Read Online Trolls in the Hamptons by Celia Jerome - Free Book Online

impressed as I was, but she was busy taking the wine from Van to chill. This Grant guy must look too old to interest Susan. He looked better than Mrs. Abbottini’s lasagna to me. In fact I could use a little cooling myself right now.
    â€œI did not mean to intrude on your dinner, Miss Tate,” he said. “I’ll come back later, shall I?”
    â€œNo, that is, please stay. We have enough food for ten people, and if you can answer my questions, I’d be thrilled.” Well, I was thrilled already, thinking what a great addition he’d be to my life. That is, to my story. Here was Fafhrd’s partner, the Gray Mouser of Fritz Leiber’s books, a lean, lithe swordsman extraordinaire, clever and charming. That worked for me. “Please, come in, Mr. Grant.”
    Van made formal introductions as we sat down. Mr. Grant was actually Agent Thaddeus Grant, but he preferred Grant, nothing else. As in my wish was granted? I wondered. I said I preferred Willy to Willow or Miss Tate, especially since we were already on a first name basis with Officer Gregory.
    Grant asked that we not discuss the recent events until after the meal, with a significant nod to Susan and the policeman. That was fine with me, too.
    I’d cleared the table of my computer and supplies, bills, lists, magazines, phone books, et cetera, stashing everything under my bed. I wanted to throw a real dinner party, with a tablecloth and candles and everything, in case Mrs. Abbottini peeked in to take notes for my mother. Thank goodness for the occasional Martha impulse, and the dread of another nagging phone call. Now I almost wished my neighbor would knock on the door, so she could report about the two handsome, intelligent, important men I was entertaining.
    Well, Susan was doing most of the entertaining, telling the guests about Paumanok Harbor.
    Neither of the men had ever been out that far on the Island, although Grant had visited East Hampton once on unspecified official business. My curiosity was running rampant, but I did have a modicum of manners, so I let my cousin talk.
    The Harbor sounded a lot better than it was, the way Susan told it, all beautiful scenery, quiet off seasons, and friendly small-town neighbors, half of them related. She didn’t mention the eccentric characters who knew every detail of everyone’s life, the isolation in the winter, the never-ending wind, the traffic, or the prices raised for tourists’ pocketbooks. Then there was the near impossibility of making a decent living there unless you served the wealthy summer people.
    I was dying to ask about Grant’s work, if he carried a gun, what the investigation had uncovered, and if he was married. Instead I had to listen to Susan recite the chamber of commerce brochure.
    She explained that she’d been cooking at one of her uncles’ restaurants after culinary school, but she had to take a leave of absence for treatments. It was unpaid leave, but Uncle Bernie kept up the medical insurance—under threat from the whole clan. That led to a conversation about medical care here and in Britain, and the comparative costs of everything.
    We had wine and salad and crusty garlic bread to go with the lasagna, and an apple pie Susan baked this afternoon while I was cleaning the living room. The men said everything was delicious, and proved it by asking for seconds. I could have been eating half-defrosted frozen peas—yeah, I’ve done that in an emergency when I was out of ice cream—for all I tasted, waiting for my chance to find out what was going on.
    While Susan and I cleared the table, Grant handed Van a credit card and asked him to take Susan to buy flowers for the cooks, Mrs. Abbottini and Susan, and for the hostess, me. Thoughtful, tactful, generous—the guy was near perfect so far.
    Susan reached for a scarf to tie around her head, but Van wouldn’t let her. “Come on, Curly, you’re a survivor. Be proud. And