The pictures popped up on the laptop screen. Sounds of water running. A voice, singing.
“I don’t know her,” said Victoria.
“Nor I,” said Casey.
“I’ll fast-forward,” said Howland.
Water running. A voice called out, “Honey, I forgot the soap. Would you bring me a fresh bar?”
“Why, that’s Jessica Gordon, one of the knitters,” said Victoria. “I thought she lived alone.”
“Her boyfriend lived with her up until a couple of weeks ago,” said Casey.
“Fast-forward,” said Howland.
Water running. A young girl was shampooing her hair.
“Good heavens!” said Victoria. “That’s Jim Weiss’s daughter, Lily. He’s another one of the mathematical knitters.”
Howland pushed the pause button. Casey looked closely. “It’s Lily all right. She’s barely sixteen.”
“This is ugly,” said Victoria.
On and on and on, through a dozen short videos. Victoria didn’t know all of the women, but she knew most.
“I’ve seen enough,” said Casey.
“We’re almost at the end.”
Casey made notes. “I’ll contact the people we’ve identified, have them notify me if they find a camera. We’ll also send an announcement to the Enquirer.”
“I’ll write up something for my column. Not all the victims are from West Tisbury, but quite a few people from other towns read my column.” Victoria smoothed her hair.
CHAPTER 25
When the phone rang the next morning, Amelia was still asleep. Her daughter, Victoria supposed, was on West Coast time. She pushed her typewriter aside and answered. The caller was Myrna, her lawyer friend.
“Five women are here in my office, Victoria, apparently at your instigation.”
“From the knitting group, I assume.”
Myrna laughed. “Well, they’re all knitting up a storm at this very moment.”
“I’m glad they’ve gone to you.”
“I’m not sure how glad you’re going to be when you hear what they have to say. You need to be in on the discussion. Can you get here in the next half hour or so?”
Victoria checked her watch. “Yes, certainly. What’s the trouble?”
“I’d rather not talk on the phone. Would you like me to call a cab?”
“No, thank you.” Victoria thought of the blue dump truck. “I’ve got transportation.” After she hung up, she called Bill O’Malley’s cell-phone number. “Do you think you could give me a ride?”
“Sure thing, Mrs. T. Where do you want to go and how soon?”
“Myrna Luce’s again. As soon as possible.”
“Problems?”
“I don’t know,” said Victoria.
“Be there in ten minutes.”
Victoria shrugged into her coat and was searching for her baseball cap when Amelia came downstairs, hair combed, her clothing tidy. Was she actually wearing makeup? On the Vineyard? At nine o’clock in the morning? At times, her daughter seemed to have been spawned by a different set of parents.
Amelia reached out her arms and hugged her mother. “Good morning, darling. You look as though you’re ready to go out.”
“Good morning,” said Victoria. “The coffee’s on, and you know where the cereal is.”
Amelia strode into the kitchen, carrying herself regally, like a Trumbull, Victoria thought. Amelia turned when she reached the coffeemaker and smiled, a sunny smile that seemed to brighten the morning. “Where are you off to?”
“Vineyard Haven.” For some reason, Victoria didn’t want to be more specific.
“Is Howland Atherton giving you a ride?”
“Not this morning.” Victoria found her hat under the table, where McCavity must have knocked it.
“Oh?”
“Another friend is giving me a ride.”
Amelia poured herself a cup of coffee and took a sip. “You make the most superb coffee.” She held up her mug and smiled again.
“I shouldn’t be too long,” Victoria said.
“You don’t need to be so mysterious about your ride,” Amelia said. “Another handsome gentleman friend?”
“The toaster is in the cabinet under the kitchen counter,” said Victoria. “And there’s beach plum jam in the icebox.”
“Darling, you’re too much!” Amelia found the bread and the jam, and plugged in the toaster. Victoria, in the meantime, was settling her hat at a becoming angle.
“I love your chapeau, Mother. It looks cute on you,” said Amelia.
Her badge of authority. Her identity as a deputy police officer. Cute?
Victoria gave her daughter an airy wave and marched out to the west step to wait for O’Malley. She would love to see her daughter’s expression when the dump truck pulled up. Victoria could see Amelia’s reflection in the outside entry window. She could even make out her daughter’s concerned expression as she waited to see who would pick up her mother. Victoria heard the rumble of O’Malley’s truck, and could make out the dumbfounded look on Amelia’s reflected face as the truck braked and O’Malley emerged—young, handsome, vigorous, with longish curly black hair. His broad shoulders strained against his T-shirt. He hiked up his jeans and tightened his belt, then set down the milk-crate step for Victoria, and grinned broadly at her as she approached. He helped her up into the high seat.
Once seated, Victoria turned to Amelia, still standing by the window, mouth partly open, and lifted her hand in a regal wave.
“That was quick,” said Victoria as she settled her blue coat under her.
“I was at the airport,” he said. “Who was that?”
“My daughter Amelia. Elizabeth’s mother. She’s come to cart me off to an assisted-living facility.”
“What?” O’Malley looked at her in horror.
“I’m exaggerating. My daughter is one of those ‘caring’ people.”
“Ah. I understand.” O’Malley stopped at the end of the drive and looked both ways before turning onto the Edgartown Road. “What’s with Myrna?”
“I have no idea. She didn’t want to tell me over the phone.”
On the way to Vineyard Haven, the oak trees were haloed with a faint pink haze that softened their winter-stark branches.
“We always called new oak leaves ‘mouse ears,’ ” said Victoria. “When oaks leaf out, it’s time to plant corn. Oaks are always the last to recognize spring has come.”
She turned, about to say more, when O’Malley said, “How does your granddaughter like her job?”
“She’s busy. The harbor is getting ready for summer.”
“I took my boat around there the other day. Must have missed her.”
“Elizabeth has odd hours,” said Victoria, and suddenly realized, of course. It was spring. Sap was flowing. She glanced over at O’Malley. Such a nice man, right around Elizabeth’s age. Taller than her granddaughter, and in possession of a magnificent new dump truck. “Why don’t you come for supper tomorrow evening?”
“Great,” he said. “What time?”
His answer was so prompt, Victoria wondered why she hadn’t thought of him weeks earlier. “Elizabeth’s mathematical knitting group meets until seven every evening,” she said. “Do you mind a late supper? Seven-thirty or so?”
“Perfect. I usually eat around eight. Mathematical knitting?”
“They’re knitting Möbius-strip kelp and Klein-bottle sea anemones for a coral-reef quilt.”
O’Malley scratched his head and laughed. “I don’t need to worry about a topic of conversation. What can I bring?”
They discussed the logistics of supper until O’Malley turned off the main road and onto the lane where Myrna had her office.
“Give me a call when you’re ready to be picked up,” he said. “I’ve got business to attend to in Oak Bluffs, but it’ll take me only a few minutes to get here.”
He set out the milk crate again and helped Victoria climb down from the passenger seat.
&nb
sp; “Thank you,” said Victoria, touching the visor of her baseball cap.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” he said.
Myrna flung the door open. “Come in.” She ushered Victoria into the office.
The five women knitters were sitting in a semicircle around Myrna’s desk—Jessica, Maron, Cherry, Alyssa, and Roberta.
“Hi, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Maron.
“Thanks for coming,” said Jessica.
“Glad you could get here,” said Roberta.
“We took your advice,” said Cherry.
“My advice?” Victoria settled herself into the chair Myrna held for her.
“To talk with Ms. Luce. We decided we needed legal help.”
Victoria removed her hat, placed it on Myrna’s desk, and waited.
The women looked at one another, then at Myrna.
“These women are convinced LeRoy Watts was the phone stalker,” Myrna said, waving a beringed hand at the five. “And, as you know, they set off to teach him a lesson.”
“I was there when they left to do so,” said Victoria.
“We didn’t find Mr. Watts,” said Cherry, who apparently spoke for the five. “We went to his shop, but it was closed and the shades were drawn. We didn’t want to go to his home, so we returned to the library, where we’d parked.”
“However,” Myrna went on, “each of the five decided, independently, according to them, to confront Mr. Watts. And now he’s dead.”
“Are you saying one of you killed him?” Victoria leaned forward.
Jessica set her knitting in her lap. “Yes. One of us did.” She pointed to herself. “I could be the killer, but I’m not saying, one way or the other.”
“None of us is talking,” said Maron. “I knew Mr. Watts from the time I was a little kid.” She set her knitting aside and took a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose. “He betrayed me. Us. All of us.” She wadded up the tissue in one hand and went back to her knitting.
“Sorry about all this knitting, but we’re working on deadline,” explained Jessica.
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Victoria.
“All of us trusted him,” said Cherry. “He went to my church, for heaven’s sake.” She jabbed a needle into her woolen coral.
Roberta sat forward on the edge of her chair. “It took awhile for me to believe Mr. Watts could be such a . . . such a . . .” she stopped. “I mean, he was involved in Scouts and sports, all kinds of community activity.” She looked down at her work. “Darn, I dropped a stitch.” The knitters waited until she’d retrieved it. “Everybody thought what a nice man he was. And here . . .”
“It’s the betrayal,” said Alyssa, smoothing her Möbius-strip kelp. “We all feel the same. We know for sure that one of us killed him. One of us stabbed him in the neck with a knitting needle.”
“We’re convinced whoever did it didn’t mean to kill him,” said Maron. “It wasn’t an intentional murder. She was probably just trying to make a point.”
The other four nodded in agreement.
“A knitting needle isn’t exactly a dangerous weapon,” said someone.
Jessica said, “We came to Myrna’s to ask her to defend us as a group. We don’t know which one of us did the deed, and we agreed that none of us would confess. We refuse to even try to identify the actual killer among us.”
“Not one of us is sorry he’s dead, although, of course, we didn’t set out to kill him,” said Roberta, continuing to knit while she looked around at the other women, who nodded. “I mean, we didn’t want to actually kill him, but we wouldn’t have minded if someone else did. So someone did, and it’s one of us.”
“That’s right,” said Maron, brushing bits of her disintegrated tissue off her multicolored brain coral onto the floor. “We’re, like, equally guilty. I mean, if you want someone dead and you hire a killer, you’re guilty, right?”
Victoria listened attentively, then turned to Myrna. “What do you think about this?”
“I called you, Victoria, because I can’t defend them. It’s both unethical and illegal.” Myrna shrugged, setting the beads in her dreadlocks in motion. “I can give them legal advice, but that’s it. As far as I’m concerned, they’re all innocent.”
“We’re all guilty,” said Roberta. “One for all, all for one. No question about it.”
Myrna held up a hand, its line of gold rings glittering with precious stones. She laughed and shook her head. “No, no. You’re innocent until proven guilty, and I can’t defend you.”
Victoria turned to the women. “Do I understand that not one of you knows which one did the deed?”
Knitting needles clicked.
“That’s right.”
“Yes.”
“We’re sticking together.”
“Have you considered,” said Victoria, “that it’s most likely that none of you is the killer?”
“Of course,” said Jessica. “We discussed the murder in general terms, so as not to point to one person. Every one of us had motive. None of us can account for every minute of our time from the evening we tried to talk to him until Maureen found his body, so we guess every one of us had opportunity,”
“And every one of us had the means.” Alyssa held up one of her steel needles.
Victoria turned to Myrna. “Speaking of advice, what do you think I can do for them?”
“I believe,” said Myrna, “they’d like you to be a character witness, if this should go to court.”
Five heads nodded.
“I can recommend five lawyers,” said Myrna.
“This won’t go to court,” said Victoria, getting to her feet. “May I use your phone?”
“Of course,” said Myrna. “Dial nine first.”
Except for the sounds of needles, the group was silent while Victoria called Bill O’Malley and asked for a ride home. When she hung up, they looked up quizzically.
“You just got here,” said Jessica.
“You haven’t even listened to us,” said Roberta.
“Will you . . . ?” asked Alyssa, holding her kelp under her chin, a brown-and-green beard.
“I’ve got to get busy,” Victoria said. “I intend to find the killer. And it’s not one of you.”
CHAPTER 26
“That was short and sweet,” said Bill O’Malley when he picked Victoria up at Myrna’s law office.
“Five silly young women,” Victoria said as she adjusted her blue coat under her and fastened her seat belt. And she told him how each of the five was claiming to be the murderer of LeRoy Watts, the stalker. Bill listened attentively.
Before he pulled into Victoria’s drive, he stopped the truck. “Shall we give your daughter a thrill?”
“I’m not sure Amelia can deal with whatever you have in mind, but go ahead.”
He grinned, shifted into reverse, and backed into the drive, the insistent beep, beep, beep alerting everyone in the neighborhood, especially Amelia.
She appeared at the door looking concerned, a mixing spoon in her hand, a dish towel around her waist.
Victoria immediately felt bad. “I really shouldn’t tease her. She means well.”
“It’s time she learned you have a life of your own.” O’Malley backed up to the west door, shifted into neutral, pulled on the brake, and the backup alarm shut off.
Amelia put her hand to her throat.
O’Malley set out the milk-crate step for Victoria and offered her his arm, which she took and stepped down.
“Mother?” said Amelia.
Victoria released his arm. “Amelia, this is my friend Bill O’Malley.”
“Howdy, ma’am.” O’Malley, the Stanford graduate, was suddenly a good ole boy. He nudged the visor of his cap with a knuckle.
“Mother?” Amelia said again. Then she turned to O’Malley and said formally, “How do you do.” She glanced at her mother, then back at O’Malley. “Would you care to come in for a cup of tea?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I got to be goin’.” O’Malley set the
milk crate behind the passenger seat, slammed the door, went around to the driver’s side, shifted into gear, and the dump truck lumbered away from the house.
“Where on earth did you find him?” Amelia asked.
“He’s a longtime friend of mine.”
“A dump truck driver?”
“A dump truck owner,” replied Victoria. “He gives me a ride whenever I need one.”
“Oh, Mother! But where—?”
“Let’s have tea. Something smells good.”
“Gingerbread,” said Amelia. “I know how much you like it. But Mother . . . ?”
Victoria tossed her blue coat over the back of the captain’s chair by the door, went in to her usual spot at the cookroom table, and sat down.
Amelia carried two plates, two napkins, a knife, and the pan of fragrant gingerbread into the cookroom and cut into it. “How was your morning?” she asked, handing a plate to her mother. “You were so mysterious when you left.”
Victoria felt a pang of guilt. She really must try to understand Amelia’s concern and deal with it like an adult. “I wasn’t sure myself what I was getting into when I left,” she said. “Myrna Luce, my lawyer friend, asked me to come to her office because . . .” And then Victoria realized the story was too complicated to explain simply. “She told me it had something to do with the murder.”
“Mother, must you really . . .” Amelia didn’t finish. She sat down in the chair, at right angles to Victoria. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m being my usual busybody. I’ll try to control myself. Tell me about the work you’re doing.”
So Victoria did. She explained about the mathematical knitters and the global-warming quilt, about the breathing phone calls, the mysterious death of Jerry Sparks, the death of LeRoy Watts, and the five women who claimed to have killed him.
Amelia listened. She sipped her tea and nibbled her gingerbread, and when Victoria finished, she put her hand over her mother’s. “I love you, you know?”
And Victoria did know.
Victoria mashed up the last crumbs of her gingerbread with her fork tines, licked the fork clean, finished the rest of her tea, and pushed her plate and mug to one side.
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