Touch-Me-Not

by Cynthia Riggs

  CHAPTER 30

  “Is she serious?” Amelia asked when they were on the road again. “Accusing her own sister of murdering her husband? The father of her boys?”

  The rain had let up briefly while they’d talked to Jackie, but was now coming down in a steady drizzle. The windshield wipers slatted back and forth, flicking water from one side to the other.

  “There’s a bit of animosity between the two sisters,” Victoria replied. “I’m not sure we can take what she said seriously.”

  “Where would you like to go next?”

  Victoria referred to her list. “I need to talk to Emily Cameron again. The boatyard is open on Saturdays now, getting ready for the season.”

  “Is she one of the women who was stalked?”

  “No,” replied Victoria. “Her boyfriend was Jerry Sparks, the one who was killed.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll invite her to lunch.”

  “To the boatyard, then,” said Amelia, turning onto State Road from Island Farms.

  On the hillside to their right, young lambs rollicked together, oblivious of the rain, and not too far away from their grazing mothers. On their left, they passed a grove of beeches, Victoria’s favorite tree. One of her favorites, that is. New brilliant green leaves seemed even brighter against the gray sky, a touch of sunshine when the sun wasn’t around. New leaves had shoved aside the dry golden leaves of winter that now lay on the ground in a golden tumble. Rugged oaks had put out their delicate pink mouse-ear leaves, the sign Island farmers went by to plant their corn and squash.

  They passed through Five Corners without having to wait for traffic coming off the ferry and turned in at the boatyard.

  Emily was at her desk behind the partition. Her eyes and nose were red and swollen. Her bangs hung limply over the tops of her glasses. When she noticed Victoria and Amelia, she stopped turning over the pages that lay on her desk, looked up, and sighed.

  “Hi, Mrs. Trumbull.”

  Victoria introduced her daughter.

  “Can you take a break, Emily?” Victoria asked. “We’d like to treat you to lunch at the ArtCliff, if you’re free. And talk to you about Jerry.”

  Emily sighed again and looked at her watch. “I guess so. I didn’t even take a break this morning. I’m not getting much done just sitting here.”

  “A lunch break will do you good,” said Victoria.

  Emily shut down her computer, pushed her bangs out of her eyes, and stood up. “I always bring my lunch with me.”

  “Save it for tomorrow,” said Victoria. She led the way back to the car, holding down the brim of her fuzzy gray hat against the rain,.

  “Actually, the ArtCliff is within walking distance,” said Victoria once Emily had seated herself in the back, “but we might as well ride in comfort.”

  Dottie, the waitress, seated them in a booth. “Hi, Mrs. Trumbull. Haven’t seen you for ages. And Amelia! I would’ve recognized you anywhere. How long’s it been?”

  “A couple of years, I’m afraid,” said Amelia.

  “And Emily. Sorry to hear about Jerry. You guys were pretty close.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Emily stared down at her lap.

  “What do you recommend?” Victoria asked.

  “Quahaug chowder.” Dottie pronounced it chow’-duh, the way most Islanders did. And she pronounced quahaug as it should be pronounced, quo-hog.

  Victoria pushed aside her menu. “A bowl, please.”

  “Same for me,” said Amelia.

  “How about you, Emily?” Dottie held her pencil at the ready.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “A cup, then,” said Dottie, writing. “Salads, anyone?”

  “No, thank you,” said Victoria.

  “Not I,” said Amelia.

  All three ordered coffee. Dottie stuck her pencil into her hairdo and headed to the kitchen. She was back with three heavy white mugs of coffee and a pitcher of cream before they’d shucked off their damp coats.

  After Dottie left, Victoria reached her gnarled hands across the table. “Would you like to talk about Jerry?”

  Emily lifted her hands from her lap as though they belonged to someone else and took Victoria’s in her own. She glanced up. “You’re the only person who’s asked me about him.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I thought he’d left me. I was getting rid of all his things. And now . . .”

  “I understand,” said Victoria. “What was he like, your Jerry?”

  “He was kind. He was gentle. He told me he liked my looks. No one had, like, ever told me that.”

  “You do have nice looks, Emily.”

  She glanced away, still holding Victoria’s hands. “He made me feel special. I knew he had a problem with drugs, but he was trying to get clean.”

  “I know that’s hard to do.”

  Dottie reappeared with two bowls and a cup lined up on her arm. Victoria withdrew her hands, and Dottie set everything down. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, thank you,” said Victoria. “That looks just right.”

  Dottie left, and Victoria asked, “Did he talk to you about his work with Mr. Watts?”

  “Not much. He liked Mr. Watts okay, you know?”

  “Jerry did some work for me. I was pleased with what he did.”

  Emily smiled thinly.

  “Had he told you he’d been fired?”

  Emily shook her head.

  “What about the day you were supposed to go to the movies at the library?”

  Emily set down her spoon. She hadn’t touched the chowder. “That morning, he was, you know, totally sober. He said he was going to talk to Mr. Watts that afternoon about his job and then we’d meet at the library to see the movie.” She wadded up her napkin and tossed it onto the table. “Later that day, I saw him again near Cumberland Farms, and I could tell he was on something, acting, you know, really weird.”

  “Did he see you?”

  Emily shook her head.

  “That’s the last time you saw him?”

  Emily nodded. She picked up the wadded-up napkin and dabbed at her eyes. “Mr. Watts killed him. I know he did. I’m glad he’s dead. He killed my Jerry.”

  Victoria waited until Emily calmed down. Amelia had finished her chowder, while Victoria had eaten only a couple of spoonfuls.

  “Do you have any idea who might have killed Mr. Watts?” she asked, looking closely at the distraught young woman.

  Emily hiccuped. “I know who killed him, and I don’t blame her one bit.”

  “Her?”

  “Mrs. Watts’s sister, Jackie. She hated Mr. Watts. He was always hitting on her, and you could tell she hated him.”

  “Had you seen her near his shop?”

  “I never went near his shop. I used to baby-sit for the Wattses, and she’d come by sometimes and tell me to stay away from Mr. Watts.” Emily looked at her watch again. “I gotta get back to work. I can’t eat anything. I’m sorry. Thanks for inviting me to lunch.” Her words were hurried. “I gotta run.”

  Amelia got up. “I’ll drive you back to work, Emily. You can wait here, Mother, where it’s nice and dry. Finish your soup. I’ll take care of the bill.”

  “Not soup,” said Victoria. “Chowder.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The knitters met that evening, even though it was Saturday and the library was closed. The coral-reef quilt was laid out on the table, where they could all see it. Bright blue-and-yellow fish trembled on hidden wires above pink and purple anemones. Pale tentacles of anemones reached toward the fish. Brown kelp lay in deckle-edged ribbons. Brain coral, starfish, and woolly conch shells covered the purled sea floor.

  Fran stopped knitting. She reached up and turned the page of the library’s wall calendar to June. “We don’t have much time,” she said. “Can we finish in just over two weeks?”

  “Of course we can,” said Jessica. “We’ve completed the flora and fauna, and all we have to do is bind the edges of the quilt.”

  “A
nd pack it for shipping,” said Casper.

  Fran dropped May back on top of June and picked up her knitting. “It’s a shame about finding that body. That delayed us a full afternoon.”

  “I honestly don’t think the deceased feels any disrespect,” said Casper, looking over the top of his glasses at Fran.

  “That hardly delayed us at all,” said Maron. “I mean, how often do you find a body? Seems to me that takes precedence over a knitted coral.”

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  “We don’t have any more than a week’s work to do.” Jessica held up the anemone she was working on. “This is my third and final one.”

  “It’s going to take time to figure out how to stabilize the coral reef for shipping,” said Jim. “Can we tack it to a sheet of plywood?”

  “The rules specify a quilt,” said Fran. “I think we’ve bent that rule a bit. As Mrs. Trumbull said, it would not be comfortable to sleep under.”

  “Speaking of Mrs. Trumbull, has anyone heard any new developments?” Jessica turned to Elizabeth. “What does your grandmother have to say?”

  “Victoria talked to me yesterday,” Jim said before Elizabeth had a chance to reply. “She’s interviewing everyone with any knowledge or interest in either Jerry Sparks or LeRoy Watts.”

  “Both of them?” asked Jessica.

  “She says the deaths are connected,” said Elizabeth.

  “When Victoria spoke to me, she was circumspect,” said Jim. “She didn’t comment on her suspicions, and she was also sensitive.” He looked up from his knitting at Fran.

  “Your daughter,” said Jessica.

  “My daughter. Yes, Lily, my sixteen-year-old daughter. A kid. She was all excited about the Junior Prom, the way a kid should be. Nice boy, a junior, invited her. A pretty new dress.” He stared down at the lump of knitting in his lap. “Then everybody in school learned about the shower video. Kids started teasing her. She told the boy she wouldn’t go to the prom. Poor kid.” Jim jabbed his needle into his coral. The needle went through the coral and hit the palm of his hand. “Ouch! Damnation!” He tugged a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it against his hand.

  “You didn’t bloody your coral, did you?” asked Fran with concern.

  “My coral be damned!” Jim stood up, dropped his coral on his seat, and stalked out of the room.

  “I’m afraid I said the wrong thing,” said Fran.

  “I’m sure he’d have reacted the same way no matter what you said,” said Roberta.

  Fran glanced at her watch.

  Maron changed the subject. “I know our quilt isn’t really a quilt. But it’s for a good cause. It’s not as if we’re trying to win the Olympics or anything.”

  Fran tilted her head to view their reef from a new angle. “It’s wonderful,” she said. “Simply wonderful. If this were the Olympics, we’d win a gold.”

  Jim returned, smoothing a Band-Aid onto his palm. “Sorry. I overreacted.”

  “No apology needed,” said Fran. “I’m being obsessive.”

  “I can’t imagine that any other group is knitting a three-dimensional quilt.” Maron pointed her knitting needle at it. “Since we’re hoping to draw attention to global warming through our quilt, I think we will.”

  “Point well taken,” said Casper with a smirk.

  “You’re really not funny, you know?” said Maron.

  “We’ll need two people to work on the binding,” said Fran. “What about you, Alyssa, and you, Elizabeth?”

  “Sure.”

  “Of course. Show us what to do.”

  “And Jim, would you and Casper pack the quilt for shipping?”

  Jim scratched his head with his needle. “Bubble wrap, I suppose. Roll the quilt up around a core of bubble wrap.”

  “Whatever you think will protect it,” said Fran.

  Elizabeth stood. “I’ve got to leave early. My mother’s visiting, and my grandmother has invited some guy to dinner. She’s trying to matchmake.”

  “Has your grandmother commented any further on the situation?” asked Fran.

  “Only that she believes that LeRoy Watts killed Jerry Sparks with his Taser, whether he intended to or not.”

  “The police have been awfully quiet,” said Jessica.

  Elizabeth packed up her knitting. “Gram told me they’re waiting for results from the autopsies and the forensics people. I don’t think the police have much to report at this time.”

  “We’ll want a report back on her matchmaking attempt,” said Casper.

  Bill O’Malley arrived promptly at seven, clean jeans, clean plaid shirt. “Do I smell Saturday-night baked beans?”

  “Of course,” said Victoria.

  “My favorite meal.” He handed Victoria a large bouquet of lilacs in a gallon plastic jug with the top sliced off. “Coals to Newcastle.”

  “One can never have too many lilacs in the house.” Victoria arranged them in her grandmother’s ceramic cachepot and set it under the stairs, where the lilacs would perfume the front hall.

  Elizabeth’s fisherman friend, Janet Messineo, had given her four large striped bass filets, and Elizabeth baked them with mayonnaise and fresh dill, served with Victoria’s Boston baked beans and lettuce from the garden.

  Conversation started out formally between Amelia and Bill O’Malley—where they lived, what they did. After the first refill of their wineglasses, talk morphed into a discussion of books the four had read. After a second refill, conversation veered to local politics and issues.

  Amelia was the first to talk murder. She sipped her third glass of wine as she spoke. “Can you believe,” she said to O’Malley, ignoring Victoria, “here’s my mother, in her nineties, involving herself in something so sordid as murder?” Amelia set her glass down.

  Victoria set her own glass down firmly. Elizabeth looked first at her grandmother, then at her mother with even more concern.

  O’Malley said, “You don’t understand Victoria.”

  “What do you mean? She’s my mother.” Amelia ran her finger around the rim of her glass, making it sing.

  O’Malley indicated Victoria with a nod. “Mrs. T., you’re not hard of hearing, are you?”

  “Certainly not.” Victoria’s cheeks had bright spots.

  Elizabeth still had a small piece of bass on her plate. She looked down and moved it around with her fork.

  O’Malley set his knife on his plate and turned to Amelia, who was sitting on his right. “Since your mother hears all right, don’t you think it would be nice to include her in the conversation?”

  Amelia flushed. Elizabeth looked up. Victoria smiled and looked down.

  “Also, since we’re talking about your mother, don’t you think she’s capable of making her own decisions about her life?”

  Amelia stopped running her finger around the rim of her glass. Her hands were shaking. She folded them out of sight in her lap. It took her a moment before she sputtered, “Who do you think you are!”

  “A friend of Victoria’s, that’s who I am.”

  Victoria coughed politely. Elizabeth glanced at her. O’Malley and Amelia continued their two-way conversation.

  “What right have you to—” Amelia stopped and tossed her napkin onto the table.

  “You haven’t seen your mother for a couple of years. Now you’ve dropped into her life with what seems to be a preformed image of how a ninety-two-year-old should behave. Well, that’s ageism, stereotyping, prejudice, and intolerance, all rolled into one. I suspect you weren’t brought up to be as intolerant as you sound.” O’Malley picked up his fork and dug into the remains of his fish. “This meal is too good for us to squabble.” He looked up with a grin. “Want to meet at dawn with drawn rapiers? Victoria and Elizabeth can be our seconds.”

  Victoria said, “This fish is wonderful, Elizabeth. Cooked to perfection.”

  O’Malley scraped his plate. “You don’t happen to have seconds of those beans, do you?”

  “We do.” Elizabeth
got up and went into the kitchen.

  By the time she returned, Amelia’s face had regained its normal color and she was sipping the last of her wine. “Everything’s delicious, darlings, but I’ll pass on the seconds, thank you.”

  Conversation veered away from the sensitive to the banal—the weather, the coming season, the garden.

  “The touch-me-not I planted from wild seed may bloom this year,” said Victoria. “Did you know it’s an antidote for poison ivy?”

  CHAPTER 32

  After supper, Elizabeth lighted the parlor fire. The fragrant smell of after-dinner coffee mingled with the homely smell of wood smoke. Victoria sat in her mouse-colored wing chair and O’Malley lowered himself onto the stiff couch. Conversation veered again to something more substantial than weather.

  “Amelia and I interviewed Sarah’s sister Jackie this morning,” Victoria said.

  “I was only an observer,” said Amelia.

  “What did Jackie say for herself?” asked O’Malley.

  “She blamed LeRoy Watts’s murder on her sister.”

  The fire snapped and a live spark flew onto the rug. Elizabeth brushed it back into the fire with the hearth broom and returned to her seat.

  “Have you talked to Sarah?” asked O’Malley.

  “Sarah accused Jackie of the murder.” Victoria sipped her coffee, half-closing her eyes against the steam, and set her mug on the coffee table. “After we talked to Jackie, we met with Emily Cameron. Jerry Sparks was her boyfriend. It was his body we found in the book shed.”

  “Have you come to any conclusions?”

  “I’m more baffled than ever,” said Victoria.

  The rain continued all day Sunday. It drummed on the cookroom roof, a soothing, cozy sound. In the morning, after braving the weather to pick up the Sunday New York Times at Alley’s Store, the three women worked together on the crossword puzzle.

  “How on earth is anyone supposed to know the definition,” Victoria muttered, “for some British melodic death metal group? Ten letters starting with N.”

  “Any letters in between?” asked Elizabeth.