Touch-Me-Not (11 page)

C
HAPTER
19

Victoria was aware of the low murmur of voices in the background. Casey spoke softly to Lucinda, and Lucinda smiled at something she said. The knitters whispered to one another. Victoria looked up at the clock on the wall. Almost six. Doc Jeffers should be here any minute.

Casey got up from the couch, patted the librarian’s shoulder, adjusted her belt, and joined Victoria and Alyssa at the table. “I called Sergeant Smalley,” she told Victoria. “He’ll be here shortly.”

“Why the State Police?” asked Maron.

“It’s a case of an unattended death,” said Casey. “The State Police get called in.”

A motorcycle pulled into the library’s parking lot. The engine revved and died, and Doc Jeffers strode into the reading room, the chains on his leather boots rattling.

“Where’s the chief?” He looked around. Casey raised her hand and stood. He nodded at her. “Where’s the corpse?”

“In the book shed,” said Casey.

Doc Jeffers removed latex gloves from his black bag, snapped them on, and flexed his fingers. “Lead on!”

“Let’s go, Victoria,” said Casey.

Outside the shed, Reverend Judy knit peacefully. She greeted them and continued to count stitches.

Doc Jeffers, Casey, and Victoria went into the small building. When he bent down and saw the grimacing face of the body in the shed, Doc Jeffers muttered something Victoria couldn’t make out. “Strange,” he said, standing up straight. “Either of you know who this guy is?”

Casey held the tissue to her nose. “No idea.”

“I believe it’s Jerry Sparks, the electrician who worked for LeRoy Watts,” said Victoria.

“Oh?” said Doc Jeffers.

“One of the knitters recognized his headband.”

“If you don’t need us, we’ll be outside,” said Casey.

“Lucky you,” said the doc.

On the bench outside, Reverend Judy moved her knitting to make room. “Have a seat, Victoria. No telling how long the doctor will be.”

“Thank you.”

Casey radioed Junior Norton to report to the library, then paced the grass in front of the shed.

Eventually, Doc Jeffers came to the door holding up a worn, greasy card. “Right on, Victoria. Jerry Sparks. Worked for Watts Electrical Supply in Oak Bluffs.”

“He did some work for me a few months ago,” said Victoria. “If it hadn’t been for the knit headband, I wouldn’t have known who it was.”

“Small wonder,” said Doc Jeffers.

“Any idea when he died?” asked Casey.

“Can’t tell yet. I’d guess four days ago, maybe five.”

Casey asked, “Can you tell how he died?”

Doc Jeffers grinned. “I assume you’re joking. Could be a drug overdose. The forensics team from off-Island should be here in a couple of hours.”

“The shed isn’t used much this time of year,” mused Victoria. “Such a lonely place to die.”

In the reading room, the knitters worked steadily. “It feels odd, you know, working on our quilt with that going on,” said Maron, nodding in the direction of the shed. “It’s hard to concentrate.”

“Have they identified the body?” asked Cherry.

Alyssa concentrated on her work. “It’s Jerry Sparks.”

Jessica stopped knitting abruptly. “What?”

“It’s Jerry Sparks. Wearing a headband I gave him.”

The name Jerry Sparks echoed around the room.

“It’s creepy,” said Maron. “I mean, just yesterday we were looking for him. . . .” The sentence trailed off.

“Do they know when he died?” asked Jessica. “Or why?”

“That will take awhile to determine,” said Jim.

“You’re kind of quiet, Alyssa,” said Casper. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

“No, thanks.”

“I’m sorry he died, I guess,” said Jessica. “But that solves our problem about the breather.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Alyssa shook her head, still looking down. The group stopped working. After a pause, Alyssa said, “Last night around ten, I got a call from our breather.”

There was silence.

Jim said, “LeRoy Watts. He’s the one.”

“No!” said Fran. “Not LeRoy.”

“Mr. Watts?” said Maron. “Never.”

“When Casper and I spoke to him last evening, he was evasive. We both had the uncomfortable feeling that he was hiding something.”

Maron shook her head. “It can’t possibly be Mr. Watts. Everybody respects him.”

Victoria shrugged into her coat. “Let’s pick up the mail, Elizabeth, then go home and have drinks by the fire. It’s been a long day.”

They left the car in the library’s parking lot and walked across the road to Alley’s. Victoria opened the glass-fronted post office box she had used for three-quarters of a century and tugged out the stack of letters and catalogs. She handed Elizabeth a blue envelope with a neatly typed address. “Another letter from your mother. Two in one week. I hope everything’s all right.”

“I’ll wait until we get home to open it,” said Elizabeth. “I kind of dread letters from Mom.”

Once home, Victoria lit the parlor fire and Elizabeth brought in two glasses of cranberry juice with rum. When she had settled herself on the sofa, they toasted each other.

“Poor Emily Cameron,” said Elizabeth. “She was so angry with Jerry Sparks because he’d left her, or so she thought. She’s going to feel awful when she learns what happened to him. I wonder who’ll tell her?” She took the blue envelope out of one pocket, her knife out of another, and neatly slit the top.

Victoria was sorting through catalogs, setting aside the few she wanted to look through, when she heard Elizabeth groan. She looked up.

“Bad news, Gram.”

“I’m not sure I can handle any more bad news,” said Victoria. But then she saw Elizabeth’s obvious distress. “What does your mother have to say?”

Elizabeth passed the letter to her, and Victoria glanced at the first page. “I see she plans to visit. That will be nice. I haven’t seen her for a while.”

Amelia, Victoria’s elder daughter, lived in San Francisco, usually a safe distance away.

“But she’s arriving the day after tomorrow. Thursday.”

“I wonder what’s on her mind,” said Victoria.

“She’s being ‘caring.’ ” Elizabeth took the letter her grandmother handed her and stuffed it back into its envelope. “She’s afraid I’m a bother to you.”

“What!” Victoria sat up straight in the wing chair and set her glass on the coffee table. “What is she talking about? What have you said to her?”

“After her last letter, I called and told her I’m a grown woman. That I have a job I like and a life I like, and maybe I said that I like taking care of you.”

“You didn’t!”

“It was the wrong thing to say, I’m afraid.”

“I could have told you that,” said Victoria. “I have a prediction for you. She’ll arrive with colored brochures describing the delights of assisted-living facilities near her and will lecture me on the many advantages for me.” Victoria got up from her chair, took up the tongs, and jabbed a smoldering log to the back of the fire. She set the poker back in its stand and returned to her seat.

“I’m sorry, Gram.”

“It’s not your fault. She
is
my daughter, after all.”

“This couldn’t be a worse time, with Jerry Sparks’s body being found this afternoon and all. And Fran’s freaking out about the deadline for the quilt competition.”

“Perhaps you can call her and suggest she make her visit at a later time.”

“Good idea.” Elizabeth left to dial her mother’s cell number. A few minutes later, she returned and plopped back onto the couch.

“What did she say?” asked Victoria.

“It’s too late. She’s in Denver, visiting her college roommate.”

“Is she bringing that friend of hers with her?”

“Frank? The guy who reeks of stale cigarette smoke?”

Victoria nodded.

“She broke up with Frank a month or so ago. That may be part of her problem. She’s got to fuss over someone, and we’re good targets.”

“Well, we still have a day of respite.” Victoria held up her empty glass. “Why don’t you fix us another drink.”

C
HAPTER
20

It was Wednesday. For six days, Emily Cameron had waited for Jerry Sparks, wondering what she’d said or done to drive him away. She alternated between worry and anger. Finally, she decided to forget she’d ever known him, that he’d shared her life for three weeks. And now he’d dropped out of her life, just like that. She hadn’t heard a word from him. Six whole days! She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and pushed her glasses back into place. Wasn’t man enough to tell her to her face that he was breaking things off. Well, she’d show him how much she cared. Nothing, that’s what. She simply didn’t give a damn. Another woman or those lousy drugs. Which one? She was glad she’d given his DVDs to Mrs. Watts.

She’d gotten to the boatyard early and was at her desk in the back of the marine store, eating a jelly doughnut and entering orders for cordage and hardware into the computer. She was hardly aware of music in the background coming from WMVY, the Island’s radio station. Emily got up and poured herself another cup of coffee from the communal pot the boatyard kept going all day. She hadn’t slept much since Jerry—well, since Jerry left. She checked her watch. Almost nine o’clock, time for the news. She stood again and turned up the volume on the radio to hear what was going on in the rest of the world. The same old things: the failing economy, the wars, fires in California. Nothing good happening anywhere. When the local news finally came on, she hoped to hear the score for the off-Island game. Maybe the girls basketball team had won again. Some good news to start the day.

But the first thing she heard was Toby, the local announcer. “. . . A body discovered in the book-storage shed of the West Tisbury Library has been identified as that of Jerry Sparks, an electrician who worked . . .”

“Oh no!” Emily sat again, stunned. There was a ringing in her ears so loud, it drowned out everything else. Toby read details, but she didn’t hear them. Her computer seemed far, far away, surrounded by a shimmering red halo. Her hands hung down, almost touching the floor. The numb, tingling things didn’t seem to be part of her. She couldn’t breathe. Jerry. Her Jerry?

He’d stood her up, hadn’t he? Again? That’s what she’d accused him of, when all the time he was lying dead. He hadn’t called, hadn’t stopped by, hadn’t left a message on her machine. She’d sworn she’d never speak to him again. Now she never would. She should have known he wouldn’t do that to her. Not her Jerry. She moaned.

“Em? You okay?” Gayle came around the partition that separated Emily from the store. “I just heard the news. About Jerry . . .”

“Jerry,” Emily gasped. “Jerry!”

“I’ll get you a soda. Be right back.” Gayle scurried around the partition. Emily was aware of silence. Someone had turned off both of the store’s radios. The usual chatter was still. She could hear only the ringing in her ears. Blood pounded through her head. Whether she opened or closed her eyes, she was enveloped in a blinding redness.

Gayle returned and Emily heard the pop of a soda can opening. The rim of the can touched her lips and she drank. Far, far away she heard whispers. The can left her mouth and someone put it into her limp hand and wrapped her fingers around it.

“God, I’m so sorry, Em.” She recognized Gayle’s voice.

Emily opened her eyes. “I was so angry with him. . . .”

“I know, I know.” Gayle was kneeling next to her, stroking her hair.

Another person had followed Gayle to her desk. She heard a man’s voice saying something. She had no idea what the disconnected words meant.

“Someone take her home,” she heard at last. Mr. Pease, her boss. That’s who it was. “Call her brother. He’s probably in Oak Bluffs, working on a job. You, Bill. Log off of her computer, will you?”

Emily had no idea how she got home. To her apartment above the T-shirt store in Oak Bluffs. Someone opened up ths sofa bed and eased her down onto it, took off her shoes, and put a blanket over her.

She closed her eyes. Jerry. How could she go on living without Jerry? The only person in the whole world who’d ever cared about her, and here she’d thought . . .

Around one o’clock the same day Emily Cameron learned about Jerry Sparks’s death, Victoria had finished her lunch and was hiking to the police station.

The station house fax machine whirred and spit out pages. Casey picked up the first few and glanced at her ancient deputy. “The State Police are sending over the preliminary report from the coroner.” She shuffled through to the first page and read, “ ‘The victim was in poor physical condition, malnourished and dehydrated. Numerous needle marks were noted on his left inner arm, two recent.’ ” Casey scanned the rest of the page. “Goes on to say a significant but not fatal amount of drugs was found in his system.”

The phone rang. Before she answered, Casey retrieved the remaining pages from the fax and handed them to Victoria. “See what you think of this.” Then she lifted the phone. “Chief O’Neill speaking.”

Victoria picked up the report and studied it.

After a few words, Casey covered the mouthpiece. “I’m on hold, Victoria. Have you found anything interesting?”

“There’s a mention of Tasers. The first time I ever heard of Tasers was the day before yesterday. Now the word seems to be everywhere.”

“Watts probably bought it from the Internet. Irresponsible leaving it where his kids could find it.” She took her hand away from the phone. “Yeah, I’m still here.”

Victoria continued to read while Casey finished the phone conversation.

She finally hung up. “Trying to sell me equipment I don’t need. Why does the report mention Tasers?”

Victoria wetted her finger and turned pages. “They talk about causes of arrhythmia and give several reasons why a young, underweight, dehydrated man under the influence of drugs might die of a heart attack. One of several causes is that he could have been Tasered. It’s certainly a coincidence that Jerry Sparks worked for Watts Electric, LeRoy Watts owned a Taser, and a possible cause of Jerry’s death is by Taser.”

“Coincidences happen,” said Casey, “but I don’t believe in them when they occur just as you need one.”

“Is there any way to tell if a Taser has been fired?”

“I don’t know much about Tasers,” Casey said. “I believe they use a disposable cartridge that fires tiny darts on the ends of two wires that carry an electric charge.” She made a note on her desk pad. “I’ll find out.”

“Is it possible that LeRoy Watts used his Taser on Jerry Sparks?”

Casey tapped her pen on her desk pad. “Up until today, I’d have said no way. LeRoy Watts has always seemed such an upright member of society. Graduate of Northeastern, active in the Little League, the library, a bunch of service organizations. Now, I just don’t know. We might go back and talk to him again.”

“Good idea.” Victoria handed the report back to Casey. “The coroner did a drug screen. Apparently, whatever level of drug is in the bloodstream at the time of death remains the same after death.”

“Right.” Casey flipped through the report. “His drug level wasn’t high enough to be more than what they call ‘a contributing factor’ to his death. ‘Death is attributed to cardiac arrest,’ it says here. Well, duh,” she said. “When the heart stops, you die.”

Later that afternoon, after a week of bright skies and mild weather, the sky clouded up and the smell of rain was in the wind. Elizabeth, home from work, gathered up her yarn, needles, and the half-finished coral she was knitting, then hunted up Victoria, who was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, adjusting her baseball cap to a becoming angle.

“Better bring your raincoat, Gram.”

Victoria slung the worn trench coat that had belonged to her husband, Jonathan, over her arm, and they took off in Elizabeth’s convertible.

Fran, the retired professor, was already in the reading room when they arrived, arranging finished sea creatures on the coral-reef quilt spread on the library table. Casper and Jim were helping her mass the sponges, corals, anemones, and starfish in some aesthetic order.

“My mother’s coming to visit, Fran,” said Elizabeth. “I may miss the next couple of meetings.”

“Your mother?”

“She’s a Trumbull, too. We both kept the name.”

“Interesting,” said Fran. “I’d like to meet her.”

Victoria sat where she could view the quilt.

“It’s certainly realistic,” she said. “I can’t imagine sleeping under it, though.”

“Good heavens, no,” said Fran. “It’s art, not utilitarian.”

“Will you include a school of fish?” Victoria asked.

“I don’t think anyone thought of fish,” said Jim.

“A moray eel peeking out of a coral head,” said Maron. “Just the thing.”

Once the others arrived, shedding raincoats and umbrellas, there was a flurry of talk about the body in the book shed, then a catching up on what needed to be done. The knitters liked the idea of a school of fish, perhaps hovering over the reef on wires concealed in branched coral, and then the group settled into their seats. Work came out of briefcases, bags, and baskets, needles clicked.

“Mrs. Trumbull would like to say a word,” said Fran. The group hushed for Victoria to say whatever it was she’d come to tell them.