Allan Retzky - Vanished in the Dunes

Vanished in the Dunes

A Hamptons Mystery

Allan Retzky

For Susan

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

When an international commodity trader transitions to fiction writing, there are many to thank for their support and input. I gratefully salute those whose assistance made this work possible.

A toe in the water at The Writers Studio in Manhattan afforded me some initial confidence, thanks to the tolerance and skills of Lesley Dorman and Cynthia Weiner.

The Southampton College Graduate Writing Program, under the remarkable leadership of Robert Reeves, provided the groundwork for my writing. The extraordinary faculty was always there to teach and encourage. My work benefited in particular from the intellectual and teaching skills of Clark Blaise, Ursula Hegi, Kaylie Jones, Matt Klam, Bharti Mukherjee, and Lou Ann Walker.

This novel had its own specific need for expertise. Detective Peter Schmidt of the East Hampton Police Department professionally described local law enforcement activities; I apologize if my liberal use of literary license transformed the department’s procedures into something less recognizable. Dr. Robert Sussman led me through the scope of mental illnesses and the range of effects from various medications. Any errors of fact are completely my own.

My agent, Ellen Levine of Trident Media, never lost faith in the novel and her constructive suggestions reshaped the story’s focus and propelled it forward. And special thanks to the editorial skills of Dr. Patricia Gussin of Oceanview Publishing who believed in the book from the onset. My thanks to the Oceanview team, Bob Gussin, Frank Troncale, David Ivester, Susan Hayes, and George Foster.

Thanks also to an array of colleagues and friends who were unstinting in their reinforcement of my efforts. You all showed remarkable patience.

My final appreciation goes to the most important requisite element, my primary support group—my family. Andrea Retzky, and Deborah, Bob, Anna, and Daniel Shaul offered constructive criticism and relentless encouragement. Most of all, my wife and best friend, Susan, supported my efforts from the very beginning, always willing to read, take a breath, and then reread some more. None of this would have happened without her.

Amagansett, New York

January 2012

Vanished in the Dunes

CHAPTER 1

Posner first sees the woman in profile as she moves past him at the bus stop. There is a flash of a pink-and-white dress, smooth tanned arms, and black hair cut short with a tight curl that kisses her ears. He doesn’t know why he looks up at that moment. Perhaps it is just habit, seeing if the bus has turned the corner, or possibly it’s the flicker of her dress’s pink that seizes the edge of his eye, but as soon as she passes, he returns to his newspaper.

He’s waiting for the Hampton Jitney to take him to Amagansett on the East End of Long Island. But for Amos Posner, the summer season, which officially begins in four weeks with the Memorial Day weekend, brings too many people, too much noise, an excess of money and boasts, all of which he has been trying to avoid for the last two years.

He waits in front of a Victoria’s Secret window on 86th Street. The bus is due at 8:30 a.m., but it is already a few minutes late. He folds the New York Times in half and slides it into the backpack between his legs. A few years ago he carried a wide expandable leather briefcase, but circumstances have drastically changed his life, and he finds the backpack roomier and more convenient. The air is cool and spasms of wind appear and vanish with indecisive regularity. The beach will be much cooler than the city. He knows this from years of irregular residence in Amagansett.

The woman stops a few yards away and again draws the corner of his vision as she looks up at the Jitney sign. She has no suitcase, but carries a large straw bag. She speaks to a man standing nearby, who, pointing to the bus sign, seems to confirm that she is standing in the right place. Posner briefly studies her face, olive complexioned like his own, a nose with a small bump in its center, a full-lipped mouth. Silver hoop earrings contrast with her dark skin. The dress fits a bit too tightly around her body and the skirt seems shorter than is stylish. She has nothing of his wife Sara’s classic good looks or elegance, yet the woman emits an effortless erotic aura.

The bus pulls to a stop at the curb just as Posner moves to the spot where he knows the door will open. A solitary newspaper page races determinedly through the morning air just past where he stands, as if it, too, wishes to board and escape the city. The paper plunges to a stop as it clings to a post that carries a parking sign, before it gently slides down to the sidewalk. That’s as far as you’ll go today, Posner muses as he turns toward the just-opened door.

The woman is presumably somewhere behind him now, waiting with the few who will board at this first pickup spot. Posner knows the driver and attendant—regulars on this run, as is he. Nevertheless, he calls out, “Amagansett,” and moves up the stairs. He finds an aisle seat a bit more than halfway down and drops his backpack on the adjoining window seat. He removes his newspaper from the backpack, leans into the seat, and stifles a yawn.

Pulling out the Wednesday sports section, he begins to scan the headlines just as a flicker of pink and white passes and moves farther toward the rear. He briefly follows the movement until she passes, then contemplates her circumstances, as if it were a kind of challenge, like the old television show, What’s My Line? where a celebrity panel must ponder the occupation of a mystery guest. Posner guesses that her occupation is that of a housekeeper or nanny, and that she has been in the city for a night to visit family or friends. Her features and coloring lead him to believe she has probably emigrated from some place far more exotic than the Hamptons. Satisfied that he has solved the origin and occupation options of the young woman, he looks in earnest at the review of a Yankee victory the previous night.

The bus picks up more passengers on 59th Street, but the majority of commuters will enter on 40th Street. That’s where he drops the paper in his lap and looks up to see if he will need to relinquish the seat where his backpack rests. He studies the passengers. At this early hour, the young males usually opt for the very rear, where they are likely to find a double seat to spread their bodies out and sleep. The occasional men in suits are likely day-trippers who have some business meeting worthy of the more than four-hour, two-way commute. They congregate toward the front, folding their jackets neatly and resting them in the overhead bin, as if they were fragile antiques. Young women often seek each other out, grasping cups of coffee from the store at the bus stop.

In a few minutes Posner is satisfied that the seat next to him will remain empty. He scans the business section. Just as the bus enters the Midtown Tunnel, he is drawn to an article under the fold. The headline shouts the news of the indictment of a financial executive for bribing foreign officials. He feels a chill dance across his back and his pulse rate elevates. He has felt this way before, but not in a few years. He believed all of this was behind him. He forces himself to read through the article. He does not know the man, but the transaction description is all too familiar.