Frankie
Mrs. Baumgarten leaves my yard with an actual bounce in her step, she’s so relieved her rental was only broken into and not
haunted.
But her relief doesn’t keep me from going inside and checking the local paper to see if any of the other homes along Lakeview
Drive have been broken into lately.
I can’t find any reports about that. But I do find this:
West Harbor Daily
Thursday, September 19
Connecticut Girl Still Missing
By WHD Staff
West Harbor—Emma Bridle, 18, of Greenwich, CT, was last seen by her family on the morning of May 23, when she left home for what she said was an overnight sleepover with a friend.
She has not been heard from since. Her parents insist it is unlike their daughter not to text or call.
“Emma’s always been very responsible,” says her mother, Stephanie Bridle, 43. “She definitely hasn’t run away.”
Though her vehicle was found in the parking lot of West Harbor Beach back in June, police say the discovery has led to no
clues about Emma’s current whereabouts—but also insist there are no signs of foul play.
“Everything points to Ms. Bridle being missing voluntarily,” said newly appointed Deputy Police Chief Jacqueline Boyle. “As
an adult, she has that legal right.”
But Emma has already missed fall orientation at Fordham, where she was expected to begin her freshman year at the beginning
of September. “She was so excited to be going to college in the fall,” says her mother. “She wouldn’t have missed orientation
for the world. Something is seriously wrong.”
Emma is not the first young woman to have been reported missing in the West Harbor area this year. Meg Boucher, 19, of Cranbury,
NJ, and Bella Krieger, 18, of Rye, NY, have gone missing from the area as well. In total, ten young women who have since been
reported missing by their families were last seen in the village of West Harbor. Some don’t believe the disappearances are
a coincidence.
“It’s because of the witches,” says Mark Giovanni, owner of Mama Giovanni’s Italian Trattoria. “Ever since that thing last
year at the courthouse, you can’t swing a dead cat around here without hitting a wannabe witch.”
Giovanni is referring to West Harbor’s tricentennial celebration at the courthouse square last fall, when, according to police reports, a sudden, intense thunderstorm caused a large party tent to collapse.
While only minor injuries were reported, cell phone footage from the incident went viral, leading to the hashtag #WitchesOfWestHarbor.
This has led to an influx of self-identified witches and “witch tourism” to the village, especially after lawmakers formally
exonerated residents of Colonial Connecticut who’d been convicted of witchcraft in the early 1600s.
Over one million people descended on Salem, MA—20 times the city’s population—last autumn to visit historically significant
“witch” sights, generating almost $140,000,000 in local spending. West Harbor mayor Janet Dunleavy believes her village might
see the same or even higher numbers this year.
When asked if there was a connection between the area’s increase in witch tourism and the missing girls, however, the mayor
had no comment.
Meanwhile, the Bridle family’s efforts to find their missing daughter continue, even as the West Harbor Police declare the
case closed.
Honestly? I’m not surprised my brother Mark has managed to wheedle his way into the local paper, plugging our family restaurant
in the process. Mark is good at this kind of thing. Except for the trattoria’s books, which I still handle, he’s been not-so-secretly
running the place behind Mom’s back for years.
What does surprise me is how the Bridles are managing to keep the story of their missing daughter in the news when she’s been gone for so long. Then again, missing girls—especially white girls—are total clickbait. They sell advertising space.
Still, Jackie is right (it’s so crazy that one of my best friends from high school is now deputy chief of police, especially
considering how many times she got suspended for cutting class): Emma is probably fine. Girls—and boys—go missing every day,
especially in the summertime. The vast majority of them return home safely. The teenage years are tempestuous ones—even more
so now with the Internet thrown into the already heady mix of hormones and social pressures. Wherever Emma and those other
girls are, they’ll be home soon, probably with a long (and not entirely truthful) story about where they’ve been.
I don’t blame the Bridles for catastrophizing, though. We live in uncertain times . . . more uncertain for some of us than
others, however. Like my brother Mark, for instance.
Remember when you told the new Summer Person next door to me that I’m a parapsychologist? I text him. Well, you’re going to need one. Because the next time I see you, you’re dead.
Satisfied that this message hits exactly the right note, I hit send. Then, with twenty minutes to spare until my next patient,
I call Rochelle at the rental agency.
Unfortunately, she throws cold water all over my dreams of seeing Mrs. Baumgarten get her deposit back, and Ash Merit consequently
selling his place in a petty man-tantrum.
“You know that our rental agreement states that neither Harbor Hideaways nor the owner is responsible for lost property, right,
Frankie?”
“Not even if it was lost through the owner’s negligence?”
“How has Ash been negligent?”
“Does Harbor Hideaways change the code on the lockbox after each tenant checks out?”
“Yes.”
Rochelle sounds tired, and no wonder. This is what she does all day, every day, right up until the first winter frost in October.
I know because we’ve been friends since high school. I was a bridesmaid at her wedding as well as a comforting shoulder for
her to cry on during her divorce. Her ex is even more of a loser than mine. She’s still paying off all the gambling debts
he accrued on their joint credit cards.
It’s because of people like Rochelle—not to mention my own family—that I quit bookkeeping and got licensed to become a financial
therapist in the first place (not that Rochelle is a patient. I would never formally treat a friend). Most of the small business
owners I know around here are working so hard, they don’t have time to think about saving for emergencies or retirement. It’s
a real problem—but one to which I can relate, thanks to my own experience.
Except that according to Rochelle, I’m the one with the problem right now.
“I don’t understand why you hate Ash so much.” I can hear her long fingernails clicking on her keyboard in the background
as she types. “Every time I talk to him, he’s perfectly nice.”
“Wait . . . you’ve talked to him?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve seen Ash a half dozen times since he bought the place, and he’s never spoken to me once.”
Worse than that, he’s always kept his cell phone glued to his dark-haired, expensively groomed head, making it impossible to speak to him about his noisy renters without interrupting his very important calls.
Every time, he was wearing what my little sister Cat refers to as “business bro” attire: plain toe boots, linen blazer, and dark jeans that fit so snugly, a tailor had to have been involved.
“Hmm,” Rochelle says when I casually mention this. “Sounds to me like someone has been checking out their new neighbor’s package.”
“Very funny. Just because the guy looks good doesn’t mean he isn’t a creep.”
Rochelle sighs. “Oh, Frankie. Is this all because of the speaker thing? Ash says that was an honest mistake.”
“Leaving ‘Margaritaville’ playing on an endless loop on your outdoor speakers overnight is not a mistake, Rochelle. It’s a
crime.”
“It was his last tenants who did that, not Ash. You can’t hold any landlord responsible for what his tenants do.”
Yes, I absolutely can. But instead of saying so, I ask, “What about the pickup truck? That’s his, not his tenants’. Can I
hold him responsible for that?”
“That . . .” Rochelle pauses. She’s having trouble with this one. “I mean, I could see someone from the city being excited
about the rural property they’ve just bought, and wanting to get a vehicle that matches their new vibe. . . .”
“Nice try, Roche. There is no excuse for that truck. None.”
Rochelle’s silence only proves that I’m right. Ash used to come check on his investment property in a boring, but perfectly
quiet BMW sedan.
Then, in an effort to get into his new “country vibe,” he bought a beat-up old Chevy pickup that Mark—a car fanatic—happened to see and declare a “classic” from the 1960s.
But like anything that peaked in the 1960s, Ash’s truck no longer performs at its best. In fact, the whole neighborhood hears
it whenever Ash chooses to grace us with his presence. His every coming and going is announced with a deafeningly loud PUTT PUTT PUTT.
Since he only seems to show up when I’m having an online session in my home office with a distressed patient (who can’t hear
the truck, because the sound is muted by my earbuds), I have to ask myself: What kind of asshole doesn’t have a muffler?
You don’t have to be a licensed therapist to know the answer is: one who is insecure over the size of his dick.
Rochelle bursts out laughing when I say this, even though I’m not trying to be funny.
“And what’s with people still wanting to rent here when they know about the missing girls?” I ask when she’s calmed down.
“Are you kidding me? That’s why so many of them want to rent here. Do you know how many more Fall Foliage packages I’ve sold this year compared to last?”
Rochelle seems almost giddy. “No one is even complaining about the leaves still being green. They’re only here to take selfies
while they play amateur detective.”
I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. People love being scared . . . just not too scared. “That makes sense, I guess. No one likes hearing about a missing kid, but a missing adult—”
“Especially an attractive one with tons of online followers like these girls have. I bet anything that they’re all staying in a beach house around here somewhere as part of a collaborative content creation project.
What would attract more views than a bunch of missing witch influencers suddenly vanishing in a town known for its paranormal events? ”
“One paranormal event, Rochelle,” I remind her. “Only one, and it was later determined to have been a microburst.”
“How do you know? You weren’t even there that night, Frankie.”
It’s true. I wasn’t. My ex and I had tickets to attend last year’s “Celebration in the Square,” where the alleged paranormal
event took place, but a patient of mine who’d just learned his wife had used over twenty grand of their retirement savings
to buy crypto—a notoriously unstable investment—booked an emergency session. So Richard went to the event without me, saying
we shouldn’t let both tickets go to waste.
This was fine with me. Just because two people are married doesn’t mean they have to be joined at the hip. Richard and I used
to do a lot of things separately. Most things, if I’m being honest.
I probably should have realized then that this was a red flag. But I missed it, just like I missed so many other red flags
where my ex was concerned.
“Damn.” I glance at my watch, which doubles as a fitness tracker for when I’m running or doing laps in the lake. “I have to
go. I need to change so I look presentable from the waist up for my next patient. Will you at least check the lockbox situation
and try to get Mrs. Baumgarten a refund?”
“Sure, I’ll try. But no guarantees.”
That’s all I need to hear. After promising that we’ll do drinks later, I hang up, then glance through my living room window.
The paper plate I’d left by the front porch is blowing listlessly in the unseasonably warm breeze. There’s no sign of the
tuna that had weighed it down—or of the stray cat that I assume has eaten it. Everything seems quiet over at Ash’s place . . .
for now.
Which is another thing: Why did they pick Ash’s place to rob, out of all the houses around the lake? It’s certainly a nice house—larger than mine and more recently renovated—but
otherwise almost exactly the same.
So why him? What’s so special about Ash Merit?