. Just about everybody in Wyndham has the address. But here’s the one about the water.” He pulled a much folded envelope out of his back jeans pocket. “You can have it, if you want. They were all just like that one, I think. I threw the others in the trash.”

She took it from him and examined the grubby wadded paper. “So much for television detective shows teaching fingerprint and forensic technologies,” she said, sighing as she unfolded it.

“The first one came the day after I agreed to buy the property. Said if I didn’t want ‘death and disaster’, I had to leave that parcel of land alone. Buy someplace else. I didn’t pay attention, you know? Figured it was some nut getting his kicks. I got a second one, same message, and pitched it, too. Then right after the next one, that warned he was gonna hurt somebody, the carpenter was shot. I thought of this guy first thing, but the cops said it was likely an accident. I got kinda jumpy then, but the cops were so convincing…

“Then another one came. And Ernie got it in the leg. He coulda lost the whole leg, did you know that?”

Rachel blurted heatedly, “His leg? He could have been killed! What if he, or someone else, had been trapped when nobody else was around to rescue him? He might’ve bled to death!”

Skip blinked hard, and finding himself unable to reply, took a drink of his beer. He was startled to notice that the witch was barefooted. Her feet were smooth, slim, and tanned a golden brown.

The breeze from the water caressed and cooled his skin. Reluctantly he disturbed the peace of the grove. “And ma’am…”

Mrs. Risk looked up.

“I got something else to tell you. My name isn’t Mark Daniels.”

Her eyebrows lifted, but her eyes looked unsurprised. “No?”

With a sigh dredged from the bottom of his workshoes, Skip told her the whole story, from Alexia to the present.

“Well,” was all she said, at the end. She smiled faintly. Skip had been expecting something a little stronger. Like a demand for a jail sentence.

“You’re quite an interesting young man.”

Skip was shocked. That didn’t seem an appropriate thing for a lady like her to say on hearing how he was doing something totally illegal.

“Tell me, ah—Skip. Have you ever asked your young woman whether she expects to be supported in a life of luxury?”

“Not exactly.”

“How ‘exactly’?”

Skip flushed. “Not at all.”

“Then it must be that you are merely aware of the low character of this young woman.” She gazed at him inquiringly.

Skip’s head jerked back as if he’d been slapped. “No way! She’s the kindest, sweetest, most unselfish, hardworking, loving—”

“On the contrary. She must be an incredibly selfish, self-serving, materialistic female to demand such monetary standards from a possible future spouse.”

Skip roared, “But she didn’t demand them. She’s happy the way things are now. It’s me that—” He stopped, looked dizzy. “Oh.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s all me, isn’t it…?”

“So you’ve developed this driving need for wealth all by yourself?”

“I guess so.” Skip’s lips moved, but nothing more came out.

Mrs. Risk watched him, emotions flashing across her obsidian eyes that could only be guessed by the softness of the smile on her lips. Her eyes narrowed. “And, in your mind, has your goal justified the ensuing problems?”

Skip stirred himself, then paled. “If by that you mean the carpenter getting killed, of course not. Or Ernie’s leg, or the guys getting poisoned, either. No way,” he finished with firmness. His features melted into a picture of misery. “I’ve been really stupid. And look at the trouble I’ve caused.”

He sank back onto his elbows in the grass and pushed away his unfinished beer. “What’ll I do now?” But before Mrs. Risk could reply, he answered himself. “Turn myself in, that’s what I’ll do. I don’t deserve Alexia now. Less than I ever did.”

“I don’t believe so. If anything, you probably deserve her more now than you did before. No, I think we need to consider this problem from a different point of view other than merely punishing you for idiocy. You appear to have a thriving conscience, so you’ve probably suffered enough, anyway.”

Skip looked astonished at this. She leaned further back in her hammock, swayed, sipped at her wine, and considered the leaves fluttering far above her head. “Yes, another point of view,” she repeated.

They sat in silence for a while, during which time Skip glanced at Rachel with a wary eye. At some point in the discussion, she’d slumped in her chair and slung one leg over its arm. In this pastoral setting, she looked to Skip alarmingly glorious, like a temporarily benign exotic plant that carried poison in her fingernails.

“Are you her daughter?” he ventured. She laughed uproariously at this, but only shook her head.

He abandoned his curiosity and returned his attention to the witch. “If you don’t mind my asking, ma’am, what point of view are you talking about? Maybe I could help you think if I knew.”

Mrs. Risk considered him. “Murder’s been committed, Skip. And other murders have been attempted. An obviously desperate unknown person is stopping at nothing to keep you—or people in general—away from that piece of property. Someone who has no conscience, Skip. Every—single—one of you could have died.

“I don’t usually involve myself in police matters, but in view of the seriousness of these events, and the suspicion that would inevitably be cast upon you…” She looked down at him. Her angular face could have been chiseled from ancient but living stone. The merciless intent he saw there caused a shiver to race down Skip’s backbone.

“We must find that someone, don’t you think?” she finished.

“Damn right,” Skip said. “But how?”

“You’re willing to help?”

“I ought to, don’t you think? I owe it to all those guys who nearly died because of me. And the one who did.”

“Get that thought out of your mind this instant, Skip,” Mrs. Risk said sharply. “You didn’t kill that man, or try to kill the others. At this point in time, the worst you’ve accomplished was to give them jobs they badly needed, although,” her mouth twisted wryly, “in a highly creative way. Anyone interested in that property could have triggered these same events. No, someone evil is at work here. Someone with no conscience. Someone whom I intend to block from achieving his depraved goal. First of all, will you do what I say?”

“Anything. Just tell me.”

“Your part will be to get your men together, and let it be known all over town that you’re continuing. You’ve got to finish building that house. That’s imperative. Let me speak to Michael, I’ll arrange it. We won’t proceed entirely without police sanction.”

The color drained from Skip’s face. “I can’t. The men’ll be hurt. Maybe killed.”

“No, they won’t. Can you believe me when I say that I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize anyone? Besides, our obliging murderer seems fond of sending you warning before taking any action. I doubt he would change his habits now.”

“That makes sense,” said Skip in a faint voice. Skip studied her face—the sharp cheekbones, the glittering black eyes. Looking at her, it was easy to believe that she was a witch. And Rachel sitting close by had that same look of…of power. He felt the force of both women’s personalities as if they were live things separate from the women themselves.

He didn’t know if she was or wasn’t a witch, or even what a witch was, but he decided to trust her. Why he felt that way, he couldn’t say. But he did.

“Okay.” He got to his feet. “Anything else?”

She smiled at his sudden capitulation. Then her smile turned grim. “I’ll let you know.”

He wrote down for her his Post Office box number, his real home address, and his car phone number, and then left to do as she’d instructed.

By noon of the next day, Skip had the homicide detective’s permission and the men were back at work, nervous but happy to be earning again. Skip had new, sealed, bottled water trucked in.

For her part, Mrs. Risk wasted no time in surveying the property from all sides to see if she could spot what had set this particular piece of land apart from all others in the murderer’s mind.

She visited the sprawling property that bordered to the west of Phantom’s lot—a shuttered summer residence. The caretaker, interrupted at lunch in his small residence on a corner of the property, confirmed what she already knew of the history of the place and his duties, which were few, judging by the seedy condition of the place. She gave him some terse advice about the neglected upkeep and left.

A half-mile further west, the water scooped inland between two jutting fingers of protective land, forming Wyndham’s sheltered port. The village’s one big industry, North Shore Industries Corporation, occupied the port side of the eastern finger of land. Although situated on the water, NSIC was discreetly tucked back behind some shielding pines and shared the port with a public dock for pleasure boaters; Wyndham’s only large hotel/restaurant establishment—Harrington’s; and other, smaller, enterprises. The focus of Wyndham’s village life and tourist attractions centered on the port area.

The port provided a convenient access for small tankers to offload heating oil and gas at NSIC, which stored the oil and gas before selling it to all of Long Island.

Mrs. Risk remembered how NSIC’s docks and extensive storage facilities had once been an ill-kept eyesore, spoiling beautiful coastline and fouling the water until the company changed hands ten years ago. The new owner, Aisa Garrett, had proceeded to not only repair and update North Shore’s facility and operations, but also to rectify the damage done to the coastline. He’d exceeded both environmental standards and the aesthetic hopes of the tourist-dependent community. His stockholders had screamed but Mr. Garrett had persevered, serenely oblivious to their protests. Now, NSIC’s taxes almost single-handedly supported Wyndham’s excellent school and cultural assets. Mr. Garrett was a beloved man in the village.

Not so beloved was Mr. Drexel, the Village Board Trustee and acknowledged heir of the widowed and childless Aisa Garrett. However, because of Aisa’s renown he enjoyed the status of near-royalty in the village. A high society maven and aspiring jet-setter, he made no secret of his opinion of Wyndham as provincial and boring compared to the urban delights available to a man of his stature in Manhattan. Because of his pompous, superior airs, he’d been despised by the villagers in the beginning, but time and familiarity, plus the miracles he’d achieved in carrying out Aisa’s clean-up of NSIC, had brought tolerance on both sides.

Mrs. Risk gazed across the now pleasant vista of North Shore Industries Corporation as she recalled its history.

She returned to her own property. Skip would’ve been astonished to see her don a 3/8 inch thick full wet suit. However, the water in the Sound was cold even at the warmest time of year, and the insulation was necessary. She slid into the water and maneuvered herself into a buoyancy control vest and a small filled compressed air tank, then skillfully submerged, intent on examining the coast of Skip’s property from under water. Something had to be unique about this property and she was determined to find out what that could be.

After nearly an hour’s close examination of the beach’s edge bordering Phantom’s land, the only feature of interest she discovered was a thermocline—an icy current of water within warmer water. She spotted it by the distortion it caused to her vision, much like the shimmery image gasoline vapors make when rising from a hot pavement. It flowed perversely, against the current, flush against a shelf of land, emerging from a crevasse a few feet below the water’s surface.

As she drifted, only shallowly submerged, she pulled the SCUBA regulator out of her mouth. She pushed her face into the chill flow and tasted it. Not the foul water taste of Phantom’s well. No, and not only that, it wasn’t salty, either. It was pure, fresh water rushing fiercely through the salt water Sound, an underwater spring escaping from somewhere beneath Phantom’s back lawn.

The spring would provide a delightful alternative to the fouled well water for whoever lived on the land someday. When the killing stopped.

The spring made the property more desirable, and solved Phantom’s water problem, but as a motive for murder, it hardly qualified.

She took a sample for testing anyway. When she directed Rachel to take it to a lab, she sent along a sample of the well water, to be thorough.

After that, she dressed carefully in her best clothes. Aisa Garrett was an old friend of hers, and unfailingly delighted to be imposed upon. She began walking down the beach towards North Shore Industries. It was time to impose.

“You’re looking handsome, Aisa,” said Mrs. Risk with a slow smile.

“For a 71 year old, you mean. Yes, I’m sure I do, underneath all these wrinkles. How perceptive of you to notice.” He leaned forward in his desk chair and grinned up at her mischievously from beneath grizzled eyebrows.

“Would you like some wine?” he asked. “I recently laid in some vintages that might interest you, although my doctor has restricted me to two pitchers a day of that boring stuff there.” He flapped a disdainful hand at a carafe of water on his desk.

The witch laughed and shook her head, “My condolences. Not now, thank you.”

He patted her smooth brown fingers with a hand that was gnarled with arthritis and freckled from spending long sunny afternoons fishing, an addiction in which he was able to indulge because of Matthew Drexel’s efficiency. Drexel ran the place smoothly under Aisa’s blissfully semi-retired supervision, which explained why Aisa always had time for Mrs. Risk’s impositions.

“I know you never visit without a reason, so let’s get what I can do for you out of the way so we can socialize, my dear.”

“For what will you permit me to ask, Aisa?” She perched familiarly on the edge of his desk.

“Anything your heart desires; I’m too old to worry about the consequences. Now you’ve got me breathless with anticipation. What new trouble are you stirring up?”

“As you yourself mentioned, you’ve reached the age of 71. How high a price would you pay to live somewhat longer? I’m here to save your life, Aisa.”

“Again?” At first he chuckled, then he examined her expression…and sighed.

Soon, NSIC’s resident corporate lawyer scurried into Aisa Garrett’s office, whisking past Mr. Garrett’s astonished personal secretary without troubling to be announced. Then the presence of the secretary herself was demanded. The secretary, a good hearted, loyal woman, rushed to obey.

It was some time before Mrs. Risk emerged from the administrative offices, but when she did, she looked contented. She promised to return to sample Aisa’s wine at a not too distant date in the future, and left. The whole event was a matter of some speculation among the outer office staff, but was totally forgotten after the next Thursday evening. Because on Thursday night, Mr. Garrett died.

Those who remembered the witch’s close friendship with the old man and who might have attempted to console her were kept at bay by a newly enraged aspect of her solitude. She seemed to have tucked her grief deep within herself, as she grimly pursued her inquiries.

The entire village mourned. Mr. Drexel was now considered by the village—although unofficially until the formal reading of the will—to be the new majority stockholder, President, CEO and Chairman of North Shore Industries Corporation. As a result, he became too busy to bother about the rock star’s house any further. The rest of the Village Trustees understood and carried on without him.

On site, Skip remained oblivious to everything but the completion of the house. Feverish with anxiety, he worked side by side with Ernie’s men, surprising them with his expertise, keeping an eye on possible dangers, and at the same time hastening the project to its end. He couldn’t wait for it to be finished. The whole scheme seemed to stretch somehow into a surrealistically endless time frame, like a nightmare.

But days were crossed off the calendar and work was accomplished at record speed. Occasionally, Skip raised his eyes from some task to see the witch strolling purposefully across the beach or road, but although he worked on site from pre-dawn until long after sundown, she never visited him. He was curious as to her activities and their results, but a reluctance to discuss the matter kept him from going to her house and asking.

It didn’t matter: the only fact she might’ve told him was that the lab tests had revealed no surprises and would easily solve a pesky problem for the new owner: the spring contained pure clean water. The well water was polluted with natural gas, which only confirmed the good sense of the men in avoiding drinking it.

Only a daily ritual of visiting his post office box immediately after the noon delivery broke his concentration on building the house. His breath would stick in his chest until he twisted the key in the small door, opened it, thrust in a hand to search for that certain envelope which he would know by touch alone—and he would breathe again. Another twenty-four hours had passed without word from the anonymous letter writer and Skip could go back to work.

Finally the last nail was driven home and stuccoed over. The moment had arrived for the next step in Skip’s plan.

After first checking in with the witch, Skip called Conrad to meet him for lunch at Harrington’s on the waterfront. Once there, Skip handed over a notarized list of items, complete with appraisals, that would be installed in Phantom’s house the next day (the result of several night’s research, catalog photocopying, and forgery on Skip’s part).

Phantom’s possessions were too valuable to spend a second unguarded and unsecured, Skip told Conrad. The house and its pending contents needed legal protection, even though the papers remained unsigned and technically the property and house were both still unpurchased. It wasn’t Phantom’s way of working to allow anything to chance. Everything must be insured, from the merest tack to the most priceless piece of art.

After an astonished pause, Conrad opened a mouth to say only he knew what, because Skip stopped him with an upraised palm and the words, “Phantom insists.” Conrad’s mouth snapped shut and he hastened to comply. Within hours, Skip returned to the witch’s house with the signed documents. Skip hardly cared. The only document that he was really anxious over hadn’t so far appeared…a new anonymous letter from the murderer warning him of some fresh disaster.

That night, a sixteen wheeler arrived and disturbed the peace of Mrs. Risk, who was the only human being within earshot of the commotion, their two properties being in an isolated part of town. From her bed she listened to the racket and shouting which informed her that Phantom’s ‘possessions’ were being moved into his future home. She smiled grimly to herself. She wished she could be sure that what she was hearing was the trap closing around her quarry. She spent the rest of the night thinking.

The next day, bright and early, Skip did the rounds of the village employment spots. By mid-afternoon he’d hired a cook, an assistant cook, gardeners, groundskeepers, a gatekeeper, a mechanic, handymen, and three sisters to keep house for Phantom. They were to report for work tomorrow at 8 a.m., in time to look the place over and sort things out, ‘Mark’ said, in preparation for Phantom’s early evening arrival on that same day. They were to be sure to arrive exactly at eight, so he wouldn’t have to spend precious time manning the electrified gate until the gatekeeper he’d hired showed up. Everyone promised.

Then Skip ordered food, household goods and flowers from the specialty shops, delis, and gourmet grocers, to be delivered an hour after his new staff arrived tomorrow. This required the use of his remaining store of cash.

Now he was broke.

While these transactions were taking place, excitement spread like unquarantined measles until the entire village lost their collective reason and abandoned their shops and businesses. Who could work in an atmosphere of such delirium? Single-handedly, Phantom had practically wiped out Wyndham’s recession. The mayor strolled Main Street, chatting and shaking voters’ hands in case someone forgot who to credit for this bonanza, and the Trustees spent the remaining daylight admonishing the villagers to keep their ‘secret.’

As dark set in, Skip locked himself up inside Phantom’s house to brood, convinced hell had arrived at Wyndham-by-the-Sea, and he had brought it.

Mrs. Risk also remained indoors, at her own house, in case any of the villagers, deprived of a glimpse of Phantom’s sprawling stucco mansion by the enormous fence surrounding it, decided to see how a witch lived.

The sun sank in the west, spreading a hazy rose beneficat over the hysterical villagers who simmered impatiently in their homes, waiting for Phantom’s impending arrival. Eventually, the last bedroom light was extinguished, and everyone slept…or pretended to.

Around three in the morning, in the peaceful wooded coastline east of NSIC, an arm of flame reached for the moon. Phantom’s house was on fire. By the time a patrolling constable spotted the blaze, and the volunteer fire department assembled themselves, the fire had become all-encompassing.

The electric gate must have jammed when the control box caught fire and had to be forced open. Although the volunteers battered at the iron latches until they broke, it was too late to save anything by the time the trucks rolled up to Phantom’s house. The hot dry weather had primed the newly constructed residence and everything around it to tinder perfection. Nothing was spared.

The commotion pulled the villagers out of their beds and by dawn, the entire population stood appalled at the sodden, smoldering mass. Their hopes, their dreams, their glorious future in providing a secret home for Phantom was no more.

Mark Daniels, everyone agreed afterwards, showed what a selfless, heroic human being he was both during and after the disaster. While the finished product of incredible organization, weeks of work, and probably millions of dollars worth of goods went up in a miserable puff of smoke, his main concern was that no one got hurt. While priceless works of art were being reduced to ash, he had patrolled the property, keeping rubberneckers clear of falling debris and smoke.

Yes, Mark had a heart of gold. Of course, these admiring comments began circulating right after he announced that everything was insured to the hilt, so there would be plenty of money to reimburse everyone for the slightest effort made on Phantom’s behalf. Everyone would be paid in full for everything, regardless of the disaster.

A rush was made to fax Phantom concerning the current status of his home-to-be. He was advised to divert his path from Wyndham, since they were no longer ready to receive him. A reply, received later, was read aloud by Skip to those assembled—crammed—into the Town Hall at four in the afternoon after the fire. When he added that Phantom would be checking into a prominent Los Angeles hospital for his rest, it nearly broke the listeners’ hearts. “We’ll rebuild his house!” shouted someone. “Better than ever! Fireproof!” cried others.

Then Skip tactfully informed the villagers that Phantom would never be coming to Wyndham. The loss of his beloved possessions was too bitter a memory to face. The listeners became teary-eyed and a few in the back of the room sobbed openly. The Village Board Trustees stared at each other in dismay. Years of prosperity, up in smoke.

Just as people were beginning to stir, to console each other with reminders of how many had benefited from Phantom over the last weeks, a reporter from the local paper, Mr. Scott Bade, strode into the crowded Hall.

Instead of joining in the general mood of mourning, Scott snatched a chair from the mayor’s platform and stood on it, waving his arms for attention. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he announced that the name of the heir to Aisa Garrett’s company, North Shore Industries Corporation, had just been made public by the corporation’s lawyer. Just when some listeners loudly questioned ‘why bring that up now?’ the reporter continued: “The heir, folks, the heir! Instead of Mr. Matthew Drexel—is Ms. Peggy Marcastle, personal secretary and executive assistant of Aisa Garrett. She now owns all of Mr. Garrett’s assets, including controlling shares of stock in NSIC, which pretty much makes her the owner of North Shore Industries Corporation!” Scott surveyed the packed room in satisfaction as every man and woman there froze in shocked silence.

When he judged they’d absorbed that bit of news, he blurted, “And not just that, folks! Mr. Matthew Drexel, former executive vice president of North Shore Industries, is to be arrested shortly for the murder of Aisa Garrett.” Seemingly unconcerned, or maybe just ignoring the fact that the possibly slandered Drexel was at this moment standing up on Mayor Harper’s platform next to the mayor, he continued, “Detectives from the Sixth Precinct Homicide Department will be making their arrest based upon the evidence of poison found in Aisa Garrett’s body during an autopsy!

“This poison, identified as Tri-Zan, is the same stuff that poisoned Mr. Daniels’ construction crew at Phantom’s house. Mr. Drexel had access to the poison which was banned from Long Island after World War II, by having been put in charge of ridding NSIC of its old supply of Tri-Zan ten years ago during NSIC’s clean-up campaign, which many here will remember. A stash of it was found in his private office for which he will be asked to account.”

And with that, Scott jumped down from his perch, beaming at the stunned villagers. Only a few noticed the ‘okay’ sign he flashed with his thumb and fingers to someone at the back of the room.

Then, breaking this silence, came a loud, high pitched, anguished, NOOOOOO!! To the mayor’s astonishment, this undignified yelp had come from the mouth of Mr. Drexel. Mr. Drexel leaped from the mayor’s platform. He forged a path through the tightly packed people with his fists, propelled by furious energy.

Those standing near Ms. Marcastle at the back of the room, unaware of the goal of Mr. Drexel’s journey, turned to congratulate her. For the moment, however, Ms. Marcastle seemed unable to offer a coherent thank you since her mouth had dropped open at the announcement of Mr. Garrett’s new heir—herself!—and was still sagging in that position from the idea that her beloved Mr. Garrett had been murdered.

Suddenly Mr. Drexel reached her side and lunged, with flexing fingers, towards her throat. Ms. Marcastle’s dazed fumble for escape was prevented by the mass of villagers packed into the room. Observers began to scream.

At that moment Mrs. Risk appeared between Mr. Drexel and Ms. Marcastle and effectively blocked his progress with her body. Nobody remembered seeing the witch nearby a moment ago, which many took as confirmation of their opinion that she was truly supernatural.

Then Mrs. Risk spoke. Her low vibrant voice cut through the mayhem and silenced it.

“So you’ve discovered all your plans to be fruitless, have you, Matthew?”

Mr. Drexel was brought up short by the question. Slowly, his hands lowered, as if his earlier manic energy was being drained from him. His face reflected an agonized bewilderment. He blinked at the witch, then looked around him, although without any apparent awareness of his audience.

“I don’t understand,” he said to her in a peculiarly high pitched tone. “Wasn’t he already buried? I went to the funeral myself. When did they do an autopsy?”

Homicide Detective Michael Hahn reached him at just that moment and with a heavy hand, pushed him none too gently by the shoulder into a chair. Detective Hahn aimed a commanding frown at the surrounding onlookers and most of them shuffled back a foot or so.

Mrs. Risk, however, stayed close beside Mr. Drexel. Her eyes flashed with a black fire, but her voice sounded only detached…casual…as if she merely wondered about some things.

“Aisa’s doctor ordered him to drink two carafes of water every day and you knew it. You added Tri-Zan to the carafe on his desk that Peggy kept filled with water for him. You’re the one who slipped that same Tri-Zan into the bottled water to poison Phantom’s construction crew, too, aren’t you.” She didn’t make it sound like a question.

He gave a short, bitter laugh. “When Aisa took over, he found that North Shore still had a supply of the banned rat poison left over from decades ago. He put me in charge of disposing of it, along with everything else. I never got around to it. I could use all I want and nobody would miss it, since nobody was supposed to still have any.”

“But the well water would’ve made the crew sick eventually, that was the joke, wasn’t it Matthew?” she said.

Mr. Drexel looked aside, but nodded.

“Because it was tainted with gas,” said Mrs. Risk. “The water table was slowly being polluted from those pipeline leaks you were supposed to clean up and eliminate years ago. You never finished that job, either, did you?”

“I started it, but the costs were astronomical. The pipes were so old—the engineers said they had pinhole leaks, maybe even only one or two, that we couldn’t find. The only solution they recommended was to dig up and replace the entire pipeline. I did replace some of it, but there were miles of pipes!”

“And since you were in charge, you were able to keep anyone at the company from knowing all the facts of the clean-up operation, weren’t you? Nobody but you knew that you’d left it unfinished. And so slowly, gas has continued to leak into the water table at the east end of the village. The leak hadn’t spread to my property yet, and the only people living between NSIC and Phantom’s property are rarely there to notice anything. The plots are so large on my side of town, it played to your advantage, isn’t that right, Matthew?”

“I would’ve done the job, in time.” His voice sounded plaintive, as if he felt she should see the reasonableness of his actions. He looked up at her. “The gas was taking years to spread. But no, Mr. Garrett wanted everything done immediately. NSIC would’ve gone broke.”

“Not broke, but the stock price would’ve been greatly depressed, wouldn’t it, Matthew?” murmured Mrs. Risk.

He nodded, still looking only at her. “The stock price had already dropped in reaction to Aisa’s huge expenditures. I’d gotten several loans, using that stock as collateral. If the value dropped again—I would’ve had to come up with money I didn’t have to back up those loans. It’s expensive, living the way I do. Everybody knows I’m Aisa’s heir. I’m an important man, I have appearances to maintain.”

Mrs. Risk looked away from him for a moment, the muscles in her jaw working, then continued, “Too bad you couldn’t have—economized your lifestyle a little—enough to buy that land yourself.” She still spoke with that strange intensity of tone that carried throughout the room without being loud. The crowd stood breathlessly silent, listening.

“Purchasing the land yourself would’ve bought you more time—time you needed to wait for Aisa’s death. Because when Aisa died, your inheritance would not have just paid off your personal debts. You could’ve discreetly replaced the pipelines and still maintained your lifestyle…maintained your—your rightful position—in the village, and in the Manhattan society of which you’re so fond.

“But instead,” she continued, “you were greedy. In order to stop construction, you chose to kill the poor carpenter. When the police decided the murder was an accident, work on the project continued. Then you were driven to kill someone else, but this time merely broke the leg of the construction boss. Nothing seemed to go your way. Nobody would stop working on that house. Mark never publicized your anonymous letters, either, which might have stopped things. You must have been horribly frustrated.”

“I was,” he said. “I was.”

“Poisoning the water nearly brought you success…nearly. You didn’t want to keep murdering people, but what else could you do, Matthew? What else could you do?”

Matthew Drexel let out a long, pent up breath. “Everybody was frantic to get that house built, to have that rock star live here. I didn’t care, myself, until they picked out that one piece of property. I just couldn’t let it happen. But nobody would give in!”

Then Matthew Drexel looked her quizzically in the eye. “How did you figure it out?”

“I found an underwater spring flowing through Phantom’s property. It tasted good, which made me wonder why his well water tasted so bad. I had both waters tested. The water from the water table was polluted. Tainted with natural gas. Natural gas isn’t found on Long Island, Matthew. NSIC has it brought in by ship, and then they store it. Everyone knows who Aisa trusted to carry out his wishes, his orders, for NSIC’s cleanup. You, Matthew.”

“Phantom’s got money, more money than God,” he said bitterly. “I knew that when he tasted the lousy water, he could afford to get experts in to fix it. And they’d figure out that NSIC had polluted the water table. And…and then everybody would find out everything.”

“You mean, Aisa Garrett would find out everything, don’t you? And disinherit you?”

Mr. Drexel seemed to shrink as he sat there.

“But Aisa Garrett just kept getting older,” said Mrs. Risk.

“That old man might’ve have lived to be a hundred—if…if he hadn’t died just then,” Mr. Drexel said petulantly.

“If you hadn’t killed him.”

An angry murmur spread through the people standing nearest Mr. Drexel. He seemed oblivious. Or uncaring. He looked exhausted. Beaten.

Detective Michael Hahn took a firm grip on his arm and pulled him up from the chair. They moved towards the Hall door and the waiting patrol car just beyond.

“After Aisa’s death,” suddenly continued Mrs. Risk, as if she’d just thought of something. The detective paused, pulling Mr. Drexel up short. “Because you thought you’d soon inherit the company and the income to go with it, you no longer had a need to prevent Phantom’s arrival. Aisa’s money would soon solve everything. The fire probably seemed to you to be a bonus. A huge stroke of luck.”

Mr. Drexel brightened for a second, but the look faded. “That was lucky, yes. I thought I’d won everything. Everything,” he repeated.

“But you didn’t,” stated Mrs. Risk flatly.

A spasm of anger flashed across his face. “No,” he said shortly, and he turned away from her.

Detective Michael Hahn pulled his captive’s arms together behind his back, to handcuff him. The crowd sprang into angry life. The detective pushed Drexel before him, using broad shoulders to wedge their way through the enclosing masses. Despite the detective’s best efforts, a few fists and feet found their way to Matthew’s executive anatomy.

Then a high quavery voice interrupted the growing uproar from over the loud speaker. It was Aisa Garrett. He was standing up on the mayor’s platform and being steadied by the mayor’s grip on his elbow. He may have looked frail, but he was certainly alive.

“Stop it now, everyone. Stop it,” commanded Aisa Garrett. “He was more unsuccessful than you know, about murdering me, anyway.”

The villagers, after a moment of gaping at this apparition of a dead man, cheered. “Aisa!” they shouted.

Aisa held up an arm and waved. “Listen,” he croaked at them. Mayor Harper rapped on his table. “Listen—thank you mayor—listen, folks. I want to tell you how much I regret letting this greedy son of a bitch get away with his…his scheme, but I swear I’ll make it up to you all, as much as I can make it up to anybody. That carpenter’s wife will be supported for life and her kids are going to college.” A few cheered, but mostly faces looked grave. Silence spread through the crowd.

“I know,” Aisa said after a pause. “I agree with you. Money doesn’t replace a husband and father. I agree with you all. I’ll clean up the water thing, I’ll be in charge of it myself, this time.” He sighed. “I guess I’ll also be looking for somebody to take my place…” he grimaced. “I’m getting too old to look after things, if a trick like that can be played right under my nose. I’m more sorry than I can say.” He lifted a hand, turned, and then got lost in the milling, agitated crowd.

Detective Hahn resumed charge of his prisoner’s exit and people shuffled away to mull over the many shocks they’d absorbed. Skip melted away from sight as if aided by a witch. Which he had been.

They made a mellow, subdued party under the trees, sipping Aisa Garrett’s excellent red zinfandel—Aisa Garrett, Rachel, and Mrs. Risk…the witch…in painted aluminum lawn chairs. Ernie and Skip sat sprawled out in the grass.

“As agreed, I’ll reimburse everybody for the debts incurred on—ah—Phantom’s behalf, Skip,” said Aisa. “Including the mortgage on the property. I guess I wouldn’t mind moving next door to Mrs. Risk.” He chuckled. “Maybe Ernie’ll build me a house, what’d’ya think, Ernie? Fireproofed, though.”

Ernie lifted a glass to Aisa and nodded.

Skip flushed. “I don’t think it’s right that you pay anything, Mr. Garrett.”

“Don’t be silly, Skip,” said the witch sharply. “He’s fulfilling his part of a bargain we made, one you know nothing about. You certainly couldn’t pay, regardless. The gas leak, after all, was the root of the problem. And Aisa’s entirely correct to assume the liabilities acquired by not personally overseeing the clean-up to its completion. It was his error—and his responsibility. Taking care of the carpenter’s widow isn’t, but Aisa’s a good man.”

Aisa smiled at her for that. He patted Skip on the arm. “She’d figured out what Matthew was doing, and made a very shrewd guess as to what he had in mind to do next. Saved my life, by god. It’s just money, boy. But that’s something you’ll find out, I’m sure. Speaking of which, I don’t want to be indelicate, but what was it exactly that you were going to get out of this?”

Ernie spoke up, surprising everyone. “My guess is, the insurance payoff. The house that burned down was probably full of nothing except Skip’s imagination. If he’d actually taken out a real insurance policy, the amount would’ve come to a sizable bit more than the total of the debts Mark—uh, Skip…can’t quite get used to that other name yet, sorry—that Skip owed after the fire.”

“Uh, yeah, Mr. Garrett. That’s about it.” Skip cast an anxious glance at the witch, but she added nothing.

“Instead, he loses his fifty grand,” put in Rachel with a grin. “But now he’s so much smarter.” She winked at Skip.

He smiled nervously back at her, then frowned. “Just who are you, anyway?”

She made a mocking face. “Oh, like you, just somebody who’s in the process of being made smarter.” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Like, an apprentice ‘witch.’” She grinned at him again. He looked at Mrs. Risk uncertainly, but she was busy refilling glasses.

“Oh, ho.” Aisa Garrett’s bushy brows elevated as he finished some mental figuring. He nodded. “Would’ve been a nice return on your investment, boy. But you’re lucky I was your ‘insurance policy.’ This lovely lady kept you from a sure jail sentence by preventing you from defrauding an insurance company.”

“Yes, that was the one poorly conceived part of your plan, Skip,” said the witch. “Insurance companies are notoriously curious about large claims. They would have conducted a thorough investigation and would have exposed your entire game.”

“I’m surprised a sharp young boy like you wouldn’t have known that,” put in Aisa with a grin at Skip. “But give him some credit, my dear. Except for that one major blunder that would’ve destroyed his plan and changed his entire life, he did pull off the rest of it with some panache, after all. He showed some sound technical thinking.”

The witch gave an incredulous snort that sounded odd from her elegant nose.

Ernie stretched out on the grass and poured himself more wine. He was grinning to himself.

The witch prodded him with a toe. “What are you so complacent about? You’re not going to broadcast the news about Skip’s confidence trick all over the village, are you? He could still be arrested for attempting to defraud. At the very least, it could ruin his chances with his young woman. Why spoil a lesson well learned?”

“Me? Hell, no. Besides, the ones who’d believe me are the same ones who’d never speak to me again for busting their dreams of how close they got to being buddies with Phantom. Uh, uh. I was just thinking how right I was about you all along.”

The witch tucked her bare feet under her black gauze dress and straightened her back. “In what way could that be, Mr. Block?”

“What I told Mark—Skip—here, about how great you are and how you give people a hand, was only half of what I always thought. You are one, excuse me, hell of a good-lookin’ woman who’s as sharp as a tack and no fool, either. I can see why you get yourself up in black like that, scaring the bejeezus outa the idiots in the area. You need some kinda protection, livin’ way out here all alone like you do, fishing and lobstering for a living. Oh, I saw the pots and tackle, and the diving gear, too. No use pretending.”

The witch looked at Aisa in alarm.

He chuckled. “That’s wonderful. That’s just wonderful. A fisherwoman!” Aisa’s chuckles escalated into a wheezing howl. “God, I’m sorry Ernie. It’s just that—” He howled some more, helplessly.

Aisa wiped his eyes as he finally calmed down. “Well, that was wonderful, as I say. But my dear man, I regret to inform you that she most definitely does not fish for a living.”

“What does she do, then?” asked Skip, bewildered.

“None of your business,” snapped the witch. Color was high on her sharp cheekbones.

Unfazed, Ernie stubbornly continued. “Well, I still say, you are one hell of a woman. I’d give anything to be good enough for you, but frankly, ma’am, I’m not. And I don’t know any who is. If I do, I’ll run him over your way, but until then, I claim the privilege of bein’ at your service any time.” He drank the rest of his wine in heady triumph.

The witch looked to the heavens and sighed. “Dear Lord,” she said.