It would be like her.
Kind of far-fetched to think he planned to kill her with them. Sammy hated mushrooms anyway. She would dramatize things. Fantasize her boyfriend was trying to kill her.
But why did Zack suddenly bolt when the mushroom dish appeared?
He said he felt ill. Actually, he looked ill. Mrs. Trumbull had said he hadn’t been feeling well.
Sammy, Sammy. When will you grow up?
Eberhardt had almost convinced himself that his daughter was playing some obscure trick on him and Zack.
Although the way Zack had bolted from the dinner table last evening at the moment the black trumpet dish appeared could be explained by the fact the kid thought those mushrooms were deadly.
Eberhardt stood and then turned back to the chaos of his daughter’s place. He’d get his cleaning woman, Maria Lima, to come in and do a thorough job, so when Sammy came home things would look nice.
He punched in her number on his iPhone.
“No problem, Mr. Eberhardt. I’ll clean it good so it will look nice when she gets back.”
“Today, Maria?”
“Sure, Mr. Eberhardt. I’ll be there around five.”
“An extra fifty for the quick response.”
“You don’t need to do that, Mr. Eberhardt, but thank you.”
Eberhardt put his phone back in his pocket. Sammy had probably lost track of time. Having fun with the off-Island girlfriend. He sighed. He cared too much for his baby girl. Keeping too tight a rein on her. Had to let go.
CHAPTER 12
The police assured Zack they were simply taking him in for questioning. They asked him politely to hold his hands behind his back and snapped on plastic handcuffs.
“What’s that for?” Zack protested.
“Your personal safety, sir,” said the second trooper. “We always do this. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“I had hoped to make the eight o’clock boat,” Zack said to the trooper who had patted him down. “I had a reservation.”
“Afraid you missed it, buddy,” said the first trooper. “It’s about eleven.”
“Damn,” said Zack. “Have they already seen the guests?”
The troopers exchanged glances. One opened the rear door of the cruiser, and the other politely helped Zack, who was handicapped with his hands cuffed behind him, into the backseat.
The radio was spitting out static. The trooper on the passenger side turned down the squelch and picked up the mike. After introductory official talk, he said, “We’re leaving the Park and Ride lot with a person of interest and are heading to the jail.”
Except for the intermittent crackling of the radio, they drove in silence, down the hill from the parking lot, turned right at the foot of the hill, and made their way slowly along State Road. When they reached the Vineyard Haven–Edgartown Road they turned onto it and sped up, still silent.
Zack shifted in the backseat trying to get comfortable. He could only imagine what lay in store for him. He’d never been in trouble before, never even had a traffic ticket. Only a close shave when he had the good luck to leave a party before the cops came and found a lot of stuff and hauled everyone off to who knows where.
Now he was faced with poisoning eight people. How sick would they be? Would someone die? If so, they’d lock him up forever on death row. Except the county jail didn’t have a death row. They’d send him off-Island to Walpole or some prison fortress, where he’d be raped by inmates. Would solitary confinement be worse?
He groaned.
The officer glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Sorry about the cuffs, sir. Only a few more minutes and we’ll be in Edgartown.”
Who could he call for help? Zack lowered his head and tried unsuccessfully to wipe his eyes on his shoulders. Mrs. Trumbull, that’s who he’d call. Victoria Trumbull.
* * *
From Edgartown’s Main Street, the jail looked like any one of the other white painted captains’ houses that lined the street, but once you were inside, it lost its charm. Victoria had been here before.
Sheriff Grimsey Norton met Victoria at the front entrance. Even though Victoria was close to six feet tall, he towered over her and had to bend slightly to talk to her.
“Sorry to involve you in this, Mrs. Trumbull, but Mr. Zeller was insistent.” He led her into his office, which looked vaguely like a onetime downstairs bedroom. The office had a large desk that took up most of the room. Behind the desk and to one side bookcases were stacked with files and Massachusetts law and criminal justice tomes.
The sheriff held the seat for her and Victoria sat.
“What seems to be the trouble?” Victoria asked, once he’d seated himself behind the desk.
He straightened papers on his desk before answering. He sat back and ran his fingers through his hair, which was thick, wavy, and an attractive dark auburn. He sighed. “We’re calling him a ‘person of interest,’ Mrs. Trumbull. Has to do with the death of the unidentified young woman found near the fire station.”
“Zack?” Victoria sat forward.
He nodded, hands folded over his flat stomach.
“I don’t know what to say. Robin White and I found the body, you know.”
“Yes, I know. Must have upset the boy. I’ve got a ten-year-old son myself.”
“Why are you questioning Zack?”
The sheriff turned his swivel chair slightly to face the window. “Last evening, Robin and others saw a car parked at the ball field with its lights on. Nobody was around, so they turned the lights off.”
Victoria nodded. “Robin told me.”
“Shortly thereafter,” the sheriff continued, “the driver showed up, quite upset. Got in the car and left. Robin noted the license plate number. Smart kid.” He swiveled back to face Victoria. “This morning, after you and Robin found the body, the state troopers tracked down the car at the Park and Ride lot. Mr. Zeller was asleep in the front seat. He told the officers that he had a reservation on the eight o’clock boat, but it was close to eleven when the state troopers woke him up.” He stood. “Mr. Zeller will be in an upstairs room we call the conference room. Can you handle the stairs, okay, Mrs.Trumbull?”
“Yes, of course I can,” said Victoria, lifting herself out of the chair.
* * *
The conference room was a bleak place with a barred window and a long, scarred wooden table that looked as though it dated back to when the house was built on Main Street, Edgartown, in the mid-1800s.
Zack, pale and untidy with his unshaven chin and rumpled clothing, was sitting with his back to the window. He stood when Victoria entered with the sheriff.
“You came!”
“Of course I came,” said Victoria.
“There’ll be a deputy sitting just outside the room with the door open, in case you need him,” the sheriff said.
Victoria turned to him. “I’ll be fine, Sheriff, thank you.” She sat at the head of the table, but before she could speak, Zack poured out his misery.
“I’m guilty, Mrs. Trumbull. I didn’t mean to make those eight people sick. I only meant the mushrooms for Samantha.”
“Stop, Zack!” Victoria held up her hand. “What are you talking about?”
“Sammy. I changed my mind, though, and couldn’t get them back in time.”
“You’re not telling me you planned to poison Samantha?”
He nodded and lowered his head. “Just make her sick.”
“Good heavens, Zack. Why?”
“She told me she was pregnant. I figured if she was, the poisonous mushrooms would end the pregnancy.”
Victoria pushed her chair away from the table. “Zack!”
The deputy, standing by the railing around the stairway, strode into the room. “You okay, Mrs. Trumbull?”
“Yes, yes,” said Victoria. “I’m fine.”
The deputy, a slender boy with sandy cropped hair and acne, looked barely out of his teens. “I’m not supposed to be, like, where I can hear what you’re saying,
you know.” He ran a hand over his hair. “You need me, Mrs. Trumbull, I’m here. Just call out.” He patted his thin chest.
“Thank you,” said Victoria. “Zack and I are good friends. We’re fine.”
When the deputy left, Victoria leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “What on earth were you thinking?”
“Guess I wasn’t thinking too clearly, Mrs. T. I don’t even think she’s pregnant. I figured if she got sick enough it would teach her a lesson.” Zack scratched his beard. “I didn’t want her old man making me marry her.”
“That’s not the way things work these days,” said Victoria. It wasn’t often that she was stumped. Elizabeth thought he was on some kind of drugs. That was about the only explanation. Victoria looked away. She had been captivated by his good manners.
He leaned forward. “Did any of the guests die, Mrs. Trumbull?”
It ran through Victoria’s mind that she would not tell him all eight of the dinner people were alive and well. She stood. He was entitled to rot in this nice jail.
He stood too, always polite. “Mrs. Trumbull?” He looked at her with those deep brown moist eyes of his.
She saw the pain. She sat again.
So did he.
“The dinner guests are all fine.”
Zack stared at her. “What?”
“They enjoyed the mushrooms and they’re all fine. Black trumpets are a great delicacy.”
“Trumpets of death?”
“As I told you, old-timers imagined the dead buried in the ground were playing on trumpets. The mushrooms look like tiny black trumpets. That’s how they got that name.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. Scratched his beard. Shifted in his seat. Leaned forward again. “Then what am I doing here?”
“The body of a young woman was found on the bicycle path.” Victoria took a deep breath. It was difficult to believe she was the one who’d found the girl. “They are holding you, Zack, because they need to question you. You parked at the ball field near where the body was found.” Victoria looked away from him. “When you returned to your car, the softball players thought you acted suspicious and one of them noted your license number.”
Zack slumped back in his chair. “So I didn’t kill anyone, but they think I killed someone I didn’t kill.”
“No,” said Victoria, getting a bit testy, “they simply want to ask you a few questions, and it would be a good idea if you told them the truth.”
CHAPTER 13
After Victoria left, Zack was returned to the cell, waiting to be questioned. He perched on his cot, staring mindlessly at the bright pink walls that closed in on him. He had never wanted to get high so badly. He ran his fingers through his hair. Why had they painted the walls that ugly color? He must be imagining things. Were all the cells painted pink? Was he suffering from some weird withdrawal symptom that made those walls shimmer? His stomach vibrated too. But out of sync with the walls. Nauseating. He was inside the belly of a beast. The walls breathed in and out. He was spinning. He closed his eyes. Worse. His mouth watered. Was he going to be sick? He’d have to call that baby-faced deputy.
That awful thing he’d touched under the bed of leaves. He’d actually touched a dead body. Cold. What a horrible thought. Worse than a snake. Would his fingerprints show up on the corpse?
Footsteps. Jangling keys. The cell door—cell door!—opened. Zack turned toward it. Was he free? From this nightmare? Dear God, he swore he would never, ever plan anything that would put him in a place like this. One afternoon was enough.
“Mr. Zeller, we’ll be asking you a few questions, sir.” A tall man with a soft voice, in uniform. “I’m Sheriff Grimsey Norton. Sorry you had to wait. And sorry it had to be in one of the cells.”
Zack took a deep breath. Mrs. Trumbull’s advice was good. Tell them everything. Then they’d understand why he’d acted suspiciously. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Depends,” said the sheriff.
“Are all the walls in this jail pink?”
The sheriff tossed his bunch of keys from one hand to the other. “Well, we redecorated one time when we incarcerated a female.”
Zack laughed. The world righted itself. A touch of humanity, even in this place. “Okay, Sheriff, your turn to ask.”
The sheriff stood by the open cell door. “We’ll be upstairs in the conference room.”
“Where Mrs. Trumbull came to see me, right?”
“Right,” said the sheriff. “But this time we’ll have a couple of attorneys present, and a court stenographer. Come with me.” He stood aside, and once Zack passed through the barred door, someone slammed it shut. Zack glanced behind him. That baby-faced deputy. The kid had an empty holster dangling from his belt.
The sheriff looked straight ahead. “We’ll also have a videographer. That way there’ll be a record of everything that transpires. For your protection, sir.” He glanced at Zack.
“Understood,” said Zack, feeling better all the time. He hadn’t killed anyone after all. And he certainly hadn’t killed whoever it was under those leaves. He shuddered at the thought of that coldness he’d touched that wasn’t a nest of snakes.
Upstairs in the conference room where he’d met with Mrs. Trumbull, a video camera was set up on a tripod at the end of the room. He could see a couple of people sitting at the table.
“You’re entitled to legal representation any time you feel you need it,” the sheriff said as he held a chair for Zack. “Want you to meet two good people, Harrington Peabody and Miranda Smith, both lawyers. Ms. Smith is a public defender, in case you need one.”
The woman was sleek, like something he’d seen slithering into the Mill Pond. She was slender and pale-faced, about the same age as Elizabeth, Mrs. Trumbull’s granddaughter, who was in her early thirties. She had long black hair that she kept running her hands over and was wearing some kind of shiny black one-piece outfit, like a leather jumpsuit.
Both extended their hands across the table to Zack, and he shook one after the other. The woman’s hand was cold, damp, and limp. The man’s hand was puffy and warm.
He only got the man’s last name, which sounded like Pee-Biddy. The man was probably close to seventy. White hair, big belly, red face, rimless glasses, little screwed-up mouth, wearing a long-sleeved white shirt with a black-and-white polka-dotted bow tie.
“Mr. Zeller, we’re making a video of this interview with you as we do with everyone we question,” said the sheriff, and repeated, “For your protection, of course.”
Zack nodded. “Thank you.”
“I’ve asked Miranda to sit in to make sure your rights are protected. She’s a public defender. As I said, you’re entitled to a lawyer of your own any time you say.”
Miranda nodded and her shiny hair slid across her shoulders from her back to her front, as if it were oiled.
Zack was feeling pretty much okay, almost confident. “Sounds good to me, Sheriff. Don’t think I need a lawyer, though.”
Once he’d learned from Mrs. Trumbull that the guests were alive and well, the world had turned right-side up again. He wished he didn’t feel so scruffy in his slept-in clothes, unwashed face, and unbrushed teeth. Didn’t smell great, either. Touching that thing under the pile of leaves had given him a good scare, and he still reeked of leftover fear.
The sheriff told the video camera the date and time. “We are questioning Zack Zeller in connection with the as-yet-unidentified body of a young woman found on the bicycle path near the firehouse in West Tisbury.”
Zack, at the sheriff’s request, gave his name, date of birth, and his address at Victoria Trumbull’s.
“You parked your car at the ball field near the West Tisbury fire house, is that correct?” asked the sheriff.
“That’s right,” said Zack.
“Would you please tell us why you parked there.”
Zack shifted in his chair. “It’s a long story.”
“We have time,” said the chubby Mr. Peabody, with a smile.
“Stop!” Miranda stood and held up her hand. She turned to the court stenographer. “Delete that.”
“But I didn’t kill her,” Zack protested. “You won’t understand why I parked there unless I tell you the whole story.”
“Just say why you parked there and not somewhere else,” said Miranda. She sat again, flicked her hair over her shoulder, and studied Zack.
“Well, I usually park at Mrs. Trumbull’s, but I saw the police car there—”
“Stop!” said Miranda. “Delete that.” She turned to Zack. “You usually park at Mrs. Trumbull’s and instead you decided to park at the ball field.”
“That’s right,” said Zack.
“Miranda,” said Mr. Peabody with a sigh. “Don’t put words in his mouth.”
“Keep it simple, Mr. Zeller,” she said, ignoring Peabody. “Kiss, kiss. ‘Keep It Simple.’” She didn’t add “Stupid.”
Zack smiled. “I parked at the ball field and started to walk back to Mrs. Trumbull’s, but then I remembered—”
“Watch it,” said Miranda.
“Well, I turned back—”
“Simple!” ordered Miranda.
“I turned back to my car, got in, and drove to the Park and Ride, where I spent the night, okay?”
“Did you notice anything along the bicycle path?” asked the sheriff.
“Yeah, I did. I slipped in the mud or something and fell, and my flashlight rolled under a pile of leaves.” He looked over at Miranda, who nodded. “When I reached for my flashlight I thought I’d touched a snake and it startled the hell out of me and I went back to my car in a hurry.”
“You thought you’d touched a snake?” asked the sheriff.
“Something cold and slimy feeling. I’m a city boy. I hate snakes.”
“I think we do need to know Mr. Zeller’s reason for parking at the ball field, Miranda,” said the sheriff. “It’s pertinent. This isn’t a trial, you know. We need all the information we can get.”
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