Sand Witches in the Hamptons (9781101597385) by Celia Jerome Page A

scene kit.
    Van assured Mrs. Abbottini they wouldn’t take her pocketbook as evidence, then asked if she was injured. She said no and tried to get up.
    He gently pushed her back. “I heard you put up a good fight, ma’am, saved the day, but you need to stay down until the EMTs get here to make sure.”
    â€œNo, I cannot stay here. I was on my way to church, where I go every morning. I need to light an extra candle today, in thanks that the motherf—”
    Mr. Rashmanjari clapped a hand over a young boy’s ears. Van laughed and said, “I’m sure you can say your prayers in the emergency room.”
    â€œThose places try to kill you so that you don’t bother them anymore.” She tried to shove Van’s hand away and sit up again, then groaned. “What if I broke my hip? Old ladies die of that. How’ll I get up the three flights of stairs? My sons’ll put me in a home, and never come visit. Ingrates don’t come now. What will I do?”
    â€œYou’ll be fine. You’re too tough an old bird to slow down,” I lied before she started to get weepy on me. “You saved the keys, didn’t you?”
    That was all bull. She had a hard time with the third floor now. I never thought about what would happen when she couldn’t navigate the stairs. I guess I supposed her sons would take her to live with one of them. As for the keys she fought to keep, we could have changed the locks easily enough or put in a modern pass card system.
    The heavyset cop huffed back and started dusting the pocketbook, over Mrs. Abbottini’s complaints that he was ruining her good bag. Van reassured her the black stuff could be wiped off. The younger policeman had a bullhorn out now and tried to get everyone to leave the area so the emergency squad could get through, but if anyone heard or saw anything, they should step forward now. No one moved except Mr. Rashmanjari, who said he’d heard the screaming and called 911. He only saw the back of a thin youth in jeans and denim jacket.
    The younger cop came closer and looked over Van’s shoulder. “The ambulance is on the way, ma’am,” he said in a Hispanic accent. “Five minutes more.” Then he asked Van if she’d given a description of her attacker.
    Van and the older cop shook their heads. “Vague, only. Young, white, evil eyes, pointy chin.”
    â€œPlease, ma’am, can you give us anything else? You said you’d seen him before. Does he live in the neighborhood?”
    â€œAsk Willy. He brought her flowers.”
    Everyone looked at me. “I never saw him. And the flowers started a lot of trouble. They had no florist card or anything to say where he got them, either.”
    The Hispanic officer nodded. “We’ve been watching, keeping an eye out. Willow Tate.”
    He said it the way you’d say registered sex offender. But I guess my name or reputation got them here so fast, which had to be a good thing. “Did he say anything?”
    â€œYes, he said, ‘Give me the fucking keys.’ Not that I use words like that, you know.”
    The cop’s lips twitched. “No, ma’am, I’m sure you don’t.” We’d all heard what she started to call the mugger.
    â€œI didn’t hear him at first, too busy screaming at him to let go of my purse.” And she was hard of hearing, but I didn’t interrupt. “He yelled it real loud the second time.” Now she raised her voice to show us: “Give me the fucking keys!”
    Mr. Rashmanjari urged his wife and children back into the apartment.
    â€œRight. Got it. High voice? Low voice? Accent?”
    â€œNot like yours.” She pointed toward the Rashmanjaris. “Or theirs.”
    While the cop kept asking questions and getting unhelpful answers, I checked my watch. The bus I’d planned on taking had come and gone. There’d be another one in an hour or so, most