Touch-Me-Not (18 page)

C
HAPTER
33

“Your grandmother is certainly testy these days,” Amelia said as they were on their way to the library. “I’m glad to have some time with you, Elizabeth. You’ve been so busy, between work and the knitting project.”

“Ummm,” Elizabeth murmured.

“I want to talk to you about your grandmother.”

At that, Elizabeth looked up from the road. “What about Gram?”

“She’s not as young as she thinks she is. I know she’s busy with her important work, but there comes a time . . .”

“Ummm.”

“You’re so involved with her, you don’t realize how much you’re missing out on. You’re really not able to lead the kind of life you . . .” Amelia looked over at Elizabeth and stopped before she finished the sentence.

Elizabeth had tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “I’m leading exactly the kind of life I want to lead, Mom. And Gram isn’t keeping me from doing anything.”

“I like to hear you defending her, darling.”

“I’m not defending her. She may be ninety-two, but her mind is better than yours and mine put together.”

“Really, now, darling.”

The two said no more until they reached the library.

“We can continue the discussion on our way home,” Amelia said.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” said Elizabeth. “If you think Gram is holding me back in some way, you’re wrong. She’s taking care of me, not the other way around.”

“Well. We’ll discuss it later.”

Daughter and granddaughter strode into the library, looking much like Victoria, tall, heads high, jaws set in identical firm lines.

“Hi, Elizabeth,” someone called out. “This must be your mother.”

Elizabeth nodded, still annoyed by the exchange in her car. “My mother. Amelia.”

“Welcome!”

“Nice to have you here, Amelia.”

Elizabeth glanced around the group. “Where’s Fran?”

“Here she comes now,” said Jim.

“Fran,” Elizabeth said, “this is my mother, Amelia.”

“For heaven’s sake!” said Fran. “Amelia Trumbull. Of course!” She dropped the package of yarn she was carrying on the table and held out both hands. “With Elizabeth Trumbull in the group, I ought to have put two and two together. How are you? It’s been a long time. Sit down and let’s talk while I work, if you don’t mind.”

“I understand. A deadline coming up,” said Amelia, sitting next to Fran. “I had no idea you’d settled on the Vineyard. I thought your family had a place in Maine?”

“A student of mine invited me to visit and, well, I fell in love.”

Amelia smiled. “With the student or with the Island?”

Fran flushed. “One doesn’t fraternize with one’s students.”

“I’m sorry.” Amelia put her hand on top of Fran’s. “That was tasteless. Tell me about the quilt.”

The color slowly faded back to normal in Fran’s face. “The quilt needs only a few minor adjustments before we ship if off for the exhibit.” She moved a pink anemone closer to a green ribbon of kelp, shifted a small blue-and-yellow fish on a wire nearer a red coral.

“How are you going to ship this creation?” Amelia asked, fingering the hem. “It seems so fragile.”

“Jim and Casper are in charge of packing and shipping.” Fran nodded at the two men. “That was an interesting comment you just made. That’s precisely the point we hope to make.”

“You mean about the fragility of the quilt?”

“The fragility of coral reefs,” said Fran.

“It’s wonderful,” said Amelia, studying the colorful display. “Just wonderful.”

On the way home, Amelia reminisced about Fran Bacon, recalling times they’d had together that she hadn’t thought about in years.

“She was dedicated to her studies. I don’t think she ever dated in college,” Amelia said. “She was always in the mathematics lab. Do you know if she married?”

“I have no idea. I never thought about it.”

Elizabeth slowed as they passed the Mill Pond, and they both looked toward the head of the pond, where the swans nested. While they watched, a swan sailed out of the rushes and dipped its head underwater to nibble the sprouting marsh grass.

“I wonder how many generations of swans have lived in the pond since I left,” said Amelia. “I remember when the town introduced the first pair to control the weeds.”

“I always thought the swans had been there forever.”

“It seems that way,” Amelia said. “Does Fran use a title? Mrs. or Miss or Dr.?”

“I’ve only known her as Fran Bacon.”

“She’s kept her maiden name, then,” said Amelia. “I did, too, of course. And you chose to be a Trumbull instead of taking either Daddy’s name or your husband’s. I must say, it always seemed terribly unfair for the male side of the family to carry the name through the generations.”

They turned in at Victoria’s drive, and Elizabeth parked under the maple tree, mightily relieved they’d never had that threatened talk.

“What an interesting afternoon at the knitting group,” Amelia said. The three women were having drinks in front of the fire. “Fran Bacon of the knitters is the same Fran Bacon I went to college with. The coral-reef quilt is absolutely amazing. You wouldn’t think you could knit something like a coral using a mathematical equation and have it actually look so real.”

“The knitters are remarkable,” said Victoria.

“Fran is the one who’s amazing,” Elizabeth said. “She’s absolutely obsessed with the quilt competition. She started the mathematical knitting group, found out about the competition, designed the quilt, and converted equations into knitting instructions. I mean, it’s like magic.”

“I never did find out whether she ever married,” said Amelia, holding up her glass the same way Victoria did. The fire snapped and a shower of sparks flew up the chimney. McCavity leaped to his feet, then flopped down again and cleaned himself.

Amelia set her glass down. “She had an odd reaction when I made a little joke about some small thing.”

“I noticed that, too,” Elizabeth said. “Fran told Mom she came to the Island at the invitation of a student and fell in love. Mom teased her—”

“I didn’t really tease, her, just a light comment.”

“All Mom said was, ‘in love with the student or the Island?’ ”

“That seems innocuous enough,” said Victoria.

“You would think so. But Fran got all bent out of shape. She practically snapped at Mom, saying professors don’t fraternize with students, or something like that.”

“They do, of course, even though that’s totally unethical,” said Amelia. “I wonder what set her off?”

“She undoubtedly feels under great pressure to have the quilt finished and sent off,” said Victoria.

Elizabeth got up and put another log on the fire. “That’s true. Fran’s been snappish for the past week or so.” She returned to her seat. “It’ll be a relief to have the quilt shipped off, even though it’s been fun. But Fran had the responsibility of showing us how to knit these weird shapes and making us stick to our deadline. She deserves a medal.”

“It’s a work of art,” said Amelia. “It should run away with whatever the top prize is. I’ll get refills on our drinks.” Amelia gathered up the glasses and headed for the kitchen.

Victoria’s thoughts had drifted from Fran Bacon and the deadline to the people she wanted to talk to in the morning. She said, “Elizabeth, Fran had a student who was stalked, didn’t she?”

“More than one.”

“I’d like to talk with her. She may have insight into why LeRoy Watts, with all the positive things going on in his life, would become a stalker. Nothing I’ve read sheds much light.”

“Is that likely to help identify the killer?” asked Elizabeth.

“I don’t know,” said Victoria. “I really don’t know.”

C
HAPTER
34

Tuesday morning was bright, sunny, and dry, another typical Vineyard day. Spiderwebs were spread on the grass like freshly washed sheets. Dewdrops caught in the webs cast rainbows into the air.

Victoria, Amelia, and Elizabeth were finishing their breakfast in the cookroom. Victoria brushed toast crumbs into her hand and dropped them on her plate.

“I’d like to talk to Fran Bacon today,” she said. “Do you know what time she’s likely to be at the library, Elizabeth?”

“From about noon on,” Elizabeth said. “She’s making last-minute adjustments to the quilt before Casper and Jim pack it for shipping. Can I take your plate, Mom?”

“Yes, thanks.” Amelia handed the empty dishes to Elizabeth, who carried them into the kitchen.

“Fran has to make sure everything’s exactly right,” Elizabeth explained when she returned to the cookroom. “More coffee, either of you?” She held up the coffeepot.

“Please,” said Victoria. “Fran certainly runs a tight ship.”

“Typical of the Fran I remembered,” said Amelia. “That discipline of hers has paid off in that quilt.”

“Before I meet with Fran this afternoon, I’d like to talk to Emily Cameron again,” said Victoria. “She didn’t have much to say when we had lunch with her on Saturday. I assume she’ll be at the boatyard today.”

“You can use my car if you want,” said Elizabeth.

“Thank you,” said Victoria. “We can give you a lift to the harbor, since it’s on our way.”

Elizabeth gathered up her black uniform sweater and smoothed her khaki shorts, Amelia went into the bathroom to repair her face, and Victoria headed out to the car.

After they dropped off Elizabeth at the harbor, Amelia and Victoria continued on to the boatyard, driving the longer, more scenic way around East Chop.

“It’s early,” said Amelia. “Shall we park at the lighthouse? We can have a nice chat.”

Victoria hesitated. She didn’t really want a heart-to-heart talk with her daughter. But she thought of the magnificent view from the lighthouse of Nantucket Sound and the distant mainland and nodded.

They parked at the top of the hill, walked to the benches at the edge of the cliff, and sat down. Below them on the sound, one lone sailboat heeled over in the brisk southwest breeze. The mainland seemed close this morning, so close they could make out individual buildings.

“I’m trying to fit the pieces of this puzzle together,” Amelia said after they’d admired the view for a while. “The body you found in the library book shed was Emily’s boyfriend, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” This wasn’t a conversation Victoria wanted, but it was preferable to the conversation she’d expected—namely, Amelia deciding to be overly daughterly.

The wind sighed in the pines at the cliff’s edge, moved on to twist the leaves of wild cherry, then ruffled Amelia’s neat hair. She brushed it away from her face.

“You think LeRoy Watts killed the boyfriend?”

“Yes, I do.”

Amelia frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Victoria shaded her eyes with a hand and gazed out at the sailboat. It was early in the season to be out on the water. “Certain things we know to be facts.” She turned to Amelia. “LeRoy Watts owned a Taser. He’d fired Jerry Sparks because of his problem with drugs. According to Emily, Jerry headed to Watts Electrical to ask for his job back. Emily and Jerry planned to go to the movies that evening. I suppose she called Jerry’s cell phone to confirm their date and got no answer.”

“Jerry Sparks was dead by then?”

“I’m sure he was.”

“I still don’t understand.”

A dandelion had grown beside the bench where they sat. Victoria plucked one of the fluffy seed heads and held the stem so the breeze could scatter the seeds on their filmy parachutes.

“We hadn’t found Jerry Sparks’s body yet when I asked LeRoy Watts to repair the outlet in the East Chamber. LeRoy said he needed to spend more time on the repairs, and left his tool chest there, intending to finish the work later. At the time, I had a feeling he’d left the chest for some reason other than simple convenience.”

A gust whisked away the last of the dandelion seeds and Victoria dropped the stem and its buttonlike head onto the ground. “We found LeRoy’s body the day you arrived.”

“I know. That was quite a shock.”

“You were there, of course, when I looked inside his tool chest and found the spent Taser cartridge.”

“I’m surprised you recognized it. I barely know what a Taser is. I wouldn’t know a Taser cartridge if I saw one.”

The sailboat tacked. Victoria watched the boat change direction, the sails luff, then fill again. A fishing vessel, outriggers lifted high out of the water, passed on its way to the Georges Bank fishing grounds. A stream of seagulls followed, dipping into the trailing wake. The two women watched until the boat was out of sight.

Victoria took an envelope and pen out of her cloth bag. “The cartridges have two long, slender wires with tiny darts at the ends, like this.” She drew a sketch. “When someone shoots a Taser, the darts hook into the victim’s clothing or skin. A strong current flows through the wires and stops the individual instantly. Usually, a Taser does no harm. But under some circumstances, it can kill.”

“A victim such as a drug user, I suppose.”

“Habitual drug user, someone in poor health, or if the shooter pulls the trigger repeatedly. Jerry Sparks, the boyfriend, was both a drug user and in poor health.”

“It’s going to be almost impossible to find proof, isn’t it?”

“I believe we have the proof we need. The forensics team examined a fiber caught in one of the barbs,” said Victoria, tucking her envelope and pen back into her cloth bag. “The fiber was the same material as the fiber of Jerry Sparks’s jacket. Casey called yesterday while you were at the knitting group to tell me.” She set her bag back on the ground beside them. “There was a tiny tear in Jerry’s jacket. The torn ends of the fiber in the barb matched the torn ends in the tear.”

“Amazing,” said Amelia.

“Yes.”

The ferry from Oak Bluffs passed below them on its way to Woods Hole. They watched.

“You heard what Emily said Saturday,” Victoria continued after a while. “She’s believed from the beginning that LeRoy Watts killed her Jerry.”

“Emily certainly had a strong motive to kill LeRoy.”

“At least a half dozen people had motives. That’s the problem, and that’s why I want to talk to Fran Bacon this afternoon. According to Elizabeth, she’s had considerable experience with the problem of stalking.”

“Oh?” Amelia sat forward abruptly.

“What is it?” asked Victoria.

Amelia shook her head. “I don’t know. Something you said about Fran reminded me of something, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

“It will come to you.”

“Two o’clock in the morning, probably. Go on. You were saying about Fran?”

“She was a student advisor on ways to deal with stalkers.”

“I wish I could recall—”

“Don’t try.”

“Emily wasn’t a stalking victim of LeRoy’s, was she?”

“No.” Victoria shook her head. “Several individuals had reason to be upset with LeRoy. Jim Weiss was understandably angry at his daughter’s humiliation. The knitters and the phone calls. Emily’s boyfriend killed. Sarah betrayed. Her sister Jackie furious at her brother-in-law’s deception.” Victoria got up from the bench. “I know there are motives I haven’t thought of.” She walked, stiffly at first, toward the car, Amelia beside her.

“You needn’t feel so responsible for solving this, Mother. It’s the job of the police.”

“Let’s talk to Emily,” said Victoria.

“You want Emily Cameron, Mrs. Trumbull?” asked one of the boatyard workers. “I think she’s in the shed, splicing dock lines. You can go on in.”

“Thank you,” said Victoria.

She and Amelia crossed the road to the large metal shed and entered through a side door. Somewhere in the shed, a radio blasted out raucous music. After the bright sunlight, Victoria’s eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dimness of the shed. She paused just inside the door. The music hurt her ears.

Emily was seated on a stool, with her back to Victoria and Amelia. A length of white rope was coiled on the workbench in front of her. She was weaving individual strands into the rope to form a loop, using a sharp, tapered tool to part the rope. She apparently hadn’t heard them enter the shed. She was working in time to the music. Jab the tool into the rope, thrust the strand into the opening, twist the rope, jab the tool into the rope again, thrust the strand into the opening, again and again.

“Emily?” Victoria touched her shoulder gently, trying not to startle her.

Emily swiveled around on her stool. “Who . . . ? Oh, Mrs. Trumbull. Hi. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you. Is this a bad time to talk to you?”

“No, ma’am.” Emily reached over to the radio on the workbench and turned down the volume “Splicing is just like knitting. I can do it in my sleep.”

“Do you feel able to talk to me now?”

Emily sighed. “I guess.”

“You remember my daughter Amelia.”

Emily peered up at Amelia through her thick glasses. “Hi.” She brushed hair out of her eyes with her shoulder, still holding the splicing tool in one hand, the looped rope in the other. “Sorry I can’t shake hands.”

“Quite all right,” said Amelia. “I see you’re busy.”

“Want to sit down, Mrs. Trumbull?” Emily kept working. “Pull up another stool.”

“I’ll get it, Mother.” Amelia found two stools and set them down beside Emily.

“I wanted to stop by to see how you’re doing,” Victoria said when she’d settled herself.

Emily laid her work down in her lap. “That’s so nice of you.” She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s just awful. I was so angry with Jerry, and all the time . . .” She stopped. “All the time, he was lying in the shed. For days. All alone.”

“You had no way of knowing,” Victoria said, and waited for Emily to pick up her work again. “Did you ever find out why LeRoy Watts fired your Jerry?”

Emily looked up sharply. “That man! I know he killed Jerry.” She jabbed the tool into the rope. “Jerry was going to see him about getting his job back. When I called Jerry’s cell phone, there was no answer. He always had his cell with him, always.” Jab, thrust, twist. “So I called the shop. Jerry was supposed to be there. Maureen answered. I could hear her ask Mr. Watts if Jerry Sparks had come by, and I could hear Mr. Watts answer. He sounded funny.”

“In what way?”

Emily shifted the rope in her lap, thrust the tool into it, twisted it, jabbed the strand into the hole, pulled it through, twisted, thrust the tool into the rope again, jabbed the strand into the hole. . . . “Maureen asked him if he’d seen Jerry Sparks. Mr. Watts said, ‘He’s not here now’ or something like that in a real weird voice. Real high and quavery. You know how he has a real deep voice? Had, I guess.” She looked up again. “I don’t know . . . that doesn’t sound like a big deal now, but at the time it didn’t sound right, you know what I mean?”

Victoria nodded. “Did you have a chance to talk to Mr. Watts before he was killed?”

Emily looked down. “I didn’t want to, Mrs. Trumbull.”

Both Victoria and Emily were quiet for a while. The music played softly in the background. Victoria could discern a vague melody that hadn’t been obvious before at high volume. Amelia sat quietly, arms folded, legs crossed. Emily didn’t seem to be aware of her. She continued to work on the rope.

Emily broke the silence. “I baby-sat for the Watts twins when they were little. I liked Mrs. Watts a lot. Mr. Watts was always polite. I had a lot of respect for him, you know? All the stuff he did for the Little League and the church and everything.”

“And the library,” Victoria said.

“When Jerry went missing . . .” Emily stopped.

“Go on,” Victoria said.

“Before Jerry went missing, he left some DVDs in my apartment, kind of hid them in the bookcase, you know?”

Victoria nodded.

“Well, when he went missing, I found them again, and they had Mr. Watts’s name on them, so I took them to Mrs. Watts. I was mad at Jerry and wanted to get rid of them.”

“I see. I believe I know what was on the DVDs.”

Amelia shifted on her stool, recrossed her legs, and cleared her throat.

“Yeah,” said Emily. “Jerry was going to show those videos to the police. I knew he was.” She jabbed the tool into the rope. “That’s why Mr. Watts killed him.”