Touch-Me-Not (9 page)

C
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15

“We’ve got to hurry before it gets dark,” Cherry said. “I don’t want to get stopped by the cops. My front left headlight is out.”

After conferring with one another, the five women made their way to Jerry Sparks’s last-known address. They pulled up to the house and got out of the Jeep. Mrs. Rudge appeared at the open front door, cigarette dangling from her lower lip, arms folded, the sunset bathing her in a kindly rose-colored glow.

Before Cherry had a chance to say anything, Mrs. Rudge called out, “You women lookin’ for Jerry Sparks? He’s not here.” The cigarette stuck to her lower lip when she spoke.

“Do you know where he is?” asked Cherry, who was in the lead. The other four knitters cowered behind her.

“Nope,” said Mrs. Rudge.

“Any idea where we can find him?”

“What’s this, some popularity contest? Everybody wants Jerry Sparks?” Mrs. Rudge removed the cigarette, flicked the ash off to one side, removed a speck of tobacco from her tongue, and stuck the cigarette back in her mouth.

“We want to tell him something,” said Cherry.

“Try the Rip Tide,” said Mrs. Rudge, and turned her back on them, went inside, and slammed the door behind her.

The five women looked at one another.

“The Rip Tide?” Maron asked Cherry.

“That sleaze bar on Circuit Avenue,” Cherry replied. “Figures. Let’s go, girls!”

After the two men left, LeRoy thought about the bottle of Jim Beam in the bottom file drawer. Tempting. He could use a good slug of bourbon. But he didn’t dare cloud his thinking. Those two suspected him. Of what? Surely not of making phone calls to those women?

The Taser. He had to find that Taser. Whatever they suspected about the phone calls had to wait. And Jerry Sparks’s body was still lying undiscovered in the book shed. Lucky the weather had been cool.

Where had he put that Taser? He’d gone through the file cabinet, his desk, Maureen’s desk, the supply closet, the van, his toolbox. . . . Where else, where else?

After Mrs. Rudge went back inside her house, the five knitters piled into the Jeep again, flip-flops slapping against bare heels.

“Ouch!” one of them cried. “You just stuck your elbow right in my boob!”

“Don’t get in my way, then.”

“Stop it, girls!” shouted Cherry.

“This wreck wasn’t made for this many people.”

“Get out and walk if you don’t like it!”

Cherry shifted into gear and headed to the Rip Tide, one of the more decrepit hangouts on Circuit Avenue, not far from Watts Electrical Supply. The sunset glow was fading.

The bell at Watts Electrical Supply jangled again, and LeRoy looked up. His first impression was of two uniformed cops, and he nearly passed out.

Then he realized it was Chief O’Neill and Victoria Trumbull, who was wearing a police hat with gold stitching.

He stood up. “Well,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “Twice in one week. How can I help you?”

Casey’s expression was solemn, all professional cop. “We were at your boys’ school this morning, sir. The school had been trying to reach you.”

“The school?” asked LeRoy, thinking about the phone calls he’d ignored. “Jesus! I forgot. My kids . . . ?”

“Your wife took your boys home.”

LeRoy plopped down into his desk chair.

Victoria looked around and sat in the still-warm chair Jim had vacated.

Casey said, “We won’t take up much of your time.”

“I’ve been out of the office.” LeRoy leaned forward, elbows on his tidy desk. “Cell phone . . . must have been a dead spot.” He looked at Casey’s cop face. “My boys?”

“They’re not hurt, sir, but they’re in trouble.”

“My boys? Trouble?” He sat up straight.

“They went to school this morning with what they thought was a toy gun, and were showing it off at recess.”

“Toy gun? We don’t allow . . . The school doesn’t allow . . . Oh my God!”

“Sir,” said Casey in her cop voice, “the weapon they were playing with was a Taser.”

LeRoy half-rose from his chair. “Where in hell did they get it?”

Casey said, “Your boys claimed at first that your office manager had given it to them to play with.”

“Oh no!” LeRoy moaned.

“An aide confiscated the weapon in the school yard and took it to the principal. He had no idea what it was. The principal recognized it as a Taser.” Casey paused. “She called me and tried to reach you. She finally got your wife, who came to the school.”

“Oh my God!” LeRoy slumped back in his chair.

“After questioning, the boys admitted they’d taken it from your file cabinet.”

LeRoy put his elbows on his desk, his head in his hands. “The boys?” he mumbled.

“The school has a clear policy and will determine how to discipline them. No guns, no toy guns, nothing that looks like a gun permitted in school.”

LeRoy took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. He swiveled his chair. Casey remained standing. Victoria looked around the shop.

Outside on Circuit Avenue, the bar crowd was arriving, couples and single guys strolled down the sidewalk, women in twos and threes laughed and called to one another, stopped to look in the windows of closed shops.

“In Massachusetts, as I’m sure you are aware,” Casey went on, “it’s illegal for an individual to own a Taser.”

LeRoy’s forehead shone in the overhead light.

“A heavy fine and possible jail time,” Casey continued. “There’s even some question about the legality of Taser use in law enforcement in Massachusetts.”

LeRoy decided to take the offensive. He sat up straight. “I purchased a Taser instead of a gun because I didn’t want to kill anyone.” He put his handkerchief back into his pocket. “Tasers are nonlethal. Not supposed to have any aftereffects.” His voice rose. “They’re safe!”

“Not entirely, sir.” Casey reached into an inside pocket and brought out folded papers. “I have here a receipt for the Taser, a notice of the violation, and a summons for your appearance in court. Please sign them.” She handed the papers to him one at a time.

“But . . .” said LeRoy.

“Sign here, sir.” Casey indicated the line. “Date it.”

LeRoy’s hand shook so hard, his writing looked as though he’d just learned to hold a pen.

Casey tore off the back pages of the notice, summons, and receipt and gave them to him. “Your copies, sir. We’ll see you in court.”

Casper and Jim had gotten back into Casper’s wife’s car and driven to where Circuit Avenue became two-way. Casper turned left toward Nantucket Sound. Whitecaps stirred up by the brisk northwest breeze glistened in the fading light. He made a U-turn, pulled over to the side of the road, and parked, facing the Steamship Authority’s dock, shut off the engine, and turned to Jim. “Well. What do you think?”

Jim nodded. “Same thing you do, I imagine.”

Casper held his hands high up on the steering wheel. “The guy’s scared of something.”

Jim nodded.

In the distance, they could make out the ferry, a string of white lights coming from Woods Hole to the Island. They watched in silence.

After a while, Casper said, “When you told him the caller is someone familiar with the library and he was around the library a lot, things clicked into place. Did you see the look on his face?”

“Guilty,” said Jim. “Guilty of something at least.”

“Why in hell would LeRoy Watts make those calls?” asked Casper. “What a stupid adolescent thing to do.”

“Stalking is a sickness,” said Jim. “A stalker will jeopardize everything when he’s obsessed by someone.”

“And the way he wouldn’t meet our eyes. Didn’t offer to help. Looked as though he wanted to run.”

“I’d like to know how he gets their unlisted numbers,” said Jim. He cranked down the window on his side. The wind coming off the sound riffled papers in the backseat.

“While we were talking, I thought about that,” said Casper. “It makes sense. Electrical boxes are usually next to phone boxes. No one thinks twice about an electrician opening a box to check the meter or whatever.”

“I suppose the phone guy pencils the number next to the connection so he doesn’t have to look it up.”

“They’re not supposed to,” said Casper. “But they do.”

Gulls, white flecks in the distance, trailed after the ferry. Wings white against the darkening sky, the gulls dived after fish stirred up in the wake or snapped up morsels passengers tossed into the air.

“So,” said Casper, turning back to Jim. “What can we do about it?”

“Good question,” said Jim. “We’ve got to stop him.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Yeah, but none of them is legal.”

The two sat still. Casper tapped his fingers on the steering wheel; Jim rested his elbow on the window frame.

“How do you get to a guy like that?” Jim said. “He’s got a nice wife, nice kids, nice house, prosperous business, good reputation, active in community affairs.”

“No one will believe us,” said Casper. “All we have is a gut feeling.” He started the car, checked behind him, and pulled away from the curb. While they’d talked, cars had lined up for the ferry.

Casper was quiet until they were clear of ferry traffic. Then he said, “We’ve got to stop him, and soon.”

C
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16

By the time Cherry found a parking space several doors from the Rip Tide, the sun had set. The five women entered the bar and conversation stopped. All eyes examined them, from heads to flip-flopped feet.

“Hi, can I help you?” asked the bartender, a woman about the same age and with the same well-rounded shape as Cherry. The mostly male clientele watched.

“We’re looking for Jerry Sparks,” said Cherry.

“Can I buy all of yous a beer?” asked a husky guy with an American flag bandanna wrapped around his head and tattoos from shoulder to wrist.

Cherry started to say, “Yes, thanks . . .” but Alyssa interrupted. “No, thanks. We need to find Jerry Sparks.”

“Haven’t seen him for a couple days, hon,” said the bartender. “Let Dude buy you a beer. He doesn’t drink, but he likes to see other people drink.”

“Well . . .” said Cherry.

“We’re in a hurry,” said Alyssa. “Do you know where he might be?”

“You try the place he stays?” asked Dude.

Alyssa nodded.

“Not at the shop?”

“We haven’t tried there.”

Dude studied them with bright blue eyes. His crossed arms showed off serpent tattoos that writhed when he moved. Cherry sighed.

“The boss might still be there,” said Dude. “LeRoy Watts. Works late. You can walk there. Only a couple blocks.”

“Sorry we’re not more help, hon.” The bartender dipped a cloth into the sinkful of soapy water under the counter, wrung it out, and wiped the already-clean bar. “If you don’t find him, drop by later. We’re open until two.”

The five knitters conferred and decided to try the electrical-supply store, since it was close.

Victoria glanced down Circuit Avenue as they were leaving Watts Electrical Supply. She shaded her forehead against the last of the fading light with a hand. “It looks as though a red Jeep is parked beyond the Rip Tide bar,” she said.

“There are at least a hundred red Jeeps on this Island, Victoria.”

“Cherry DeBettencourt has a red Jeep.”

“Okay, Victoria. Since Circuit Avenue’s one-way, it’ll take us a few minutes to drive around to there. Hop in.”

Except for the bars, most of the businesses along Circuit Avenue had closed for the night. After Chief O’Neill and Mrs. Trumbull left, LeRoy locked the door and turned out the lights in the front of the shop. He went back to his desk to read the copies of the papers Casey had left with him that he’d signed earlier without reading.

The five knitters walked quickly up the street. A light was still on in the back of Watts Electrical Supply. Cherry tried the door. Locked. Maron cupped her hands against the glass and peered in. “Someone’s in there.” She banged her fist on the side of the door. “Hello! Mr. Watts? Can we come in? We’re looking for Jerry Sparks!”

“Is it Jerry Sparks?” asked Jessica.

LeRoy could barely make out the shape of a woman with her hands cupped against the glass, peering in. Damn, he had to get out of here before anyone else showed up. He stood up and headed for the back door, forgetting the papers on his desk in his haste to get away.

“It’s only Mr. Watts.” Maron banged again. “He must not have heard us. He’s headed for the back door.”

“Let’s go around,” said Cherry. “Come on, Alyssa!”

“He probably doesn’t want to deal with anyone this late,” said Alyssa.

“It’s not late. Come on, we’ll just ask him where we can find Jerry Sparks.”

When the two reached the alley that ran behind the back entrance, LeRoy was standing at the top of the steps, locking the door.

LeRoy turned around. Two women stood at the foot of the steps, blocking him and shouting at him. All he could hear were the words “Jerry Sparks! Jerry Sparks! Jerry Sparks!”

“Mr. Watts!” called Cherry.

“What do you want?”

“We’re looking for—” Cherry began.

“We need to talk with you,” said Alyssa.

“I’m in a hurry,” said LeRoy.

“We want to ask you about Jerry Sparks.”

At the latest mention of Jerry Sparks, LeRoy jerked back and dropped his keys, which bounced off the top step and clattered to the ground. “Oh shit!” He threw both hands up to his forehead.

“Jerry Sparks,” Cherry repeated. “You know, Jerry Sparks?”

“Mr. Watts, we’re just trying to find Jerry Sparks is all.”

“Jerry Sparks,” said LeRoy.

“Yes. We have something we want to tell him.”

“I—I—I—” stuttered LeRoy. “I can’t tell you where he is.” He scrambled down the steps and picked up his keys. “I’ve got to go.”

“Wait!” shouted Alyssa, but LeRoy was already in his van, with the door shut.

“We’ve got to get back to my Jeep,” said Cherry. “I saw a police car go past behind your shop and I can’t afford another ticket.”

LeRoy had shoved his way past the two women, muttering something to shut them up. But all he could think of was getting away, getting as far away as he could. Anywhere. He’d stumbled to his van, climbed in, slammed the door shut, and had torn out of the parking area.

It took almost ten minutes for Casey to drive the Bronco around the back streets that returned them to the foot of Circuit Avenue. Although it was still early, the barhopping crowd was out, sauntering down the middle of the narrow street, singing lustily.

By the time Casey arrived at where the Jeep had been parked, she had trouble finding even a place where she could leave the police vehicle. After another five minutes, she found a handicapped slot and pulled in. She and Victoria walked back to where Victoria had seen the red Jeep. It was gone.

“I suppose we can ask at the Rip Tide if they’ve seen any of the five women,” said Victoria. She and Casey pushed the door open and went into the bar. Conversation stopped.

The bartender said, “Hi, Chief. Hi, Mrs. Trumbull. Can I help you?”

“We’re looking for five young women who were in a red Jeep,” said Victoria. “Have you seen them?”

A tall, very broad, very muscular man strode forward, tattooed arms crossed. “Evening, ladies,” he said. “Five girls were asking for Jerry Sparks, say ten, fifteen minutes ago. I told ’em to try the electrical shop up the street.” He nodded in the direction of Watts Electrical Supply.

“We’ve just come from there,” said Victoria.

“Must’ve just missed ’em.”

“Thanks,” said Casey. “You wait here, Victoria. I’ll go back to the shop.”

“Buy you a beer?” asked the big man.

“Thank you,” said Victoria, and perched on a bar stool. “Just a half glass, please. I’m on duty.”

Casey returned moments later. “Closed up tight. No one around.”

Out of ideas and with darkness falling, the five knitters returned to the library, where they’d left their own vehicles.

“Where do we go from here, girls?” asked Roberta.

“He must be somewhere,” said Maron.

“We’ll find him,” said Jessica. “Tomorrow, for sure. And when we do . . .”

Where was Jerry Sparks?