Touch-Me-Not

by Cynthia Riggs

  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.”

  CHAPTER 35

  They shut the door behind them
and Emily’s music swelled back to a superloud blast.

  “She’s destroying her hearing,” said Amelia.

  “I suppose they don’t want to hear our advice; they’re unable to listen to reason.” Victoria smiled at her unintentional small joke.

  They crossed the road again and returned to the parked car. “Well!” said Amelia once they’d buckled themselves in. “No doubt about it. We know now who killed LeRoy Watts.”

  Victoria shook her head. “Not Emily.”

  “That tool of hers is lethal-looking. A fid, right?”

  “Yes,” said Victoria. “A good weapon.”

  “She certainly had a motive. I don’t know when I’ve seen such an angry person.” Amelia backed out carefully into the road and they headed up-Island.

  “She didn’t kill him,” Victoria said with assurance.

  “I can picture that girl jabbing her fid into LeRoy’s neck.”

  “Emily’s not the killer.” Victoria shook her head. “Shall we stop at the Black Dog and get a cup of coffee?”

  “It’s almost lunchtime. I’ll treat,” said Amelia.

  They ordered lobster rolls and iced tea, and when the waitress brought their orders, heaping plates of food that would serve a small family, they decided to split one lobster roll and take the rest home.

  “I’m so delighted with the touch-me-not I planted,” said Victoria after she’d decided to attack her half of the lobster roll with a knife and fork. “The plants are already about five inches high.”

  “I saw them,” said Amelia. “Such a fun plant. Do you remember when we were just little kids how I used to love going down to the brook and popping those fat seedpods.”

  “So did I,” said Victoria. “And so did my mother. I still do. Just the slightest touch.”

  “Stalkers and touch-me-not,” said Amelia. “Seems appropriate, somehow.” She held her half of the lobster roll in both hands and nibbled at it from the side. “Delicious. Not something we get in California.”

  “Have you thought any more about Fran? The days you were in college together?” asked Victoria. “Sometimes a memory will come to you quite unexpectedly.”

  “I didn’t know her well in college, and, of course, I haven’t seen her for over forty years.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “Well, she was what the kids would call a nerd today. Very bright, obsessive, highly focused. I’m not surprised she decided to teach math.”

  “She hasn’t lived on the Vineyard for long,” said Victoria. “Four or five years.”

  Amelia shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Did you live in the same dormitory?”

  Amelia thought. “Come to think of it, yes, we did. She was on the third floor; I was on the second. But everyone in the dorm shared common rooms and the kitchen. Actually, I saw quite a bit of her.”

  “What was her social life like?”

  “I was so busy with my own, I had no idea what hers was like.” Amelia laughed. “When I think about it, I don’t believe she had much of any life. She was dedicated to her studies and didn’t have time.”

  “I wonder about the student who encouraged her to come to the Vineyard,” Victoria said.

  “Anything to do with a student of hers came long after I knew her.” Amelia dipped a french fry into a pool of ketchup she’d dribbled on her plate. “Oh my!” She dropped the fry onto her plate.

  “What is it?”

  “I just remembered what it was I was trying to recall when we were at the lighthouse. She had a crush on a physics professor.”

  “That’s not uncommon,” said Victoria. “I can remember my feelings about a teacher—”

  “No, no.” Amelia held up her hand as though she was stopping traffic. “At the lighthouse, you said Fran might be able to give you some insight into stalking.”

  Victoria set her fork down beside the remains of her lobster roll and turned her full attention to Amelia.

  “It wasn’t like the high school crushes we all had on some teacher we admired, Mother. Fran followed this physics professor of hers around, wrote him notes, and called him at home. She told his wife he was in love with her, Fran. She said he was going to leave the wife and marry her. It caused a big flap at the time. I’d forgotten all about it until now.”

  “What happened?”

  “The professor was at least thirty years older than Fran, one of those stereotypical absentminded professors. He didn’t have a clue, as I recall. We used to joke about how his wife probably taught him everything . . . well, everything.” Fran picked up the fry again and bit off the ketchup coated end.

  “And?”

  “I think the dean called Fran in and gave her a talking-to. We students never really found out for sure, although we tried.”

  “What about the professor?”

  “He kept on going as though nothing had happened. As far as he was concerned, nothing did. But to Fran, I guess, it was a huge embarrassment. She dropped the physics course and switched to math.”

  “I suppose that’s what the school demanded.”

  “Probably. One grows out of that sort of adolescent behavior.”

  “I wonder,” said Victoria. She picked up her fork again and finished the last shreds of lobster.

  Amelia said, “Since she knew stalking from the standpoint of the stalker, Fran probably was an effective advisor. She’s very bright.”

  The waitress brought the check and turned to Victoria. “Was everything all right, Mrs. Trumbull?”

  “Delicious,” said Victoria.

  “Would you like a doggie bag?”

  “Please,” said Amelia, giving the waitress her credit card.

  Victoria picked up her cloth bag while they waited for the waitress to return. “Her reaction to your gentle teasing was interesting.”

  “Odd at least,” said Amelia. “Fran said she’d visited the Island and fallen in love, and all I said was, ‘With the student or the Island?’ at which point she got quite upset.”

  “Humorless, to say the least,” said Victoria.

  “That’s Fran for you.”

  As they passed the police station, Victoria said, “I need to see Casey. Why don’t you go on to the library and Casey will drive me there in an hour or so. That will give you time to talk with Fran.”

  Amelia pulled into the oyster-shell parking area and Victoria got out.

  “I can come back for you, Mother.”

  “Casey will give me a ride, thanks. I’ll see you in a bit.” Victoria brushed aside the ducks and climbed the steps that led into the police station.

  Casey looked up from her computer. “How are the interviews going, Victoria?”

  Victoria sat in her usual chair by Casey’s desk. “We may need to look at the situation differently.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can you find any background information on Fran Bacon?”

  “The knitter?”

  “Amelia went to college with her, and she apparently got into trouble for stalking one of her professors.”

  “Sure. Let me back out of this program, and I’ll look her up. Where did she go to school?”

  “University of Massachusetts.”

  “There’s a problem with confidentiality of records, but I think I can get around that for police business. That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Victoria had brought her lilac-wood stick with her, and leaned it against her chair. “I told my daughter I’d meet her at the library in about an hour.”

  “That should do it,” said Casey, tapping keys and humming to herself.

  After a few minutes, she said, “Aha!”

  Victoria looked up. Then when she saw Casey was still concentrating, she gazed out the window at the Mill Pond, where the swans were feeding.

  “Okay!” Casey said after what seemed like a long time. She stood up.

  “What have you found?”

  “Fran Bacon, a sophomore at the time, was reprima
nded for harassing her physics professor, a Dr. Breznikowski, writing letters to his wife claiming she was having relations with her husband, calling the wife, following the prof around, yadadda do. The professor and his wife had a young son they called Lee, eight years old. They didn’t want publicity that would touch the kid.”

  “Any criminal charges filed?”

  “The professor refused to file a complaint, and his wife did, too, and the whole thing was dropped.” Casey looked up. “Am I following your line of reasoning? Let’s look more closely at Fran?”

  “Did you know that LeRoy Watts was a student of hers at Northeastern?”

  “Small world,” said Casey.

  Victoria nodded. “Will you give me a ride up to the library?”

  Casey stood up and fastened on her belt with its multitude of tools. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Casey parked in the filtered shade of a maple that overhung the library’s parking lot. The lot was empty except for the librarian’s recumbent tricycle, the assistant librarian’s Jeep, and Elizabeth’s convertible.

  “What time is it, Victoria?”

  Victoria lifted the sleeve of her turtleneck. “Almost three o’clock.”

  “Elizabeth’s car is here. I don’t know what Fran drives.”

  “They probably went to get a snack.”

  “Alley’s is just across the road.” Casey slid out of the Bronco. “I’ll go in and ask Lucinda where they are. Wait here, Victoria.”

  But Victoria eased herself out of the high passenger seat and followed Casey into the library.

  Lucinda Chandler was at the computer behind the checkout counter. She looked up and smiled. “Hi, Chief. Mrs. Trumbull.”

  Casey glanced around the library. The bank of computers in the center of the main room was deserted. So was the reading room. Even the children’s section was empty. “Seems awfully quiet today.”

  “It’s the lull between the lunch crowd and kids getting out of school,” said Lucinda. “Come three-thirty, four, we’ll be busy.” She looked out the window. “Here’s the first wave.”