He held her. “Yes, they can.”
“I’ll get even. I’ll get even with that bastard, if it’s the last thing I do. I’ll kill him. Dead, like that bitch daughter of his.”
“I didn’t hear you say that,” said Josephus.
* * *
It took several trips to collect all of the items Isabella and Tank had “borrowed” from Bruno Eberhardt’s house, but eventually Chief Josephus VanDyke and his three officers were ready to leave.
“Don’t see how you managed to get all that stuff in one car,” the chief said.
Tank jerked a thumb at Isabella. “Her brothers.”
“Of course. Two Brave Haulers. How can I forget?” He held out a sheaf of papers. “You might want to sign this release saying we’ve taken away the borrowed items noted. That way you’re protected.”
“Protected, you asshole!” shouted Isabella, who mourned every item that got packed away in a cardboard box and carted out of Tank’s house. “Robbers! Thieves! Burglars!”
“Isabella, will you shut up,” said Tank, holding her arms.
“Shit!” said Isabella, when they finally shut the door behind them and drove away. “I’m gonna get him.”
“Don’t do it.”
“My brothers…”
“Oh, my god,” said Tank.
CHAPTER 25
Saturday-night Boston baked beans are a New England tradition. Victoria’s grandmother had served baked beans every Saturday night that she could remember, and Victoria carried on the tradition. Saturday night beans was a company occasion.
On Friday night, she poured two cups of dried beans, the yellow-eyes she’d grown, harvested, and shelled, into the large stew pot and added enough water to cover them and then some. The beans would soak up much of the water overnight.
Elizabeth was stacking dishes in the dishwasher. “Need help, Gram?”
“No, thank you. I’m finished for now. That’s it until tomorrow morning. I’m off to bed.”
The phone rang and Elizabeth answered. “Hello?” A pause. “Please call back tomorrow.” Pause. “She’s about to go to bed.” Pause. “It’s late, Zack. Call tomorrow.”
Victoria turned back. “I’ll talk to him.”
Elizabeth, making a wry face, handed her the phone.
Victoria took it and sat down. “Zack, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I just wanted to talk to you.”
She listened while he told her about the food, about the pink cell, about his new friend Jeff, who was writing a book, and his two new friends, Rocky and Butch.
“Has the lawyer visited you since we last talked?” asked Victoria.
“No, but guess who did come to visit me.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Samantha’s father. Mr. Eberhardt.”
“What?!”
“He said you and him teamed up. That you’re working on my case.”
Victoria didn’t know what to say.
“You still there, Mrs. Trumbull?”
“Yes, yes.”
“He said he planned a way to get me out of jail.”
“Legally?”
“I don’t know anything about that legal stuff. After hearing the lawyers talk, if we go with the legal stuff it means I’ll rot here forever in this crazy pink cell.”
“What exactly did Mr. Eberhardt say to you, Zack?”
“He said you said I didn’t kill Sammy, and I should be let out of jail. I didn’t tell him I was just trying to make her sick.”
“That was wise.”
“He said he had a plan and he would get back to me.”
Victoria was beginning to have an uneasy feeling about this.
“Actually, Mrs. Trumbull, he didn’t want me to say anything to you.”
“Really! Did he say why?”
“He said it was your idea I was innocent and he wanted to surprise you. Don’t tell him I said anything.”
“Of course not. How does he intend to free you?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Do you have any idea when this is to come about?”
“Pretty soon, I guess. Tomorrow or the day after. He said we needed to hurry. You know, Mrs. Trumbull, he’s not such a bad guy after all.”
Victoria hung up the phone with a very uneasy feeling about the call. She continued to sit, staring at the bare spots on the pine floorboards where the varnish had been scuffed off, without really seeing them. What was Bruno Eberhardt intending to do? Certainly not to free Zack and send him on his way. That would be a legal nightmare for Zack and for him. She thought about calling Eberhardt. Demand to know what he thought he was doing. Remind him that, as partners, they had to communicate.
And then she thought she’d better not call him. Definitely not a good idea. Not only that, but Zack had been warned not to tell her. She would need to approach this a different way.
Warn the sheriff?
The sheriff already knew Zack talked too much and didn’t make a great deal of sense. He also knew Bruno Eberhardt was wealthy, successful, and reliable, a father suffering from the death of his child, who believed his child died at the hands of Zack.
If she told the sheriff that Zack said Mr. Eberhardt was planning to free him, the sheriff would laugh politely. She would too, under the circumstances. And if Zack should, by some miracle, be freed by Eberhardt, the sheriff would think Zack had laid out a fantasy involving Eberhardt to cover his tracks.
No, warning the sheriff would never do.
“Gram?” Elizabeth came back into the cookroom, where Victoria was sitting, contemplating. “What is he up to now?”
“He claims Bruno Eberhardt has a plan to free him from jail.”
Elizabeth laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“Zack was quite serious.”
“Why in heaven’s name would Bruno Eberhardt want to free Zack?”
“I have an uncomfortable feeling I know the answer,” said Victoria.
Elizabeth pulled up a chair next to her grandmother’s. “Well?”
“This sounds ridiculous. But when I talked with Mr. Eberhardt the other night, he told me he had a plan for dealing with Zack.”
“Like, what kind of plan?”
“I don’t know, but it involved taking matters into his own hands.”
“Ouch,” said Elizabeth.
“I thought I had talked him into at least a shadow of doubt that Zack could be the killer. I got him to agree that we would work together to identify the killer.”
“Bet he said he already knows who the killer is. Zack Zeller.”
Victoria nodded. “I told him I would apologize if it should turn out that he was right. He laughed. I thought we parted on good terms.”
“He’s stubborn. He calls that determined. A positive attribute. Set a goal, aim for it, fire away, and reach it. Don’t look left or right. That’s his road to success. So, what are you thinking of doing?”
“I honestly don’t know,” said Victoria.
“Talk to Casey?”
Victoria shook her head. “Casey already believes I’m meddling into affairs that rightfully are in the purview of the state police, the sheriff, and the legal system.”
“She’s right, you know.”
“Yes, of course I know.” Victoria continued. “Zack said Mr. Eberhardt was going to help free him in the next day or so.” She glanced at Elizabeth. “We don’t have much time.”
“‘We’?” Elizabeth put both hands on her chest. “What’s this ‘we’ about?”
“We won’t have any help from Casey, of course. Nor the sheriff.”
“I want to go to bed.”
“You don’t have to work tomorrow, do you?”
“No, but … I have other plans.”
“I have an idea. This is something I can’t do, but—”
Elizabeth interrupted. “Not me, Gram. Count me out, whatever it is.”
“I’ve been thinking. I don’t know that anyone has written an in-depth article about
our jail.”
“No, Gram. I’m not the one to be involved.”
“We can work together.” Victoria sat forward, a light in her eyes. “This is the way we’ll do it. I’ll tell the sheriff I’m writing a feature article about our jail for the Island Enquirer. Clearly, he won’t want to incarcerate me, but I’m sure he would be willing to incarcerate you.”
“Me!?”
“You can spend the night in jail and observe what’s going on. No one will suspect a thing. You can report to me what it’s like and I will actually write the article, but we’ll be able to forestall the jailbreak.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No.”
“This is going to be a wonderful article,” said Victoria. “Even if nothing happens. It will be a great experience for you. I’ll visit you. I don’t know if they have visiting hours, but I’ll check.”
“Gram…”
Victoria looked over at her granddaughter. “I should have asked. Did you have other plans?”
“I was hoping to do my laundry and wash my hair and file my nails.”
“That can wait,” said Victoria. “In fact, if you look a bit scruffy, it will help the deception.”
“Can we go to bed now?” asked Elizabeth.
* * *
Early the next morning, Victoria put the beans on to boil, and while they were cooking, got out the ancient bean pot her grandmother had used. The bean pot was at least a hundred years old. Each time she used it she thought of that. And how many years more will it be used by grandchildren and great-grandchildren? She leaned down and took an onion out of the box next to the stove. Too big. She selected a smaller one. Brown sugar. Molasses. The yellow container of dry mustard. Salt pork from the freezer. She laid everything out and started by cutting a square chunk from the salt pork, about two inches on a side. She scored the onion so it would release its flavor into the cooking beans. She mixed brown sugar, molasses, dry mustard, and salt in a cup and added water from the boiling beans.
She lifted a few beans out with a slotted spoon and blew on them. They were ready. The skins cracked and wrinkled back. Just right. She spooned the beans into the bean pot, tucked the square of salt pork into them, and poured the molasses mixture over everything, adding water until it reached the top.
Elizabeth appeared, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. “Ready to go?”
“Just about.” Victoria turned the oven on low, put a cover on the bean pot, set the pot on a pie pan, and slid it into the oven.
“Now, I’m ready,” said Victoria.
“You know, Gram, if I end up in jail tonight, I’ll miss out on the beans.”
“I’ll save some for you.”
“Seeing that starved look on Lincoln Sibert’s face lately, there won’t be any left.”
“I’ll make a special pot for you.”
“On a weekday?”
Victoria laughed.
* * *
After the beans were in the oven, Elizabeth and Victoria drove to the jail, eight miles from their house. Where the Edgartown Road ended, the jail faced them.
Elizabeth had given in, with not much grace. She would offer herself to the jail as the sacrificial goat.
“If this ruse works, which I hope it doesn’t, how will you get home, Gram? I’ll be leaving my car in the parking lot behind the Whaling Church.”
“The bus stops right by the Whaling Church and will let me off right in front of our house.”
“And if you plan to visit me, or catch Bruno Eberhardt in the act of busting Zack out of stir, will Casey give you a ride?”
“She won’t see this as stepping on anyone’s toes.”
“And if she’s not available, you’ll hitchhike.”
“It’s perfectly safe,” said Victoria.
They parked behind the Whaling Church and walked to the jail.
Sheriff Grimsey Norton unlocked the door. “Morning, Mrs. Trumbull. Elizabeth. You’re here mighty early. Mr. Zeller isn’t up yet.” He beckoned them in and shut the door and locked it with a key selected from an enormous ring of keys chained to his belt.
“We’re not here to see Zack,” said Victoria. “We’re here on quite another matter.”
“Come into my office, then. Let’s hear what you have to say.”
This wasn’t the first time Victoria had been in the sheriff’s office, but each time she wondered how such a large man could fit into such a small space and manage all the myriad details that go into running a jail without knocking over files with his elbows.
He held the only visitor’s chair for Victoria, and she sat.
“I’ll bring in another chair,” he said to Elizabeth, who moved to one side so he could get by.
Once he was back with the chair and Elizabeth was seated, he squeezed between his desk and overflowing bookcases and sat behind the desk.
“You’re looking well, Mrs. Trumbull,” he said. “You know, I can remember stealing green apples off that tree near Brandy Brow, and you driving by. You stopped and scolded me. Told me those apples belonged to poor little old Miss Davis and she’d go hungry if I ate her apples.”
Victoria laughed. “I remember that well.”
“You set me on the straight and narrow. So here I am. What can I do for you?”
Victoria leaned forward. “No one has ever written about the jail.”
“We call it the House of Correction, Mrs. Trumbull.”
“Jail is easier to say.”
“True.” He laughed. “We’re proud of it, the way we run it, the way we try to get people to change their bad ways, so they won’t steal apples from little old ladies. We have a pretty low rate of recidivism.” He leaned back in his chair. “Course most of our inmates are neighbors who drove drunk or got caught with drugs. Not likely to be back.”
“I’m writing an article for the Island Enquirer about the jail—”
He interrupted. “Is that right? Good! Let me know how I can help.”
Victoria glanced quickly at Elizabeth, who sat stony faced and rigid, looking straight ahead at the sheriff.
“We want to be accurate, want the reader to know how it is to be inside.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Mrs. Trumbull.”
“We want to know what a prisoner experiences. What it’s like to sleep here at night, what the meals are like, what the prisoners do for recreation, everything.”
“We’ll trot out a few of our inmates you can talk to.”
“Better than that, I had been thinking I’d like to spend a night in jail, but—”
“No, no, Mrs. Trumbull!” His voice had a touch of horror.
“—but,” Victoria held up a hand and continued, “we decided Elizabeth would be just the right person. She volunteered to spend a night, or even two, in jail. We’d like you to go through the process you go through with everyone who’s sentenced, so I can make the article accurate.” Victoria had convinced herself, after the first few minutes, that this article, this series of articles, would win the New England Newspaper Award for Excellence. And by the time she was through with her presentation, the sheriff was convinced, and Elizabeth looked like a convicted felon, sentenced, and headed for incarceration.
The sheriff stood. “When do you want to start, Mrs. Trumbull?”
“Now, of course. We’d like to start now. Just the way Elizabeth would come from the courthouse, not expecting to be sentenced to some term of imprisonment. I assume she’d be handcuffed?”
Elizabeth, fully in her role as convict by now, groaned.
“I really don’t think we need to go that far,” said the sheriff. “Well, Elizabeth. Around here I insist on respect for the inmates and for me, so I’ll be calling you Ms. Trumbull from now on.” He helped Victoria rise from her chair. “You can go on home without a worry, now, Mrs. Trumbull. I’ll take it from here. Elizabeth won’t be arriving in the front door. I’ll introduce her to the guys as,” he turned to Elizabeth, “want to be in here on DUI, drugs, assault, theft?”
“Driv
ing under the influence,” said Elizabeth. “Probably that’s what I’m in for.”
“Would you like a ride home, Mrs. Trumbull? Jared, that young deputy of mine, is available, loves to drive the official sheriff’s car.”
“Thank you,” said Victoria. “That would be lovely.”
The sheriff made a quick call, and the baby-faced deputy came skipping down the stairs, accepted keys to the official car, and offered his arm to Victoria. She glanced over at her granddaughter as the sheriff led her away. Elizabeth’s face was drawn and pale. Her expression was a combination of misery, worry, and fear.
She was playing her role well, thought her grandmother.
CHAPTER 26
Casey and Patrick, her nine-year-old son, were the first to arrive. Patrick’s hair, the same coppery red as his mother’s, was slicked down and still damp from a vigorous combing. He was wearing jeans and a blue V-necked sweater over a white collared shirt.
Victoria couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen Casey out of uniform. She had on pale blue slacks and a soft flowered blouse in shades of blue and green that complimented her hair.
Casey bent down to Patrick, who was standing stiffly beside her, hands behind his back. “What do you say, Patrick?”
He looked up at Victoria. “Thank you for inviting me to supper.”
“You’re welcome, Patrick. You look quite grown up tonight.”
He grinned. “I had to put on a clean shirt.”
“Yes, of course,” said Victoria. “It looks nice.”
“Here, Mrs. Trumbull.” He brought his hands out from behind his back and presented her with a bouquet of goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace. “I picked these for you.”
“Thank you,” said Victoria. “They’re lovely. I’ll put them on the table. I have just the right vase.”
She brought the vase down from the high cupboard, filled it with water, and Patrick arranged the flowers in it.
“You can put that in the center of the table,” said Victoria. “Let’s go into the parlor. We can have drinks before dinner.”
“Where’s Elizabeth?” asked Casey, as they headed for the parlor. “Will she be joining us?”
“She’s in jail for tonight. And maybe tomorrow,” Victoria answered.
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