Touch-Me-Not (3 page)

C
HAPTER
4

Earlier that evening, the mathematical knitters’ group had met at the West Tisbury Library. Eleven members were in the group altogether, but only eight were present this Thursday. Maron Andrews, the newest member, a honey blonde with wide-set brown eyes, had graduated from MIT at eighteen the previous June and was now doing graduate work in rock mechanics at the Oceanographic Institution in Woods Hole.

She laid her knitting down, a fat figure eight that resembled a brain coral. “I can’t concentrate,” she said.

“What’s the trouble?” asked Casper Martin, one of two male members of the group. “All those good-looking guys pestering you?” Casper himself was an attractive man in his late thirties with the broad shoulders of a swimmer and was wearing funky little round glasses.

“Ha, ha,” Maron grunted. “Not funny.”

“Sorry. I was trying to be complimentary.”

“Well, it wasn’t.” She picked up her knitting.

Jessica Gordon, a radiologist at the hospital, set her own work aside. “Come on, you two. I’ve got enough on my mind without your bickering.” Jessica was a nicely built redhead with a scattering of freckles across her nose.

Casper pushed his glasses back into place and looked up. “Still having problems with your boyfriend, Jess?”

“Bucky’s long gone,” she said. “I threw him out a couple of weeks ago.”

“What’s the problem, then? Sounds like you got rid of a hundred ninety pounds of deadweight,” said Casper.

Jessica shrugged. “Ever since he left, I’ve been getting these weird phone calls.”

Alyssa Adams, another of the younger members, dropped a steel needle on the floor. It rolled under the library table and fetched up against a table leg with a metallic clink. Alyssa didn’t move.

“Are you okay, Alyssa?” asked Elizabeth Trumbull, yet another member of the group.

“I’m fine.” Alyssa bent down and picked up her needle.

“Who’s the caller, your ex-boyfriend?” Casper asked.

“It’s not Bucky,” said Jessica.

“What kind of calls?” asked Maron.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Sorry I mentioned it.”

Maron set her work in her lap. “This is, like, really weird. I’ve been getting creepy phone calls, too. That’s why I’m having trouble concentrating.”

“From a male or a female?” asked Fran Bacon, one of the founders of the group, a mathematics professor retired from Northeastern University.

“It’s hard to tell,” said Maron. “I honestly can’t tell whether it’s a man or a woman. A man, I suppose. Heavy breathing, then whoever hangs up.”

“What about you, Jessica?” asked Fran.

Jessica sighed. “Could be either a man or a woman. This disgusting sick voice says, ‘Jessica,’ then breathing, like panting, and I hang up. What’s weird is, I have an unlisted phone.”

“Me, too!” exclaimed Maron. “I started getting these calls about a month and a half ago, so I changed to an unlisted number, and he’s still calling me.”

“You might get caller ID,” said Casper.

“I’ve got it,” Jessica said.

“I do, too,” said Maron. “He’s blocked his number.”

Jessica added, “I’ve called the telephone company. I’ve called the police. They don’t seem to be able to do anything about it. Apparently, the guy is calling from a disposable cell phone. I’m going crazy!”

“Disposable phone,” Fran repeated thoughtfully. “The calls are probably from someone you don’t pay much attention to, for example, a grocery store clerk or someone working on the ferry. Are you aware of anyone like that?”

“Not really,” said Jessica.

“Me, either,” said Maron.

Fran continued to knit. “I’ve done quite a bit of research on stalkers,” she said. “At Northeastern, I was the student advisor on ways to deal with the problem. One suggestion was to sit down with the stalker and a third party, a mediator or a member of the clergy, and discuss the situation openly.”

“But the caller never identifies himself,” said Maron. “How can we discuss anything with him? Someone I may or may not know is watching my every move. It’s creepy.”

“It’s likely to be someone you’ve had some dealings with,” Fran continued. “Someone you may not even remember.”

“Now, I almost want Bucky back,” said Jessica. “This phone creep didn’t start calling until after Bucky left. As if he was watching my place or something.”

Casper spoke up again. “I hate to say this, girls—”

“Women,” Maron corrected.

“—but stalkers often get worse with time. They need more and more stimulation to get satisfaction.”

“How come you know so much about stalkers?” asked Jessica.

Casper shrugged. “I’m interested, that’s all.”

Alyssa stood up and put her knitting in her basket. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to leave.” Her face had become so pale, it was almost green.

“Are you feeling okay?” asked Elizabeth. “Would you like me to drive you home?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine,” and Alyssa headed toward the library’s front door.

“She doesn’t look fine to me,” said Casper. He stood up, tugged off his glasses and put them in his pocket, and left his knitting on his chair. “I’ll walk her out to the parking lot, make sure she can drive safely.”

Back at Watts Electrical Supply, Sergeant Smalley relaxed, drink in hand. He chatted about local politics, state politics, national politics, baseball, fishing. LeRoy, half-seated on the stool, half-listening, set his feet on the floor and jammed his fists into his pockets, his drink untouched.

At last, Smalley got up, pushed the chair back to Maureen’s desk, put his hat back on, and adjusted his belt. “Thanks, Roy. Nice pick-me-up. Don’t work too late. Sure you don’t want me to fix that broken key? I’ve had some experience along those lines. Won’t take me a minute.” A nod toward the supply closet.

LeRoy suppressed a shudder. “Thanks. I’m all set.”

“Good night, then.”

“Night.” LeRoy locked the door behind Smalley, and reached for another paper towel.

He turned out the lights again in the front of the shop and went to work on the broken key, trying to extract it with the needle-nose pliers. At last he got the broken-off part out, but the door was still locked.

“Hell. Damnation,” muttered LeRoy. He fished through the toolbox and found a paint scraper, slid it through the crack in the door until he came to the latch, and, suddenly, the door opened, releasing the full aroma of Jerry Sparks, several hours riper than it had been at five o’clock this afternoon.

Where the hell could he take the body? Where, where? LeRoy thought of State Beach, but after a mild day like today, people might be out for an evening stroll, even though the night had turned chilly. Maybe take Sparks to a beach up-Island. There were still remote places there.

Then he remembered the book shed at the West Tisbury Library, where his wife was a library trustee. Volunteers stored used books there for the summer book sale. He’d installed electricity in the shed last fall, done it for the cost of materials because of Sarah. Perfect spot. No one would question his being there. The shed was about the size of a small garage, with not much in it but cardboard boxes of books. It would look as though Sparks had sheltered there and died of an overdose.

Jerry Sparks dead. LeRoy couldn’t get his mind around the concept.

He hoisted the body onto his shoulder and carried it out to the van, opened the back door with one hand, and gently laid the body on the mat.

“Hey, Mr. Watts!”

LeRoy slammed the van door and spun around. One of the older kids from the baseball team had come around to the back of the shop.

“Yeah?” said LeRoy. “What are you doing up so late?”

“It’s not so late. One of the twins left his coat at the field. My mom picked me up after the game and we were driving by and saw your light. She told me to bring the coat to you.”

“Thanks,” said LeRoy. “Thanks a lot. Looks like Zeke’s coat all right. Thanks.”

“My mom had to go to a meeting and said maybe you’d give me a ride home.”

LeRoy took a deep breath. “Sure. Sure, I’ll take you home. You’re Henry, right?”

“No, sir. Hugo. Hugo A. Blinckmann.”

“Sure. Sure, Hugo. Hop in.”

“I’ll get in back,” said Hugo. “I like riding in back.” He reached for the handle of the back door.

“No! Stay away!” shouted LeRoy.

Hugo turned in astonishment.

“Sorry, Hugo. Didn’t mean to be so sharp. No seat belt back there. Get in front. The front seat.” The kid wouldn’t be able to see into the back, would he? LeRoy wiped his eyes. He started the engine and Hugo climbed in. The boy wrinkled his nose and leaned around the seat toward the back of the van.

“Hey,” said LeRoy, pointing out of the windshield. “That cat has something in its mouth.”

“Where?” asked Hugo, turning back to the front and sitting forward. “I don’t see it.”

“It moved fast. Keep an eye out. We might see a deer.”

From then on, Hugo was eyes front. LeRoy followed Circuit Avenue to the end, kept going until he came to Barnes Road, where Hugo lived, and dropped the kid off. “Thanks for bringing Zeke’s coat. Take care.”

“Good night, Mr. Watts. Wish I’d seen that cat.”

C
HAPTER
5

LeRoy continued down Barnes Road to the end and turned right onto the Edgartown–West Tisbury Road. He passed the airport, where the runway lights made a path for incoming planes. The lights looked menacing tonight for some reason. A small plane came in for a landing, right over the road. Right over him. He ducked his head as the engine noise grew to a roar, then faded quickly as the plane touched down at the end of the runway. LeRoy pulled over to the side of the road. He couldn’t see to drive. His hands were shaking and sweat trickled down his forehead into his eyes. He put his hand over his chest. His heart was beating irregularly. He turned off the motor. Was he having a heart attack right here? Would the EMTs find him with the body of Jerry Sparks in the back?

After a few minutes, LeRoy felt calmer. He turned the key in the ignition and started up.

A couple of miles from the airport, he passed Victoria Trumbull’s big old house. Her lights were on downstairs and he could see someone moving around inside. LeRoy shuddered when he thought of the way she’d inspected the shop and him. She’d sensed something. He mustn’t forget to fix that outlet of hers on Monday. He prayed that she wouldn’t question him any more about Sparks.

He checked his speedometer as he passed the police station. The Bronco was parked out front. He braked at the hand-lettered sign by the Mill Pond—
SLOW
!
TURTLE CROSSING
!—stopped at the stop sign on Brandy Brow, then continued up the hill and turned into the library’s parking lot. The lot was full of cars. Damn. Movie night. Tonight it was open until nine. A woman came out with an armload of books and waved at him. A small girl skipped alongside her.

There was no way on heaven or earth he could move Jerry Sparks to the shed until the library closed. He’d have to drive around and kill a half hour or so.

It was almost nine o’clock when Elizabeth returned home and parked her convertible under the maple tree. She bounded up the stone steps and into the kitchen. After her divorce, Elizabeth had moved in with her grandmother—for just a couple of weeks, she’d said months ago. She settled into Victoria’s life, and now Victoria, who’d always cherished her solitude, couldn’t imagine life without her.

Victoria was sitting at the cookroom table, opening mail she hadn’t gotten to earlier.

“Hi, Gram, I’m home.”

Victoria handed an unopened envelope to Elizabeth. “You have a letter from your mother.”

Elizabeth made a wry face.

“She means well,” said Victoria. “Don’t judge her so harshly.”

“Was she always like this? I mean, trying to run everybody’s life?”

“She was very caring, even as a little girl,” said Victoria. She pushed aside a full-color catalog of scanty underwear. “Such a waste of paper.”

“ ‘Very caring’ translates into
busybody
. I’m in my thirties, for Pete’s sake. Doesn’t she realize that?”

“Our children never stop being our children.”

“You don’t interfere with her life. You never have.”

Victoria changed the perilous subject of mothers and daughters. “How was the knitters’ group?” She understood Elizabeth’s feelings. Amelia could be difficult.

“Great. You wouldn’t think you could knit something that looked exactly like coral, would you?”

“I’d never thought about it before. Are you referring to the quilt you’re making?”

Elizabeth nodded. “We have to finish it by mid-June, so it can go on tour with other quilts. We’re going to meet every night from now on.”

“How many quilts are entered so far?”

“Close to a hundred, I think. People all over the country are working on reef quilts. Ours is three-dimensional. We’re knitting stuff like coral and sea anemonies.” Elizabeth ran water into the teakettle and put it on the stove. “Tea, Gram?”

“That would be nice.”

While she waited for the water to boil, Elizabeth sat at the table with her grandmother. “How was the law enforcement meeting?”

“Interesting,” said Victoria. “A speaker from off-Island talked about stalking and stalkers.”

“Really!” Elizabeth sat up straight.

“Apparently, it’s become a problem on the Island.” Victoria indicated the stack of catalogs she’d separated out of her mail. “Would you please drop these into the recycling bin?”

“Sure.” Elizabeth took them away and returned shortly. “Just tonight, two of the women in the knitting group told us they’re getting calls from a breather. He sort of pants, then hangs up.”

“Who are the women?”

“Jessica Gordan and Maron Andrews.”

“I know Jessica,” said Victoria. “She has beautiful red hair. I don’t know Maron.”

“Maron’s really bright, as well as pretty. She’s just turned nineteen and she’s doing grad work at the Oceanographic. Jessica broke up with her live-in boyfriend a couple of weeks ago, and a few days later she started getting these calls.”

“Have they done anything about the calls?”

“Jessica didn’t do anything the first time, figuring it was a wrong number, but after the second call, she contacted the phone company and they put on a tracer.”

“Were they able to identify the caller?”

“No. He’s calling from a disposable cell phone.”

“A disposable phone?” asked Victoria. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“You can buy them at the Stop and Shop or off-Island at places like Walmart. Vineyard Electronics probably sells them. They cost about twenty dollars.”

Victoria sat back in her chair. “The tea water’s boiling. Then let’s hear what your mother has to say.”

Getting the body into the book-storage shed was going to be a nightmare. The movie tonight was
Citizen Kane
, a classic old black-and-white film. LeRoy drove around for a half hour, along South Road, then onto one of the dirt roads that connected with Middle Road, checking the time every few minutes. At 9:15, he figured everybody must have cleared out, so he turned off the dirt road onto Middle Road, followed it to the Panhandle, which became Music Street, followed that until he came out onto South Road, and then he was a short hop from the library.

There were still half a dozen cars in the parking lot. Several people milled about. He couldn’t pull away again without being too obvious, so he parked off to one side and turned off the engine.

There was a tap on his window. LeRoy started. A teenager. Whit something. What was the kid’s last name? Manter. Whit Manter.

“How’re ya doing, Mr. Watts? Are you gonna need help this summer? I’m looking for a job.”

“Talk to Maureen, Whit. She handles hiring.”

“Thanks, Mr. Watts.”

“I’m not promising anything,” LeRoy called to Whit’s departing back. But then he recalled, with an odd feeling, he would need an extra hand.

As he rolled up the window, a woman was about to tap on the glass. Diana. Another Manter. Whit’s third cousin.

“I’m glad I saw you, LeRoy. I wanted to let you know I voted for your wife. She’s just wonderful as head of the library trustees.”

LeRoy nodded. “I’ll tell her, Diana. Thanks.”

“Also, it’s my dishwasher.”

“Mice eat the wiring again?”

“I think so.”

“They like the white wiring. Call the shop, Diana, and talk to Maureen. She makes out the schedule.”

He’d rolled the window up partway when he saw someone else, a woman, walking toward the van. The woman looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her right away. She was stocky and wore a mannish buffalo-plaid shirt over jeans. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she had long straggly bangs. Then he recognized her. Emily Cameron, their baby-sitter.

“Hi, Emily,” said LeRoy. “Can I help you?”

“Hello, Mr. Watts. Have you seen Jerry Sparks?”

LeRoy shuddered. “Jerry Sparks?”

“He was supposed to meet me here.”

LeRoy reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. Hell, his handkerchief was in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, wrapped around Jerry Sparks’s cell phone. “You called the shop earlier this afternoon, didn’t you?”

She nodded and the low lights in the parking area were reflected in her glasses, so he couldn’t see her eyes. “Maureen said he hadn’t come by, but when he left me around four-thirty, he said he was going directly to the shop.”

“Maureen told me she hadn’t seen him,” said LeRoy.

“I hoped maybe you had,” said Emily. “We had a date to go to the movie tonight. He was supposed to meet me here, and he never showed up. It’s our anniversary. We’ve been together three weeks.”

“Congratulations,” said LeRoy. He hoped she’d go away before she scented the distinctive smell of Jerry Sparks in the back of the van.

She sighed and turned away. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Want me to give him a message if I see him?”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Don’t bother, Mr. Watts. It’s not the first time he’s stood me up.”

LeRoy kept the window open after Emily Cameron left, despite the cool night. Once the parking lot cleared, he waited a few minutes longer until the lights went out in the library, then went around to the back of his van. He’d better carry Jerry Sparks from here, rather than driving to the shed. If he drove, someone might remember seeing him there. He was just about to open the back door, when he heard footsteps crunching on the gravel surface of the parking lot.

“Night, Mr. Watts.”

He swiveled around. Lucinda Chandler, the librarian.

“Good night, Lucinda.” He put his hand on his chest. “You had a busy evening.”

“It’s not usually this busy, but it was a great movie, and the knitting group is working on their coral-reef quilt.”

“A what?”

“You should see it. It’s really amazing. It’s to raise awareness of global warming.”

“Knitting?”

“Mathematical knitting.” Lucinda examined the keys she had on a ribbon, then put the ribbon around her neck. “Projective planes and Klein bottles. That sort of thing. Non-orientable surfaces. Möbius strips.”

“Global warming?” LeRoy, his mind on the corpse in the back of the van, was having trouble concentrating.

“Global warming affects coral reefs all over the world.”

“So I’ve heard,” murmured LeRoy.

“Come on in and I’ll show you the quilt. It’s not finished, but you can see what it’s going to look like.” Lucinda pulled her key on its cord out of the neck of her fleece jacket.

“I’d like to, but . . .” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and looked at his watch.

“Are you using the wireless?”

“Wireless?” Was she referring to the Taser?

“People park here all kinds of crazy hours to log onto the wireless. Used to be lovers. Now it’s computer geeks.”

Lucinda seemed to require some response, so LeRoy laughed politely and thought fast. “Nope. Just wanted to check out the electric meter after you closed the building. See how much current you’re using at low load.”

“Oh,” said Lucinda. “Thanks. You’re just wonderful. With electric rates what they are . . .”

“Right,” said LeRoy.

“Let me know what you find out, and when you’ve got time, I’ll show you the quilt.” She dropped the key on its cord back into the neck of her pink jacket, zipped it up, slipped her recumbent tricycle out of the bike rack, and pedaled off.

So that’s what those characters are knitting, thought LeRoy. A coral reef.