At half past three, she marched around to the front of her house and crossed the road. Within a few minutes, a vehicle approached from Edgartown and she held out her thumb. It wasn’t a car after all, but a shiny new blue dump truck that slowed and stopped, as she knew it would.
The driver lowered the window on the passenger side. “Afternoon, Mrs. Trumbull.” The driver was Bill O’Malley, a man she occasionally saw at the selectmen’s meetings. He leaned across the seat. “Nice to see you on a fine day like this. Where’re you heading?”
“Myrna Luce’s law office in Vineyard Haven,” said Victoria. Through the open window she heard O’Malley’s radio playing something with a banjo and harmonica and a high male voice wailing a country-music ballad.
“At your service.” O’Malley slipped out of the driver’s side, truck engine still running, and went around to the passenger side. He was a tall, well-built young man in his mid-forties, with dark, unruly hair streaked with silver. Victoria admired men with nice flat stomachs. He brought out a black plastic milk crate and set it down for a step. “I keep it here just for you. By the way, how’s your granddaughter?”
Victoria smiled. “Elizabeth is fine. She likes her job. You know Myrna, don’t you?”
“Sure. Everyone does. She handled my second divorce.”
Victoria tucked her stick under her arm, grasped the metal handhold on the side of the truck, stepped up onto the milk crate, and, with a boost from O’Malley, swung up into the high passenger seat. She straightened her skirt over her knees. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” said O’Malley as he stowed the milk crate behind her seat. “I’ll take you right there.”
He slammed the door shut, got back into the driver’s seat, and shifted into gear. “Where’s she working?”
“Who?” asked Victoria, then immediately realized she was being dense. “Elizabeth’s working as dockmaster at the Oak Bluffs harbor.”
“I’ll run my boat around there sometime, see how she’s doing.”
“I’m sure she’d like that.”
As they approached Vineyard Haven, O’Malley turned off State Road and followed a series of lanes until they reached what was once a small house, now tripled in size with a new two-story addition.
“Myrna’s law office is on the first floor,” explained Victoria. “She has a dance studio on the second.”
“That woman has almost as much energy as you do, Mrs. T.,” O’Malley said as he helped her dismount. “I’ve got a couple of errands to run, and can stop by in about an hour, if you’d like a ride home.”
“That would be fine,” said Victoria.
As she went up to the front step, a short, stout black woman opened the door. Her hair was twisted into long dreadlocks entwined with beads. She greeted Victoria with a warm bosomy hug.
Victoria, usually not much of a hugger, embraced her, then turned to O’Malley, who’d waited to see her safely met. He lifted a couple of fingers from the steering wheel in acknowledgment and drove off.
“It’s been too long, Victoria.” Myrna indicated with her beringed hands for Victoria to go first, and they entered her new law office.
African sculptures and carvings were displayed on low columns between windows that looked out on woodland. The wall to the right was lined with law books. Oriental rugs covered the polished wood floor.
Myrna seated Victoria on a satin-striped couch next to a ficus tree and sat across from her.
After they’d exchanged pleasantries, Myrna said, “Tell me what brought you here—besides Bill O’Malley’s cobalt blue dump truck.” She laughed and sat forward, her fingers laced so that her rings seemed to form a solid gold band. Her ears, too, were outlined in gold rings.
Myrna laughed again when she noticed the way Victoria was examining her. She shook her head and beads clicked.
“I know you’re involved with women’s issues,” Victoria began. “Do you still run the shelter for battered women?”
Myrna nodded and waved at a door in the book-lined wall. “That leads to my house. It’s not easy for batterers to get to their victims, since they’d have to go past me.” She bared her teeth in a smile. “You indicated on the phone that a woman you know is being stalked. Illegal, of course. I can get a restraining order for her.”
“It’s more serious than that,” said Victoria. “Three women. Possibly more.”
Myrna pursed her lips. “I see.”
Victoria told her about the breather.
“I recall your granddaughter was being stalked by her ex-husband.”
“That was frightening. He’s a sensible, well-educated man. I don’t understand what gets into some people.”
Myrna nodded. “More women are willing to come forward these days. Men, too. Stalkers are not just males.”
“I wanted to come in person rather than phoning,” said Victoria. “I suppose my interest stems from Elizabeth’s problems. Do you have any clients who are being stalked?”
“You know I can’t divulge names.”
“I don’t want names,” Victoria assured her. “I need to know if our stalker reaches beyond the knitters’ group.”
“Have the women notified the police?”
“They’ve talked with Casey, who’s not sure anything can be done beyond notifying the phone company, and they’ve done that. Last night, I attended a lecture on stalking and learned it can escalate into something quite dangerous.”
Myrna nodded. “Two of my clients are hiding out from ex-husbands who’ve gone beyond telephoning.” She looked thoughtful, then stood. “I’ll go through my files and see what I can find.” She arose from her seat and went over to a file cabinet near the bookcase, unlocked a drawer, and ran her fingers through a sheaf of folders. While Victoria waited, she pulled out four or five.
She returned to her seat with the folders and opened them one at a time. “These are stalking cases. Only one woman is getting phone calls from an unidentified man, a breather. The others know who the stalker is, ex-husbands or former boyfriends.”
“Would you be willing to meet with the women from the knitters’ group?”
“Anytime, Victoria. Let’s make it some evening, to be sure I’m not in court.”
They spent the rest of the time catching up on family news until the blue dump truck rumbled to a stop in front of Myrna’s office.
“Thank you,” said Victoria, and strode out to her waiting ride.
CHAPTER 8
LeRoy didn’t recall how he spent the rest of Friday. By the time he got home, the boys were fed and in bed. Sarah was knitting. Always knitting.
“Soup’s on the stove,” she said. “She called again.”
“I notified the phone company. Not much they can do.” LeRoy helped himself and sat down at the table opposite Sarah.
“Who is she, Roy?”
“How am I supposed to know? What’re you making?”
“Thought you’d never ask. Sweaters for the boys. She must know you.”
LeRoy shrugged.
“Some former girlfriend?”
“For God’s sake,” said LeRoy. “Get off my back.”
“I’m the one who gets the calls.” Sarah looked up. “Unless she calls when you’re here and you answer?”
“Yeah.” LeRoy ate his soup to the sound of clicking needles. The woman had called when he’d answered, a soft voice he didn’t recognize. Told him she’d dreamed about him. What she’d like to do with him. Teach him a few things. He’d hung up. He slathered butter on a chunk of homemade bread, mopped up the last of his soup, and stood up. Who the hell was she?
“I baked the bread this morning,” said Sarah.
“Great.” LeRoy yawned, stretched, and tossed his napkin onto the table.
“How about putting your napkin in your napkin ring? I have enough laundry—”
“Okay, okay,” said LeRoy, and stuffed the napkin into the green plastic ring that identified the napkin as his.
Sarah set down her work. “I’ve alread
y showered.”
“I can take a hint.” LeRoy headed for the bathroom.
“How about clearing your dishes first?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” LeRoy returned to the kitchen, put his bowl and spoon in the dishwasher, slammed it shut with a thunk, and turned to her. “Anything else you want?”
“Did you go to the doctor today?”
“No.”
“You don’t need to be so snippy.” Sarah put her work away and stood. “What’s the matter with you anyway?”
“I’m going fishing tomorrow. Early.” He followed her into their bedroom.
“It’s supposed to be nice. I’ll get the boys up.”
“I’m not taking the boys.”
“You promised.”
“Well, I’m not taking them.” LeRoy opened a bureau drawer and took out the clothes he planned to wear the next day, a plaid shirt and jeans, and laid them on the blanket chest at the foot of the bed.
“They’ll be disappointed, Roy.”
“Can’t help that,” said LeRoy. He added a T-shirt, wool socks, and clean underwear to the pile.
“They can’t go with me,” said Sarah. “I’m helping Lucinda move books downstairs in the library.”
“Take the kids with you.”
“Two nine-year-old boys stuck in the library?” Sarah’s voice rose. “When they’d rather be fishing with their dad?”
LeRoy made a fist and smacked it into the palm of his left hand. Sarah flinched.
“All right!” she snapped. “I’ll take them.”
LeRoy got up before dawn and dressed in the clothes he’d laid out the night before, then drove to Edgartown and down the street that led to the ferry. His van was first in line for the minute-and-a-half crossing to Chappaquiddick, an island that had been connected to the Vineyard by a slim barrier bar until the ocean cut through.
“Morning, Roy.” The ferry captain slipped wooden chocks under the front wheels of LeRoy’s van.
“Morning, Bart.”
“Raised the rates again,” said Bart, collecting the fare. “The current’s wicked since the ocean cut through the bar. Burns more fuel, and fuel’s outta sight.”
The ferry crabbed against the fierce new current, and in less than two minutes Bart nosed the ferry into the dock on the Chappaquiddick side, took down the chain at the bow, and removed the chocks from LeRoy’s wheels.
“The blues are running pretty good at Wasque,” said Bart, pronouncing it WAY-squee, the way Islanders do. “I like a baked bluefish.”
“I’ll save a couple for you,” said LeRoy. “Too oily for my taste.”
LeRoy drove off the ferry onto the paved road and continued to the end of a dirt road, where he parked. He hiked the short distance through the pines to the wooden steps that led down the cliff face to the beach. There he stopped to watch the sun rise out of the wild sea, lighting the pond at the foot of the cliff and beach beyond.
Suddenly, he heard the voice of Jerry Sparks and turned around. Nothing. No one. Only a catbird, mocking him.
Shaking with the thought of Jerry Sparks’s ghost calling to him, he carried his fishing gear down the steep steps, taking in deep breaths of clean salt air. He hiked along the wooden walkway that skirted the pond, then trudged the half mile down the beach to the outermost corner of the Island. Every few steps, he looked around to see what was behind him.
The southeastern corner of Martha’s Vineyard forms a sharp right angle, where the ruler-straight south-facing beach meets the equally ruler-straight east-facing beach. There tidal currents clash in confusion, stirring up bait and attracting blues and stripers.
A half dozen fishermen lined up in the surf. He knew a few by sight and he joined them, keeping his own distance to avoid tangled lines. He greeted Janet Messineo, the Island’s number-one fisherman, who nodded.
“Great fishing today,” she said, casting.
At noon, he drank water and ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He could see the blues going after baitfish in the surf. Though everyone else seemed to have luck, he caught nothing.
He worked the surf all day, even after the tide changed and all the rest left with their quota of blues.
He came home after Sarah and the boys had gone to bed, weary, sunburned, and feeling rotten. He fixed himself a bacon and egg sandwich, drank a Bud, and crawled into bed. Sarah moved away from him.
When Sarah awoke on Sunday, LeRoy was gone. Fishing again, she supposed. She was in a foul mood. He hadn’t taken the twins fishing this morning, either. She might as well be a single parent. Worse, because Roy had been in such an ill temper lately, she’d found herself snapping at the boys, who’d done nothing wrong. She was making breakfast when there was a knock on the door. It was Emily Cameron, who occasionally baby-sat for them. She was holding a plastic shopping bag.
Sarah dried her hands on a paper towel. “Morning, Emily. What can I do for you?”
“I hope this isn’t a bad time, Mrs. Watts.”
In the kitchen, the twins were fighting over a box of cereal. A chair fell over.
“Boys!” Sarah called over her shoulder. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it!”
“I can come back later,” said Emily.
“Don’t pay any attention to the kids. Come on in.” Sarah moved away from the doorway.
“Is Mr. Watts here?”
Sarah grunted and turned back to the kitchen, where the twins were scuffling on the floor. “Get up, both of you. Behave yourselves.” And to Emily, “My husband’s gone fishing. At least I think that’s where he is.”
“I wanted to return a couple of DVDs to him.”
More squabbling from the twins.
“Boys, eat your breakfast and go out and play.”
“We haven’t done our homework yet.”
“You were supposed to finish your homework on Friday. This is Sunday.”
Both boys stood up, both looked down at their feet.
“Get upstairs and do it, then. I don’t want to hear another peep out of either of you.”
The boys shambled off, and Sarah turned to Emily. “Sorry about that. Anything to avoid homework. Sit down, Emily. What are the DVDs?”
“I don’t know what they are. My boyfriend, Jerry, left them at my place a couple of weeks ago.” Emily took two thin plastic cases out of the Stop & Shop bag. They were labeled in black marker pen: “WATTS 1” and “WATTS 2.”
Sarah took the cases and examined them. “That’s not my husband’s writing. Did your boyfriend tell you they belonged to LeRoy?”
Emily looked confused. “No. I was straightening up my place and came across them again. I just assumed . . .”
“My husband hasn’t mentioned any missing DVDs,” said Sarah. “Did your boyfriend tell you to give them to LeRoy?”
Emily pushed her glasses back into place. Her magnified eyes looked red, as though she’d been crying. “We broke up, I guess.”
“I’m so sorry. That’s too bad.” At the moment, Sarah was thinking breaking up wasn’t so bad at all. She poured a mug of coffee and handed it to Emily. “Here. You need this. There’s the cream and sugar, and a spoon.”
Emily brushed bangs out of her eyes. “He promised to go to the movies with me Thursday, and he never showed up. I haven’t seen him since.” A tear trickled down her cheek. Sarah handed her a box of tissues and Emily took one.
“There are lots of other nice boys on the Island,” said Sarah. “Since your boyfriend—Jerry?”
Emily nodded.
“Since Jerry didn’t tell you to return the DVDs to LeRoy, they might be his, training films LeRoy copied for him. Let’s see what’s on them, okay?” She looked at Emily’s tear-streaked face. “I’m sure he’ll be back, Emily.”
Emily shook her head miserably.
“The TV is in the living room. Bring your coffee with you and we’ll see what we’ve got.”
Sarah removed “WATTS 1” from its plastic case. A slip of paper fell out and she picked it up. Penciled on it in
barely legible writing was “Copied from LeRoy Watts laptop by Jerry Sparks,” and the date, two months ago.
“Jerry Sparks,” said Sarah thoughtfully, turning the paper over to see if anything was written on the other side. “I didn’t realize your boyfriend was that Jerry.”
Emily nodded.
“Well, I guess we’re about to be lectured on how to deal with electricity without electrocuting ourselves,” Sarah said with a smile. She slipped the disc into the DVD player and turned it on.
A blurry pinkish image came into focus on the screen. There was the sound of running water in the background and a warbling voice singing slightly off-key. Sarah sat forward and stared at the fifty-inch high-resolution plasma screen, which showed every drop of water, every hair, every mole, every eyelash, every freckle on the skin of a young woman taking a shower. The screen proceeded with intimate details of her washing herself.
“Oh my God!” Sarah sprang out of her chair and flipped off the television, ejected the DVD, tossed it onto the coffee table next to the sofa, and dropped into her chair.
There were a long few minutes of silence.
“I don’t know what to think,” Sarah said at last.
Emily’s face was a dismal red. “Me neither.”
“Just what did Jerry say when he gave these to you?”
“Only that . . .” Emily had trouble speaking. Her voice came out in a sort of squeak. “He told me,” she began, then stopped. “He told me to hang onto them for safekeeping. That’s all he said.”
Sarah got up and picked up the DVD she’d cast aside. “That notepaper said Jerry copied it from Leroy’s laptop. Could Jerry have made those videos?”
“No way.” Emily shook her head. “He knows less than I do about cameras.”
“My husband fired him last week. Did you know that?”
Emily looked down at her hands.
Not sure Emily had understood, Sarah repeated, “Did you know my husband fired Jerry?”
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