Frankie
I’m going to kill Mark.
“Psychologist,” I correct my new neighbor. “Not a parapsychologist.”
Mrs. Baumgarten looks bewildered. “You don’t study psychic phenomena?”
“No.” The next time I see him, Mark is dead. So dead. “My specialty is financial therapy.”
“Financial therapy?” Mrs. Baumgarten looks even more bewildered, but I’m used to that. Hardly anyone has heard of what I do
for a living.
“Three-quarters of Americans report feeling stressed about money,” I explain. “I try to help my patients figure out ways to
manage that stress.”
“Oh, no.” Now she looks embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. I must have misunderstood—”
“You didn’t misunderstand,” I assure her. “Mark’s my little brother. He loves playing pranks.”
“Pranks?”
I don’t blame her. I blame my brother. Mark knew this poor woman would buttonhole me with her claims of paranormal phenomena
the minute I walked out my front door. He must have had a good laugh at the idea.
And it’s a shame, because Ruth Baumgarten—with her graying bob and thick sweater—seems like a nice woman, if maybe a little
high-strung.
But who wouldn’t be after being robbed by “ghosts”?
“Yes, I’m afraid Mark considers himself a bit of a comedian. I’m sure he thought he was being funny.” I continue to try to
keep my tone soothing and upbeat. No need to let this lady know that later on today, I’m going to murder my little brother.
“But your house isn’t haunted. I’m guessing someone broke into it—probably someone who has the code to the lockbox.”
Or possibly someone who still has a copy of the key. Did Ash even bother changing the locks after he bought the house from
my wonderful former neighbors, the Blancos, who never rented out the place to Summer People?
The woman blinks. “But who would take such inexpensive things and leave the rest?”
“Judging by the fact that all the alcohol is gone, it was probably just some local kids. I’m betting they used your tote bags
to carry it away.”
“Teenagers?” She looks shocked. “You think it was teenagers?”
“I do. Not many of them care for cauliflower pizza crust. If you haven’t called the police or the rental agency, I’d be happy
to do it for you.”
I avoid mentioning why I’m so happy to do these things: I’m delighted to do anything that might make life more difficult for Ash.
“Oh, thank you,” Mrs. Baumgarten cries. “Thank you for that. You can’t know how nervous I was coming over here to talk to you. My husband
said—well, he said not to. He thought you’d think I was insane.”
“Not at all.” I would never use a term like insane to describe anyone except myself—not even a Summer Person who thinks the house she’s rented is haunted. “I’ll ask my friend
at the property management company to see if they can change the code to the lockbox, and maybe even the locks.”
I sound like the most responsible, caring neighbor in the world. No one would ever suspect the true reason I’m so willing
to do this: I’m hoping Ash will be so annoyed, he’ll sell.
It’s not an unrealistic dream. Ash doesn’t even live here. He lives in Manhattan—at least according to his LinkedIn profile,
which, yes, I did check the minute I learned his full name. Surprisingly, he’s listed there as Ashraf Merit, not the more conventional Asher or Ashton I was expecting based on his Entitled Finance Bro vibe (LinkedIn says he
works as a financial advisor for the pretentiously named Olympus Foundation, a “privately owned charitable trust”).
I’ve only ever seen him from a distance. He’s certainly never bothered to say hello to me or any of our other neighbors during
his brief visits to West Harbor. He’s the very definition of an absentee homeowner.
“Calling the agency is a good idea.” Mrs. Baumgarten is glancing nervously back at her rental. “I’m not sure how comfortable
I feel staying in the house anymore. I think . . . well, I think I’m going to cancel.”
“Oh, no!” I say this only to be polite. Harbor Hideaways, the property management company Ash uses, has a ninety-day notice cancellation policy. Ruth Baumgarten is never going to get a dime of her money back.
I don’t mention any of this to my soon-to-be-former neighbor, however.
“But that makes sense,” is all I say out loud. “Anyone would feel uncomfortable after something like this. It’s a violation.”
“Thank you.” Her hand creeps up to the collar of her cardigan again. “But it isn’t only that. David—that’s my husband—keeps
saying that maybe we should have rented in the Hamptons instead.”
No kidding. But a vacation rental in the Hamptons, even off-season, costs three times as much as one in West Harbor . . .
at least one here on Walker Lake. Beachfront is more expensive.
Still, Ash will have a hard time finding a new tenant for his house this late in the season. Everyone who has the money to
waste on a thirty-day September rental has already booked theirs, so he’s going to be out of luck.
I should be ashamed of how happy this thought makes me. But I’m not.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again. And I am sorry. For her.
“It’s all right. This whole thing is probably my fault, anyway.” Mrs. Baumgarten grimaces self-deprecatingly. “I’m the one
who still insisted we book a place in West Harbor, even after I heard about the missing girls.”
This throws me. I’d been assuming she didn’t know. “You, uh, heard about that, and still wanted to rent here?”
“Well, yes!” Mrs. Baumgarten’s eyes look huge—but not from fear.
Excitement. Now that I’ve reassured her it was humans, not paranormal entities, who took her wine, she’s feeling more at ease.
“West Harbor has become globally recognized as a place of spiritual enlightenment! My friend Joanne was here last summer for the West Harbor Witch Riot and said it was transformative. I’ve never seen her look so good. She came back glowing.”
A chill passes through me, even though it’s so warm out. “So you rented in West Harbor because of—?”
“Of course! But I expected to encounter witches like Joanne did—not ghosts!” She shakes her head. “Ghosts are a totally different
story.”
I blink. I should have known. Mrs. Baumgarten isn’t here to enjoy the pastoral tranquility of the lake. She’s here for the
same reason as so many other Summer People lately: because of the witches.
The witches of West Harbor.