Sand Witches in the Hamptons (9781101597385) by Celia Jerome

downstairs, I saw the noisy first-floor tenants in a huddle right outside the front door. I didn’t know them well, but I nodded and started to ask them what happened when I saw Mrs. Abbottini, on the ground. I ran toward her, pushing aside a florid-faced, heavyset policeman who kept asking if she needed an ambulance, where did it hurt, did she know her attacker. He wouldn’t let her get up from the pavement until he was sure nothing was broken.
    She looked old and small and frightened, not like the battleax with dyed black hair I’d known forever. She grabbed onto my hand.
    â€œIt was him, Willy.”
    â€œHim, who?” The cop nodded at me to continue, to get her to talk. “Somebody from the neighborhood?”
    â€œNo, the punk who brought the flowers. The ones you didn’t want.”
    The cop mouthed, “Get his name,” but I shook my head. We didn’t know the kid. “Did he bring more flowers?” I looked around without seeing anything, except another, younger officer asking if anyone in the crowd had seen the attack. “Or another dead rat?”
    The first cop raised his eyebrows. “You Willow Tate?”
    I didn’t ask how he knew. I guess Van put in a police alert for the neighborhood. Either that or I was famous for being a troublemaker. I squeezed Mrs. Abbottini’s hand. “What did he want this time? Did he say anything?”
    â€œHe wanted my purse.” She held up the suitcase-sized black bag, the strap still clutched in her fingers. “That’s what I thought at first, anyway. But I held on tight. He knocked me down then. I still held on. No nasty delivery kid was getting my bingo money.”
    The first cop shook his head in frustration. No matter how many times they told the old folks to give up their valuables and don’t get hurt, some codger tried to be a hero. “Tell your granny to give the mugger whatever he wants, nothing’s worth dying for.”
    â€œShe’s not my granny. My grandmother would have stopped the thief in his tracks, turned him into a frog, or set his hair on fire, wouldn’t she, Mrs. Abbottini?”
    Everyone laughed, not knowing I meant it. Mrs. Abbottini smiled, to my relief. “That she would.” Then the smile faded. “She wouldn’t be lying on the street with everyone gawking at her.”
    â€œThey’re just concerned for you. But the officer is right. It’s only money. You should have let him have it.”
    â€œNo, Willow, he didn’t want the money or the credit cards. He reached for the keys. The keys to the apartment, the front door, the back door, my apartment, and yours, too.” They were all on a long chain clipped to the zipper pull of her pocketbook. She pulled it out to show me and the cop and the people circled around. “That’s what he wanted, Willy. To get in.”
    Mr. Rashmanjari from the first-floor unit clapped. His wife bowed her head. “You saved us all, brave madam. We could all have been robbed or murdered in our beds. My daughters . . .” He let the thought fade away. “Such evil should not exist.”
    Amen to that.
    He whispered something to his wife and she pulled two young girls closer to her side. I did not think she spoke English. I knew the children did, because I’d heard them screaming at each other. The Rashmanjaris had only been here since June, and I’d been in Paumanok Harbor a lot of the months between. All I knew of them was they were a large, multigenerational family, with large lungs and loud voices.
    Then Van appeared, kneeling at Mrs. Abbottini’s other side after a quick conference with the first responders, all of whom he called by name. He set down a large bag from the deli and took the shaking hand I wasn’t holding, prying her fingers off the purse. “Maybe he left fingerprints we can trace.” The older cop nodded and went back to his car to get a crime