Touch-Me-Not (10 page)

C
HAPTER
17

LeRoy came to his senses when he found himself tearing along the narrow strip of beach separating Sengekontacket Pond from Nantucket Sound. He glanced at the speedometer. Sixty-five in a thirty-five mile zone. A wonder he hadn’t been pulled over. He lifted his foot from the accelerator, then remembered the papers he’d been served. They were in plain view on his desk.

He’d go home, talk to the boys. They knew not to go into his filing cabinet. Why in hell did they take the Taser to school? He’d have to think of a punishment. They were good kids, but this was beyond anything. He’d ask the chief to give them some hours of community service, or ask the sheriff to have them tour the jail. Jail. The kids needed to know how serious a little thing could be.

He made a U-turn and headed for home.

The minute LeRoy stepped through the kitchen door, Sarah charged at him. “Where’s Jerry Sparks?”

“Jerry Sparks, Jerry Sparks!” he snapped. “Where are the goddamned twins?” He hadn’t meant to be so sharp.

“Don’t you dare speak about my boys like that.”

That did it. “
Your
boys, eh? Stealing something from my office and taking it to school—
your
boys?” LeRoy’s hands were in tight fists by his sides.

“What those children took from your filing cabinet was a deadly weapon. A deadly weapon,” she repeated.

LeRoy snapped, “Tasers are nonlethal weapons,” then realized what he’d said and turned away.

“Not according to our chief of police,” said Sarah. “The children—
children
,” she repeated—“brandished that thing around the playground, knowing the school doesn’t tolerate even toy guns. You look at me!”

LeRoy shuddered, his back still to Sarah.

“And you stuck it in the drawer with their crayons and drawing paper. Of course they thought it was a toy gun.”

At that, LeRoy faced her. “The boys know the school’s rules. Where are they?”

“Upstairs. Doing their homework. Where were you all day when the school was trying to reach you?”

“Working.”

“Working? Or taking pictures of naked women?” Sarah’s voice rose. “What kind of father are you . . . you pervert!”

LeRoy’s face went dead white.

“Oh, yes. Emily Cameron stopped by on Sunday. While you were fishing.” Before he could respond, she added, “And that woman called. This time, she said she wants to teach you something. Who
is
she? And where’s Jerry Sparks?”

“What lies has Emily Cameron been telling you?”

“She didn’t need to tell me a thing. She showed me the movies you’ve been taking. Pornographic movies.”

“What are you talking about?” LeRoy was shouting now.

“Naked women taking showers, that’s what. Pictures you took with a hidden camera. With sound, even.”

“Where did she get those?” LeRoy felt ice-cold.

“Never mind where she got them. Jerry Sparks gave them to her for safekeeping, and now Jerry Sparks is missing.”

“Sparks must have taken those pictures,” said LeRoy, starting to sweat again.

“Right after I came back from school, when no one could find you and you’d let the boys take that . . . that . . . weapon”—Sarah’s voice rose—“who should stop by but my sister Jackie with a video camera her boyfriend found in her shower. Explain that, if you can!”

“Daaaddy?” came from upstairs. “Jared’s kicking me. I can’t do my homework!”

“Am not!” said Jared. “Liar!”

LeRoy spun away from his wife and started up the stairs. “I have a thing or two to settle with you two,” he shouted up to them.

“You have a thing or two to settle with me first,” Sarah shouted back, “or I’m calling the police.”

LeRoy stopped mid-flight. “You’re what?”

“I said, come right back down here or I’ll call the police.” She lifted the phone out of its cradle.

“The devil you are!” shouted LeRoy, dropping down the stairs in two long steps.

He hadn’t meant to smack Sarah so hard. He’d never hit her before, ever. Never understood guys who hit their wives or girlfriends. He felt sick when he thought of how she’d stumbled back against the kitchen sink, looked at him, held her hands to her face, and dropped to the floor.

He’d left her slumped against the cabinet and headed back to the shop. On the way, he decided he had to calm down before reading those papers he’d signed. Owning a Taser illegally, a court date, a fine, possible jail term. Jail! He couldn’t think. He was a perfectly normal guy, a college graduate, degree in electrical engineering, a respected businessman, a father, a husband. . . .

He decided to drive along State Beach, park and walk along the shore, let the lapping waves calm him before he faced those papers and what they meant.

The road along State Beach was dark. He could see a line of lights on the distant mainland, four miles away. In between was blackness. Blackness, he thought. Blackness.

He’d better make peace with Sarah. Take her flowers and a box of Chilmark Chocolates. Get down on his knees and apologize. Beg her forgiveness, swear it would never happen again, and it wouldn’t. He’d broken that unthinkable barrier and hit her.

Then he thought of the way she’d looked at him when he smacked her. Hatred. Not just because he’d hit her but because Emily Cameron had showed her the videos. Because her sister despised him. He thought of Sarah slumped against the sink, and suddenly a chill hit him in the gut. Had he killed her? Without meaning to, had he killed
again
?

He pulled across the left lane and parked, facing the wrong way, got out, and walked up the sand path that cut through the low dune. In daylight, the wild beach roses that topped the dune would show bright green leaves along thorny winter-black stems. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked along the shore with the gentle swish of the waves on his left. He couldn’t see the stones under his feet, but the waves were crested with a line of phosphorescent bubbles that showed him the way.

Why in hell had Jerry Sparks given his girlfriend copies of those videos? And why in hell had Emily Cameron shown those videos to Sarah? What did she think she’d prove by showing them to his wife? And who was that new boyfriend of Jackie’s?

What a mess! The Taser. Jerry Sparks. Jackie. The videos. He’d been so secretly proud of them. How had Jerry Sparks managed to copy them? What a loser the guy was. And that girlfriend, too dim-witted to understand what she was doing, showing those videos to his wife.

He’d walked to one of the jetties that projected out from the shore. Sand had built up on one side, washed away a hollow on the other side. What a dumb idea. You couldn’t fight nature with some puny line of rocks.

He couldn’t have killed Sarah with that one blow. He shivered. Sarah didn’t understand, any more than Emily Cameron had. She’d never try to understand. In her way, she’d interpreted his videos as dirty. They were art. Look at the ancient Greek statues, naked women and men. His videos were no different, simply a twenty-first-century version, three-dimensional, in living color and sound. Jackie, he could dismiss. She’d been hitting on him since before he and Sarah were married.

Boat shells had concentrated on the building-up side of the jetty. He recognized the sound they made when he stepped on them, halfway between the crunch of a scallop shell and the clack of a stone. He stooped down and picked up a handful. Slipper shells. Limpets, some people called them.
Crepidula fornicata
was their scientific name. He’d always wondered about the
fornicata
part. He put the shells into his pocket and headed back to his van.

As he reached the crest of the slight dune, he saw flashing blue lights and someone standing next to his van. A police car was parked behind him. Sarah—they’d found her dead body and tracked him down. He hustled along the path and reached the van as the cop was tucking a ticket under his windshield wiper.

“Officer,” he gasped, “what’s the trouble?”

“I had to give you a ticket, sir. You’re parked facing the wrong direction.”

LeRoy giggled. Then he laughed. The laugh turned into a hysterical warble that he couldn’t control.

“Sir?” said the police officer. “You okay, sir?”

LeRoy nodded, but the disembodied laugh kept going.

“Do you need medical attention, sir?” The officer stared at him, clearly upset. “It’s Mr. Watts, isn’t it? Shall I call an ambulance, sir?”

That snapped LeRoy out of it. “No, no.” He shook his head. The hysteria faded away to hiccups and the hiccups stopped. “No, thanks. I’ll be fine.”

“Didn’t mean to upset you that way, sir. We’ve been instructed to enforce that parking regulation. It seems silly, I know. This time of year and all. I’d already written out the ticket before you got back from your walk, or I wouldn’t have ticketed you.”

LeRoy nodded. “It’s okay.”

The officer said, in an attempt to lighten the situation, “Guess you’ve never been in serious trouble with the law, right, Mr. Watts?”

LeRoy controlled the hysteria that was bubbling up again and nodded instead. He removed the ticket from under the wiper blade and stuck it in his jacket pocket.

“Have a good evening, Mr. Watts, sir,” said the police officer, a young kid who looked about eighteen. “Sorry about the ticket. You sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’m fine.” LeRoy got into the van. “Good night, Officer,” he said to the kid. He made a U-turn and headed back to Oak Bluffs.

His headlights picked up a gull swooping onto the road for a clam it had dropped and smashed on the hard surface. He slowed to avoid hitting it. The gull would soar out of the way, he knew. You never saw dead gulls in the road.

Why couldn’t his life be that simple?

C
HAPTER
18

“Girls,” said Fran at the next meeting of the knitters. It was Tuesday, and the library was closed for the afternoon. “You have a responsibility here. You’re part of a team. We have a project to finish.” She tapped one of her needles on the library table. “I’m not comfortable with the way you took off yesterday.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Casper.

“We never found him,” said Cherry. “His landlady hasn’t seen him for several days. His drinking buddies at the Rip Tide say he hasn’t shown up there, either. Mr. Watts, his boss, was too busy to talk to us.”

“LeRoy Watts?” asked Fran.

“Who are you talking about?” asked Casper.

“Alyssa claims he’s the caller,” said Cherry.

Maron said, “You know, we owe you an apology.”

“What’s going on?” Casper looked from one to another of the women, puzzled.

“We really didn’t think it was you,” said Jessica.

“Well, thanks a lot,” said Casper. “Who, then?”

“Jerry Sparks,” said Maron. “We tried to find him.”

“When did you talk to Watts?” asked Jim.

“Around seven,” said Cherry. “It wasn’t dark yet.”

“Jim and I stopped by his shop right after we left here yesterday,” said Casper. “Right around sunset. We asked him for his help in identifying the phone caller.”

“LeRoy was one of my math students at Northeastern,” said Fran. “He’d be a great help. A bright, lovely man.”

“The breather obviously is familiar with the library and has singled out members of our group,” said Jim.

Casper said, “Because his wife, Sarah, heads the library trustees, he’s done a lot of volunteer work here. We thought he might have seen someone suspicious.”

“I’m sure he’d be delighted to help,” said Fran.

“We know Jerry Sparks is the caller,” said Maron.

“I’m not convinced about that,” said Casper. “Jim and I came away feeling uneasy about LeRoy Watts.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Fran. “Preposterous! I’ve known him since . . . well, since.”

“Since he was in college?” asked Maron.

“Yes,” said Fran. “Yes.”

“It can’t be Mr. Watts,” said Maron. “He’s worked for my family since I was a little kid.”

Alyssa spoke up. “I’m sure it’s Jerry Sparks.”

Casper and Jim looked at each other. Jim shrugged. “Guess we have to find Jerry Sparks.”

An hour or so later, Lucinda Chandler, the librarian, was taking an armload of books to the book-sale storage shed when she found the body. She shifted the books to one arm so she could unlatch the door, then pulled it toward herself, careful not to drop her load. The door opened stiffly. After the bright May afternoon, the shed was dark, and it took her eyes a few moments to adjust. There was a foul smell, as though a large animal had died. She’d need to air it out before they sorted the books for the sale.

When her eyes finally adjusted, she didn’t immediately grasp what she saw. Some idiot had piled a mound of clothing on the floor. Probably thinking it was a Thrift Shop drop-off. She’d have to get Walter, husband of one of the library volunteers, to make a larger sign.

She started to nudge the pile to one side with her foot, but it was heavier than she’d imagined. And then she realized there was someone in the clothing and the person smelled awful. A man. A book donor who’d brought books to the shed and had a stroke or a heart attack? A drunk seeking a night’s shelter?

Lucinda, being a sensible New Englander, set her armload of books on the table and knelt down beside the man, who was lying facedown, to see if he was breathing. She pulled back the sweatshirt hood that covered his face, and then lost her composure. She lurched back, tripped over the sill, caught herself as she started to fall backward, put her hands up to her face, and screamed.

When Lucinda screamed, all of the knitters, who were meeting every afternoon now, stopped what they were doing.

“What in hell was that?” asked Casper.

Alyssa, the EMT, raced out the back door, leaving her green-and-brown Möbius-strip kelp on her seat.

Elizabeth Trumbull set down the sea sponge she was working on and stood up. “Lucinda?”

Others laid aside their work and headed toward the library’s rear entrance.

Lucinda was standing by the shed, hands over her mouth. She was tall. Her blond hair, usually pinned up in a French twist, had loosened and fallen to her waist. A hairpin seemed to protrude from her scalp.

“Are you all right?” asked Alyssa.

“Of course she’s not all right,” said Casper.

“A body . . . in the shed . . .” gasped Lucinda.

“Help me get her inside,” Casper shouted to Jim.

“I’ll check in the shed,” said Alyssa.

“Brandy,” said Reverend Judy, the Unitarian minister. “Where does the library keep its brandy?”

Lucinda staggered inside, with Jim and Casper on either side. They led her to the striped couch in the reading room and she slumped onto it. “Call the police,” she gasped. “Elizabeth, call your grandmother!”

Elizabeth said, “What shall I tell her?”

“There’s a dead man in the shed.”

“I’ll get her!” Elizabeth left in a hurry.

A few moments later, Alyssa returned, sat down, and lowered her head between her knees.

“What is it, Alyssa?” asked Reverend Judy. She looked around. “Where’s the brandy?”

Alyssa mumbled, “I’ll be okay in a second or two.”

Reverend Judy patted Alyssa on the back, then tucked her coral into her knitting bag and looped the bag over one arm. “I’ll guard the shed.”

Ten minutes later, Elizabeth returned with her grandmother. Victoria Trumbull strode into the library and greeted the knitters, who stood when she entered. The afternoon light illuminated the gold stitching on Victoria’s hat, which read
WEST TISBURY POLICE, DEPUTY
.

Lucinda was sipping water someone had thought to give her.

“Has anyone called Casey?” Victoria asked.

“Chief O’Neill is on her way,” said Jim Weiss.

“You may as well return to your seats while we wait for her,” said Victoria, who remained standing. “We don’t want to talk about the finding until the police get here.”

The knitters sat again, their bags and baskets lumpy with works in progress, and talked in low voices.

Victoria sat at the the library table and waited, her hands clasped in front of her. Before long, blue lights flashed through the window and across the shelves of books, and a few moments later Casey appeared.

“I’m glad you’re here already, Victoria.” Casey lifted her hair out of the back of her uniform sweater. “I left in a hurry,” she explained as she rebuckled her heavy utility belt with its assortment of law-enforcement tools.

Victoria knew most of the knitters and introduced them, eight altogether, including Elizabeth, her granddaughter. Two men and five women, plus the minister, who was guarding the shed.

“Forgive us if we continue to knit,” said Fran, the retired professor. “We’re working on deadline.”

The clicking of needles continued.

“The medical examiner and State Police are on the way,” Casey told them. “Wait here, everyone, while I check the shed, see what’s what.”

Victoria coughed politely.

“Yes, of course,” said Casey. “You, too, Victoria.”

As they headed for the back door, the sound of steel, aluminum, wood, and plastic needles working wool into sea creatures faded behind them.

On such a fine afternoon, evil seemed far removed. Bees hummed in the wisteria that festooned a trellis near the shed. Mourning doves cooed behind the library. High up in the sky, a hawk cried its plaintive call.

Reverend Judy was seated on a bench by the shed. “Six . . . seven . . .” She looked up briefly and smiled. “Counting stitches. . . . Eight . . . nine. . . . There.” She set her work beside her on the wooden bench.

“What are you making?” asked Casey.

“A projective plane. Part of the quilt.” Reverend Judy held up a strangely contorted mass. “Terrible about the body.” She inclined her head toward the shed and picked up her knitting again. “The group is knitting a coral reef. It’s not really a quilt; it’s more of an art object. I wonder if it’s someone we know.” She waved at the closed door, and went back to her knitting.

“What did you say you’re making?” asked Casey.

“A projective plane,” repeated Reverend Judy. “A twisted sphere. A surface without a boundary. Would you like the pattern?”

“No,” said Casey. “Thanks anyway.”

Victoria paused at the shed door until her eyes were used to the darkness. She pulled a paper napkin from her pocket and held it over her nose. The body was as Lucinda had described, the hood thrown back, exposing his head. He lay on his stomach, face turned to one side. Dark, greasy hair held back by a knitted headband, large ears, a small nose. It was difficult to grasp any other details.

“Whew!” said Casey. “He’s been here awhile. Do you have any idea who he is, Victoria?”

Victoria studied the man. “None whatsoever. What a ghastly expression. What kind of death would cause that?”

“Can’t imagine,” said Casey.

Victoria leaned on her lilac-wood stick.

Casey held a tissue to her nose. “There’s not much we can do right now. We can talk to the people in the library when it’s open tomorrow, but I don’t imagine anyone saw him enter the shed. Who are the people you introduced me to?”

“Casper Martin teaches mathematics at the high school, Jim Weiss is a marine biologist, one woman is a radiologist at the hospital, and two others teach at the West Tisbury School. Reverend Judy is the Unitarian minister.”

“The stuff they’re knitting isn’t sweaters and socks.”

“They’re entering their work in a competition to draw attention to global warming.”

“Takes all kinds.” Casey shrugged. “When Doc Jeffers gets here, first thing we have to do is identify the body. I hope he’s got an ID on him.”

They returned to the reading room, where the knitters sat, silent except for the incessant sound of needles.

While they waited for the medical examiner, Victoria seated herself at the library table across from Alyssa, and Casey sat on the couch next to Lucinda, who had recovered some of her color. The others continued to work.

Victoria studied Alyssa. “You saw something you recognized, didn’t you?”

Alyssa closed her eyes.

“As an EMT, you’re accustomed to violent death.”

Alyssa nodded. “I went into the shed. . . .”

“Can I get you a glass of water?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Trumbull.”

Victoria could see she wasn’t fine. “He was wearing a knitted headband. Was it something you gave him?” Victoria held out her gnarled hands to Alyssa, who took them in hers. “The dead man is Jerry Sparks, isn’t he?”

Alyssa nodded.