oven and sat at his usual place. Sarah continued to eat in silence.
“Something bothering you?” asked LeRoy.
“It’s nothing.”
“Suit yourself,” said LeRoy.
“Emily Cameron came by.”
“Who’s she?” Then he remembered. The baby-sitter. Jerry Sparks’s girlfriend. “Never mind. I know who she is. Lumpy girl with glasses and bangs.” LeRoy speared a forkful of macaroni and shoveled it into his mouth. “What did she want?” he asked, his mouth full.
“The ‘lumpy girl,’ as you call her, is trying to locate Jerry Sparks. It seems he’s disappeared.”
“Lucky her.”
“Jerry can be perfectly nice.”
“I’ve heard enough about Jerry Sparks.” LeRoy tossed his napkin onto his scarcely touched supper and got up from the table. The macaroni and cheese he’d shoveled into his mouth had stopped halfway to his stomach in a glutinous mass.
“She brought something to show me,” said Sarah to his departing back.
“Lucky you,” he said over his shoulder.
“Now where are you going?” Sarah asked.
“Out.” LeRoy slammed the front door behind him.
He drove to the unlighted parking area near the bike path in the state forest and made himself a nest in the back of his van with his sleeping bag and some plastic tarps. He twisted and turned all night, and the sleeping bag wrapped itself around and between his legs. As the night moved on, the cold metal of the van floor got harder and colder and the ghost of Jerry Sparks breathed his foul breath into his face and there was no place he could think of where he could escape.
When the dawn chorus began early Monday morning, first a robin, then doves, chickadees, cardinals, and blue jays, LeRoy, who hadn’t slept at all, shuffled off his sleeping bag and climbed into the driver’s seat. He had to get to the Steamship Authority office when it opened. He was exhausted. His mouth felt as though it was full of half-composted moss and the smell of Jerry Sparks clung to him.
Around the same time LeRoy was getting ready to head to the Steamship Authority office, Victoria Trumbull was hiking the quarter mile to the police station. She used the tip of her lilac-wood stick to turn over leaves to see what interesting plants were sprouting underneath.
This was the day LeRoy Watts had promised to come to fix the outlet her guest had blown up with her hair dryer. Fortunately, Nancy had decided to leave a day early.
Across the road to her left, grass had greened in Doane’s pasture, seemingly overnight. They’d be cutting the first hay in another few weeks. A catbird called from the wild cherry tree next to the road and another catbird answered. She breathed in deeply. The scent of lilacs was everywhere. Her own lilacs reached almost to her second floor and were laden with blossoms. Neil Flynn, who owned Katama Apiaries, had set up seven beehives in her pasture, and the lilacs hummed with his bees.
She paused to catch her breath before turning in at the parking area in front of the station. Ducks rose as she approached, and waddled off toward the Mill Pond.
Victoria straightened up, lifted her head, and climbed the steps into the station house. Casey was at her desk, scowling at something on her computer.
She turned, her scowl softening. “Morning, Victoria. You’re up early.”
“I’ve been out in my garden since the sun rose. My touch-me-not is going to bloom this season.”
“The year of touch-me-not and stalkers,” said Casey.
Victoria seated herself in the wooden armchair and unbuttoned her blue coat. “Is something wrong?”
“Stalking.” Casey picked up her stone paperweight and hefted it from one hand to the other. “Exactly what the speaker on Thursday was talking about. Jessica Gordon and Maron Andrews called me again to complain. I can’t do anything; the telephone company can’t do anything. They put a tracer on the calls.”
“And, I suppose, the stalker is using a prepaid disposable cell phone. Almost impossible to
“Something bothering you?” asked LeRoy.
“It’s nothing.”
“Suit yourself,” said LeRoy.
“Emily Cameron came by.”
“Who’s she?” Then he remembered. The baby-sitter. Jerry Sparks’s girlfriend. “Never mind. I know who she is. Lumpy girl with glasses and bangs.” LeRoy speared a forkful of macaroni and shoveled it into his mouth. “What did she want?” he asked, his mouth full.
“The ‘lumpy girl,’ as you call her, is trying to locate Jerry Sparks. It seems he’s disappeared.”
“Lucky her.”
“Jerry can be perfectly nice.”
“I’ve heard enough about Jerry Sparks.” LeRoy tossed his napkin onto his scarcely touched supper and got up from the table. The macaroni and cheese he’d shoveled into his mouth had stopped halfway to his stomach in a glutinous mass.
“She brought something to show me,” said Sarah to his departing back.
“Lucky you,” he said over his shoulder.
“Now where are you going?” Sarah asked.
“Out.” LeRoy slammed the front door behind him.
He drove to the unlighted parking area near the bike path in the state forest and made himself a nest in the back of his van with his sleeping bag and some plastic tarps. He twisted and turned all night, and the sleeping bag wrapped itself around and between his legs. As the night moved on, the cold metal of the van floor got harder and colder and the ghost of Jerry Sparks breathed his foul breath into his face and there was no place he could think of where he could escape.
When the dawn chorus began early Monday morning, first a robin, then doves, chickadees, cardinals, and blue jays, LeRoy, who hadn’t slept at all, shuffled off his sleeping bag and climbed into the driver’s seat. He had to get to the Steamship Authority office when it opened. He was exhausted. His mouth felt as though it was full of half-composted moss and the smell of Jerry Sparks clung to him.
Around the same time LeRoy was getting ready to head to the Steamship Authority office, Victoria Trumbull was hiking the quarter mile to the police station. She used the tip of her lilac-wood stick to turn over leaves to see what interesting plants were sprouting underneath.
This was the day LeRoy Watts had promised to come to fix the outlet her guest had blown up with her hair dryer. Fortunately, Nancy had decided to leave a day early.
Across the road to her left, grass had greened in Doane’s pasture, seemingly overnight. They’d be cutting the first hay in another few weeks. A catbird called from the wild cherry tree next to the road and another catbird answered. She breathed in deeply. The scent of lilacs was everywhere. Her own lilacs reached almost to her second floor and were laden with blossoms. Neil Flynn, who owned Katama Apiaries, had set up seven beehives in her pasture, and the lilacs hummed with his bees.
She paused to catch her breath before turning in at the parking area in front of the station. Ducks rose as she approached, and waddled off toward the Mill Pond.
Victoria straightened up, lifted her head, and climbed the steps into the station house. Casey was at her desk, scowling at something on her computer.
She turned, her scowl softening. “Morning, Victoria. You’re up early.”
“I’ve been out in my garden since the sun rose. My touch-me-not is going to bloom this season.”
“The year of touch-me-not and stalkers,” said Casey.
Victoria seated herself in the wooden armchair and unbuttoned her blue coat. “Is something wrong?”
“Stalking.” Casey picked up her stone paperweight and hefted it from one hand to the other. “Exactly what the speaker on Thursday was talking about. Jessica Gordon and Maron Andrews called me again to complain. I can’t do anything; the telephone company can’t do anything. They put a tracer on the calls.”
“And, I suppose, the stalker is using a prepaid disposable cell phone. Almost impossible to
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