As the ambulance trundled an agonized but sedated Ernie to St. Charles hospital, the men stared at each other with white faces. Skip was speechless. Without being told, Ernie’s assistant, using Skip’s car phone, called the constable, who immediately called homicide again.
After much discussion, even Skip had to admit that the detective’s theory — that it was only more hunting equipment, long forgotten and overlooked by Ernie’s crew — was somewhat reasonable.
The lot, he remembered Conrad’s saying, had stood vacant for years. The men agreed with the detective, although he could tell they were uneasy about it. He didn’t blame them. He wasn’t too convinced himself, but at least Ernie would definitely be okay, suffering only a broken leg, unlike the poor carpenter. After an hour’s milling about and an early lunch, the men returned to work. It sure was a puzzle.
A few days later, Skip “heard” from his boss.
Skip called an impromptu meeting at the mayor’s office. After offhandedly pointing out the report of Phantom’s whereabouts in the Newsday newspaper (Liz Smith’s column) to Mayor Harper, Mr. Drexel, Dr. Villas, Harder, Sr., the nice-looking Ms. Bellwood, Conrad, and Ernie’s assistant, Skip showed them the message Phantom had faxed from Eastern Europe where he was doing benefits for the newly formed ex-Soviet Satellite countries.
The lengthy communication, typed in faded, “foreign looking” letters, complimented his manager, Mark Daniels, and the people working so hard from the village of Wyndham-by-the-Sea, for their quick work in carrying out his — Phantom’s — wishes.
However — and it was a big however — Phantom stated that he was walking a mental and physical tightrope that could snap at any time, so he’d be flying directly to Wyndham in his private jet from the last gig on his tour.
“Mark” must speed up work even more, and arrange safe shipment of his furniture, art collection, sound equipment, and so forth, from where they were presently being stored so that all would be in place for his arrival. Phantom’s tour was at a particularly manic stage. In lieu of transferring funds from bank to bank — a nightmarish tangle of transactions when attempted from deep within the Eastern Bloc — he promised to settle all accounts fully the day he arrived. From that point, Phantom said, he looked forward to the complete rest and total quiet promised him by the villagers of beautiful Wyndham-by-the-Sea. “See you all soon. Phantom.”
Mr. Harder and Mr. Arsdale, who’d jointly been pressing Skip for additional deposits and signed papers, retreated in awe. “All accounts settled fully”... the words floated in the air like the promise of paradise. With a flourish, Skip wrote out another draft on the borrowed bank funds and handed it to Ernie’s assistant.
“To hire new crews?” asked the assistant.
Skip nodded gravely.
“You got it, boss,” he said, and he marched smartly out of the mayor’s office to notify Ernie and collect more men.
Conrad prodded his father with an elbow and Mr. Harder, Sr., cleared his throat. “Well, I hate to bother you, Mark, but you know, we haven’t closed on this property yet. Strictly speaking, the owners have every right—”
Before he could finish speaking, Skip wrote out a check to “cash” for ten thousand dollars. Word had trickled back to Skip through the subcontractors and thus through Ernie that Mr. Harder himself was the absent unnamed owner, but Skip felt no need to mention it. He handed the check to Mr. Harder, Sr. “As an extra bonus,” Skip said, “for the property owners, for their kind cooperation. This doesn’t go into escrow, and it doesn’t apply to the purchase price. Do you think it’ll help their patience any?” Now Skip had ten thousand four hundred fifty dollars left of his original bankroll and owed the bank an astronomical amount of money.
“Oh,” Mr. Harder, Sr., said. He laughed nervously, taken aback. “Well, hey...” He slid it into an inner breast pocket of his jacket. “Thank you, Mr. Daniels,” he said with dignity. He and Conrad left the office smiling. Skip shook hands with the remaining board members and left. Everybody was happy.
Ernie returned to work the next day in a wheelchair, defying his doctor’s command to rest. Two hard-driving, backbreaking weeks passed, during which time the foundation was filled, the shell of the house was finished, the stucco was beginning to be applied, work on the fence circling the property (with electronic sensors in the gate and an intercom system) was completed, and the terra cotta roofing arrived. Drywallers and decorators swarmed the interior.
Best of all, the plumbers finished hooking up the septic system, which perked up the entire exhausted crew. Port-o-lets can become downright uncivilized when accommodating so many users.
But when the well was dug, and a pump rigged to provide a convenient on-site source of water for the men, the water tasted so odd that the men avoided it. Several of the crew worried about what Phantom would think of the taste, but Skip had no time to deal with it. He just resumed deliveries of bottled water and moved his attention to other, more urgent, matters.
Summer arrived and the days warmed enough to become uncomfortable for the hardworking crews. One sweating plasterer was filling a thermos at the stand of icy bottled water when the skidding, gravel-flinging arrival of Skip’s truck startled him. He froze in astonishment as Skip sprinted towards him and knocked his thermos to the ground.
“Did you drink any of that water?” Skip shouted into the plasterer’s face.
“Uh... no,” he said. “Not yet.”
“Who did?” Skip turned and screamed to the staring work crew scattered all over the large house, “Did any of you drink this water?”
It turned out that a few had. Skip called an ambulance, shouting instructions into his car phone. A few of the men began rubbing their bellies and grimacing. By the time the ambulance arrived, eight men were vomiting and needed no urging to go to the hospital. Skip drove the overflow from the crowded ambulance in his truck. He looked ten years older by the time they pulled up to St. Charles Hospital’s emergency entrance.
The waiting attendants whisked the by now seriously ailing men in to the doctors, who’d been warned and were standing by. Then Skip turned around and drove back to those waiting at the building site. They wanted some answers. So did he.
He pulled in right behind the homicide detective and the constable. The detective just gazed at Skip and shook his head. He sent a water sample in to the lab for immediate testing, taped up the remaining bottles, and left the constable in charge. After all, no one had died. Yet. This time.
Ernie, who was getting around on crutches now, sat down heavily on the hood of Skip’s pickup truck. The men gathered around. A white-faced Skip stared at the bewildered men.
“How’d you know?” Ernie finally asked, voicing one of the main questions on everybody’s mind. The other questions were who, how, and why, but not many of them really thought that Skip, whom they all liked, would know the answers.
Skip’s pale lips moved before any words emerged. When they did come out, they sounded parched and shaken. “I visited the site this morning early, way before the rest of you were due. Took a drink. It felt odd in my stomach. Traveling with Phantom so much, you learn to recognize bad water... stuff like that. Made myself throw it up. Figured you guys didn’t need to get sick, too — came as fast as I...” He was unable to finish. He swallowed hard. It’d taken him the entire drive from his house to the property to dream up that explanation.
He looked around him. The men seemed convinced. Before they moved back towards their unfinished work, a few punched him sympathetically in the bicep, which brought a choked feeling to Skip’s throat that had nothing to do with dust.