smoking gun

She was just finishing some nasty yogurt and granola, somewhat ameliorated by the pleasant sight of a vase of early Japanese iris, when she heard Bobby’s van pull in. He must have already met the 8:00. And she didn’t even have her face on yet. Yesterday had been a long day. Or was it the day before? She was losing track.

      She opened her purse. At least she could put her lipstick on.

     He knocked on the back door and walked in, looking grim, she thought, though it was hard to tell through the beard.

     “What is it?” she asked. “Young Kate?”

     “No. Well, kind of. Better call Big Chief Joe and tell him to meet us at my place. I have a smoking gun.”

     “I’ll just be a minute,” said Merideth. She wasn’t going out of the house looking like she’d been dragged backwards through a bramble bush.

      The door to the outdoor shower was open. “We found it in here,” said Bobby. “I put it back kind of the way it was.”

    “We?” asked Joseph.

    “Me and Kate. It was her backpack. She stayed here last night.”

     Joseph raised his eyebrows. “Not with her stepmother? Where is she now?”

    “I don’t know. She must have gone to town. She took my bike.”

     “Don’t be looking down your nose like that, Joseph,” said Merideth. “You’d think you’d never heard of premarital sex before.”

     Joseph looked at Bobby. “Oh, are you getting married soon?”

    “Well, now that she’s an heiress. Unless she’s the one trying to pin this murder on me.”

      “So you’ve already handled the weapon.”

      “Well, yeah. Kate couldn’t find her backpack last night when I came in after the bars closed. Your guys who stake out the Yellow Kittens saw me head home, no doubt. We looked around outside and found a bunch of her clothes in the bushes over there. But we didn’t find the backpack until we came out this morning.”

     “So you picked the backpack up. And you opened it. Who opened it?”

     “Kate. She was hoping her dopp kit was in there with her shampoo so she could take a shower.”

      “This time of year?”

      “Seems warm to me. I shower outside most of the year. On demand hot water heater.”

       Joseph shuddered.

     Merideth was unfazed. She had endured plenty of cold winters with no hot water but what was heated up on the wood stove. And no other heat at all. Even the coals she used to pick up on the beach were hoarded for special occasions. Her son’s generation was soft.

      “She opened the backpack up, and inside was the gun, wrapped in one of my T-shirts.”

      “So her prints are on it.”

      “It slid out of the T-shirt and we both tried to grab it. Instinct. Then we wrapped the pistol up again like it was and put it back in the bag so you could see it.”

      “So both of your prints are on it.”

      “Probably. Neither one of us was wearing gloves!”

      Chief Winfield sighed. “So either one of you could have had the gun, planted the backpack, et cetera.”

      “Trying to pin it on the other?” asked Merideth. “She could have done it while you were working. You could have done it by parking up the road and walking back here, then going back to the van.”

       “She was awake when I got home. Said something woke her up, and she was afraid.”

       “She should be very afraid. Somebody murdered her father and planted him in my mother’s garden. And that lunatic, if it wasn’t her, is probably on the island.” Joseph looked at the backpack and took his phone out of his pocket. “This is not my field of expertise. But you moved the weapon already.” He snapped a few pictures with his phone and put it back in his pocket. He rootled around in the trunk of his car and found a plastic bag. Fabric probably didn’t take fingerprints anyway, but best to send this off island for the big boys to deal with. 

    “Just out of curiosity, why didn’t you call me first thing?”

     “Because he’s not a fool,” said Merideth. “He was probably wondering whether to throw the thing off Payne’s Dock!”

     “Well, I would have chosen Ballard’s,” said Bobby. “More likely to be guns down there. But we want to know what can be discovered from the thing, too. So we called you.”

    Joseph looked at his mother. “Have you figured anything out yet?”

     “We haven’t had a moment,” said Merideth. “Maybe after this ridiculous holiday weekend is over.” She pronounced it ovah. “Too many extraneous people around. I can’t hear myself think!”

      “This weapon is going to put some pressure on. And now they’ll know about Bobby’s relationship with the daughter of the deceased. They’ll find out that her father disapproved of him, and then you’ll both be suspect.”

    “Crime passionnal. Well, I’ve got to make the ten o’clock,” said Bobby. “Better go.”

    “What happened to her toiletries?” asked Merideth? “Toothbrush? Shampoo? Comb? Makeup, if she wears any? Medications?”

      “They were dumped out in the bushes.”

      “That makes no sense,” said Merideth. “If you were trying to throw suspicion on her you wouldn’t do that.  And no female would throw her own toiletry kit around!”

      “Unless she was being really tricky,” said Joseph. “I guess I better go to the station and seal this up and put it on a plane.” He put the plastic bag in the back seat of his car and put the phone to his ear as he drove off down the dirt track.

the garden plot thickens

   “Jerry, I’ve been frantic looking for you. Where have you been?”

    “My adored one. What’s up? Just got here on the 8:00 boat.” Catherine was sitting at her desk in the dormer, and the view of the sea made a perfect frame for her gilt hair. He bent over and kissed her quickly on the lips, giving her a hug.

     “I left you a message!”

     “Lost my phone. Got a new one.”

     “You’re always losing your phone!”

     “I’m not good with phones. I don’t like them.”

     “You’re always on the phone, though. I don’t know how you lose so many.”

    “Well, at least I’ve learned to get the throwaway kind. Think how pricey it would be if it was iPhones!”

    “Never mind the phone, Jerry! Malcolm is dead.” She turned away from him and looked at the ocean.

     “Sugar daddy leaves the picture. Heart?”

     “No! I’m in a mess, Jerry. He was killed!”

      “Accident?”

     “Not unless you can shoot yourself full of nails after you’re dead.” She burst into tears. 

     Jerry looked stunned. “What’s the issue? Now the honey pot is yours free and clear.”

     “You don’t understand.” She blew her nose and straightened the collar of her white, man-tailored shirt. “And they’re asking so many questions. How was our relationship. Why did we sleep in separate rooms. Who inherits. When did I last see him. Had he seemed troubled about anything. When did I last speak to him. What was I doing off island the night he died.  I had some trouble with that last question. And I couldn’t find you!”

     “Business came up.”

     “What was more important than me sitting on my ass in a hotel in Providence waiting for you when you said it was urgent that I get there right away! I couldn’t even take the plane, because it was socked in! I had to deal with all the old biddies on the boat.”

      “Business was more important, Kate. An entrepreneur has to be ready to rock when there’s an opportunity.’

      “You could have called.” She didn’t really want to know what kind of business he was in now. Always a salesman of some kind.

      “I didn’t have a phone. What did you say you were doing on the mainland?”

     “I said I had an early appointment with my haircutter.”

      “Did you?”

      “No, but I made one.”

      “Good.”

a little night music

“Check out this sunset.” Bobby stopped outside his door and gestured toward the west.

    “You could almost believe there was a goddess.”

    “Let’s drive over to the West Side and look.”

    A handful of boats were anchored out in New Harbor, with a few clustered around the docks. “I guess Block Island Boat Basin is open,” said Kate. Bobby slowed as they passed Payne’s Dock. A cigarette boat zipped across the water. The van bumped over Dory’s Cove Road when the sun was setting. There was still enough light to make it down the path to the beach. It was a rocky beach, and the triangular point of an offshore boulder pierced the colors that dyed the water.  Bobby had been painting tiny, exquisite watercolors of that rock for decades now. They watched in silence as the sunset bled out.

     “I have to work tonight. Probably won’t be much action, but after blowing off the afternoon, I better try to pick up some fares at the bars. Will you be okay?”

    “It’s been a long day, a long few days. I just want to be alone and sleep. Sleep forever. Because when I wake up I have to remember all over again.”

     He got out of the van at the shack to open the door for her. “You know where everything is,” he said. And he put his arms around her as he had been wanting to since he saw her get off the boat with her brother.

     She put down her backpack next to the ladder to the loft, climbed up, took off her jeans and dropped into Bobby’s bed. The wind had died down at dusk, and it was very quiet. She slept.

 She struggled out of a dream and lay still. What had awakened her? Was Bobby back? She checked her phone: 11:25. The bars didn’t close until 1:00. And Daddy was dead. And whoever had killed him was on the island. And was trying to pin the blame on Bobby. And she was all alone in the dark. In Bobby’s bed.

    She was too terrified to peek over the edge of the loft, let alone climb down the ladder to lock the door. Her heart was hammering so loudly she was afraid it would be heard. She tried not to breathe and looked up at the skylight and listened. For a long time. Nothing. Maybe the sound she had heard—hadn’t heard?—was from outside. Her heart calmed down, but she was afraid to go back to sleep. By 1:15 she was able to hear Bobby come in the door without freaking out. It helped that the old van had a distinctive engine sound.

    He turned on a low lamp. She looked over the edge and saw him unloading cash from his pockets, putting it in a beautiful seaglass-covered bowl.

    “Money?”

    “It was okay. Drunks either forget to tip or overtip because they have lost the ability to calculate.”

     “I’m sorry I lost your afternoon.”

    “No worries. It’s the bare beginning of season.” He walked outside to pee. The Art Shack had no septic system. The Incinolet electric toilet was functional, but it cost in electricity. Basically, it burned the shit up. Literally.  There was a kitchen sink—a buried hose brought water from the main house, and he brushed his teeth there. He took off everything but his underwear, folded his clothes and stowed them neatly. The shack was like a puzzle, and everything had its place.

    “Do you want to come down to brush your teeth? Or shall I turn off the light?”

      “I’ll come down.” She climbed down, and he went up. There was barely room for two people downstairs. At the bottom of the ladder, she looked for her backpack to get her toothbrush. It wasn’t there. “Bobby, did you see my backpack? I left it down here.”

     “No. Did you leave it in the back of the van?”

     “I brought it in. And I thought I heard something before. It woke me up.”

    Bobby climbed back down the ladder and put on his pants. No man wanted to face danger in boxer shorts. He took a flashlight off the shelf next to the door and went outside.

    It was not in the van. It took a while to find her clothing, most of it New York black. New Yorkers always had funeral clothes at the ready.

     “Your stuff is scattered in the bushes. Come outside and look.”

     Her things looked like they had been tossed by a high wind, or in a fit of rage. They untangled what they could from the brambles and brush and decided to look for the rest in the daylight.

     “I would like to find my toiletry bag, though. It has my toothbrush in it. And some emergency Xanex, which I could use right now.”

     “You can use my toothbrush,” said Bobby.

     They lay in his loft bed looking at the stars, listening to the distant shush of the waves. She turned away from him and curled up in a fetal position. After a while he turned on his side, too and wrapped an arm around her. He felt her skin grow hot and thought about the folkloric desire for sex after a brush with death. He didn’t feel it himself. He kept very still and slowed his breathing. Finally she slept, and so did he.

th briar patch

“Can I stay with you in the art shack?”

     They walked through a gap in the rock wall and followed a sort of path through the brambles.

    “Do you think that’s a good idea? To stay with Suspect No. 1? Especially since we set a limit on the relationship? I hope you have an alibi.”

    “What, you don’t?”

     “Nope. How could I, living in the woods alone? I don’t know why I haven’t been remanded into custody yet. Anyway, this is a time you’re supposed to be with family.”

    “You feel more like family than Catherine. And my brother—he always took my mother’s side. I think he’s still angry with Daddy. But oddly enough, he doesn’t mind Catherine. Gets along with her better than I do. She doesn’t like me. He can stay at the hotel.”

      “You should be with someone who loves you right now. And I do love you, if not in a romantic way.”

     “I won’t come on to you, I promise.”

     “My place is so small it would be hard to avoid!”

     “I just don’t want to face her yet.”

    The crime scene was indeed taped off. There was not much to see here, either. Potholes where shovels had removed dirt, whether for bullets or footprints was impossible to determine.

   “I don’t feel anything,” said Kate. “Daddy isn’t here, anywhere.”

   As she walked the perimeter of the crime scene tape, Bobby checked out the sightlines from the copse. Or “viewsheds,” as they were known on Block Island. He could not see the Bakers’ house at all. Nor the spec house Greg was working on. So many empty houses on the island at this time of year. He could just catch a glimpse of the new house with the awful driveway. Just a dormer. For a second he thought he saw movement in the window.

    “What?” said Kate.

    “Do you see anything in that window?”

    “No.” She looked. “Cloud reflections? I’m done. This is just depressing. I don’t know how people on CSI can get anything from looking at a crime scene. I see nothing. Doesn’t tell me anything. I need to help me find out what happened. You have to help me.”

    “Merry and I are trying,” he said.

    “Merideth? The garden club lady?”

    “The President of the Garden Club. You don’t want Nancy Drew. Merry’s smart. And she knows this island. Plus, she has skin in the game. Somebody’s not only out to incriminate me, but draw her in, too.”

    They headed back down the path. Bobby glanced over his shoulder but saw no movement in the dormer.

    He knocked on Merideth’s door and walked in.

    The two sitting inside looked guilty.

    “Would you like some tea?” asked Merideth. She belatedly realized that her tone was a hair too bright. She handed a cup to Kate. “Or something stronger? I have wine. Whiskey. Coffee.”

    “Tea is fine, thanks.”

    “You have any beer, Merry?”

    “I might. Let me check.”

    “I’ll have one too, if you do,” said Bill.

     She brought a beer and a glass for Bill and a bottle of beer for Bobby, who liked to say that beer was already in glass. “Bill has been telling me about his acting career,” she said.

     Bill looked at his hand, apparently both admiring his immaculately shaped nails and deploring the scratches on his knuckles. “I really think I have a shot with this pilot,” he said.

    “What pilot?” asked Kate.

    “I didn’t tell you? It’s one of these Internet-only shows. Amazon. Anyways, I was trying to tell Ms. Winfield here about our dad. But I told her you knew him better.”

    Kate sat still.

    “I think it’s important,” said Merideth. “Otherwise, how can we know what happened to him?”

    Kate looked down at the floor. Looked up. Sighed. “He is a lot like Bobby, really. Smart. Talented. Incredibly strong sense of design and aesthetics. Rough around the edges but not really. A cowboy affect and a Stanford degree.”

    Bill looked at Bobby. “You have a Stanford degree too?”

     And a record, thought Bobby, looking Merideth’s hooked rug. “Yale,” he said.

    “Jeez,” said Bill. “And you’re driving a cab?”

    “It’s a good life,” said Bobby, who had heard this so many times before that he wanted to kick something. “Maybe better than getting manicures and kissing casting directors’ asses.”

    “Sorry. Just surprised.”

    “Also, both are suddenly pissy without warning,” said Kate, breaking the tension.

    They all laughed.

yard work

Laboriously, the President of the Garden Club got down on her replacement knees. It required a special technique and one of those gardening cushions she had always thought were for old people. Well, now she was an old person. What had she been thinking to plant all of these peonies? Yes, they were beautiful when blooming, but that happened for such a brief time. Her roses bloomed all summer long. And now the honeysuckle vines had threaded their way between the tender peony points.

    She wasn’t quite ready to deal with the trampled roses where the body—and murderer or murderers and police had been. The body. Malcolm Addams. She needed to know more about the man. Rich. Handsome. Quite the catch for Catherine—or for anyone. A dark tan, long silver hair, good build. She could have fancied him herself. She looked around for her wheelbarrow to toss the vines into, but it wasn’t there, of course. She made a heap of them instead. Very attached to his daughter, according to Bobby. Didn’t approve of Bobby, of course. Who would? Young girl just out of college. Needs to find her way in the world. Doesn’t need to get sucked into Block Island, where the best a smart woman can hope for is a real estate license or a cleaning company. Seasonal choices. They used to waitress and bus, but that was beneath college kids these days. No summer jobs for pocket money. Now they only wanted internships that would lead to something. Parents had to pay for them, of course. And the island had to hire from Brazil, Peru, Thailand, Ukraine. Places where people still knew how to work.

     The girl seemed nice. Bobby had brought her around to look at the roses last summer. Taking the summer off to celebrate finishing her masters in something or other. Nice if you could afford it. Another summer love for Bobby.

     And speak of the devil—that was Bobby’s van pulling up. She had to get up off her knees in the most inelegant fashion, rump first. She hoped Bobby was too busy parking to notice her struggles. He should be taxi-ing right now, anyway. The one o’clock must have come in. And then she noticed her old-lady panties and bras waving in the breeze on the laundry line. “Oh deah!”

      Well there were worse things than a laundry line of skivvies.  The girl with Bobby was dealing with one of them right now. And the boy, too, who must be her brother.

     “Merry, you remember Kate,” said Bobby. “This is her brother, Bill.”

     “I’m so sorry,” said Merideth, reaching out her hand. The girl looked ashen. Shaking hands seemed cold, even to a standoffish New Englander like herself, and she changed the outstretched hand into a quick hug.

     “I still don’t believe it,” said Kate. “That’s why I asked Bobby to bring me here, to see where you found him.”

     “I was just thinking about your father and wondering what he was like.” Merideth led the little procession down to the toolshed, next to the poor trampled Parson Pinks. She stepped aside.

      “There’s no blood,” said Kate.

      “Well he was killed over there, in the brush between those three houses. Bayberry bushes and honeysuckle and escaped rosa multiflora and poison ivy. The murderer or murderers should have several tokens to remember the area by. They brought him over here in my wheelbarrow. Do you want to go over there? The tape is probably still up, but they must have finished. I haven’t seen anybody over there for the last day.”

    “I don’t, said the boy. He shuddered and looked down at his knuckles, which were scratched.

     Maybe he was cold. But the girl wanted information.

   “I’ll take you,” Bobby said to Kate.

     “Come on into the house, Bill,” said Merideth, as the other two headed across the field. “It’s chilly when you’re just standing around. It’s this wind.”

     She sat him down and went into the kitchen to boil water. More tea and sympathy.  She must be channeling Mrs. Marple. “Who’s older, you or Kate,” she called to him.

     “I am. Five years.”

      Kate seemed older to Merideth. More mature maybe. But the two looked a lot alike. Dark hair and skin, like their father. But with startlingly light grey eyes. Must be the mother’s. “Do you live nearby?”

   “No. I live in L.A.”

    She put teacups down on the coffee table. The kettle whistled. “Be right back.”

     “Do you see your father often?”

     “No. They got divorced when I was fourteen. Kate would go on visits, made a point of getting to know him. Spent last summer here.”

    “Yes, I met her then.”

graveyard shift

One thing at a time, Catherine Addams told herself. Make sure of that cemetery plot. On this island it was as hard to land a burial site as it was to join the Garden Club. Harder. They were supposed to be reserved for the old families. But she had convinced Rose Carter to sell her a doublewide. The old woman certainly didn’t need it all those plots she’d inherited—no husband, no kids. She checked the Block Island phone book. So quaint, only seven digits to dial. People told her it used to be just four.

    Done. She picked up the phone again.

    “Reverend Paul?  Yes. This is Catherine Adams. I appreciated your call so much. Yes. We’re going to have it out here. I don’t think the church. As you know, my husband wasn’t much of a churchgoer.” Her husband had been a Jew, but nobody needed to know that—Addams sounded as Welsh as Hebrew. “But it would give me great comfort if you would do the graveside service. I want him to have a proper interment. No coffin. Cremation.” There was no doubt that he would agree. She had paid for the new church roof. “The funeral home said Wednesday. Holiday weekend.” She checked WeatherBug on her phone again. Supposed to be clear the whole coming week. “Thank you. Thank you. Very short. I’m sure you will know what’s most appropriate. I’ll leave it to you. Yes, three o’clock sounds fine.”

      She called the manager at the Surf to arrange caterers for the after party. She rang Merideth (“the old snoop,” Jerry called her) to talk, loudly, about floral arrangements. She called the editor of the Block Island Times. It was Friday and too late to get anything in the actual paper, but he could post the funeral time. She emailed him a photograph of Malcolm. Malcolm. She had hardly thought of him since the horrible discovery.

    She saved the worst for last. She called her “stepson,” Bill. He wasn’t answering his cell. Then she called Kate. She wasn’t answering hers, either. Or at least not once she saw who was calling. She left them both messages about the funeral, saying they could stay at the hotel.

    Why hadn’t Jerry called?

another kate

 By the time Bobby got back to the taxi stand from the island tour ($40 with engaging commentary and apocryphal island lore), the 3:00 was unloading.  The Carol Jean, his favorite. The trucks pulled out first. Then the cottagers drove off in their SUVs, bicycles and baby joggers strapped on the trunks. He didn’t see the Bakers. Once the cars were off, the walk-ons were released. Judging by the garment bags and general hilarity, there was a wedding this weekend. Or maybe two. He watched the hotel-bound roll their wheelie bags off the boat, then stop to try to get their bearings. The wheels didn’t do that well on a sandy sidewalk, but most had booked in town at the National or the Surf and didn’t plan to walk far. People who didn’t know where they were going headed for the taxi stand. He was third in line and got a fare. Down the Neck again. The Simmons’ place. Yes, he knew where it was.

    After the party unloaded their stuff, he turned around in the yard and stopped on the dirt road for a minute to text Kate. “So sorry about your father’s death,” he wrote. “I know how much you love him. If you want to talk, give me a call.”

    The phone rang as he passed the dump. He hadn’t spoken to her since she left the island. They had agreed to a summer romance with no future and no strings. She was an up and comer; he was an over the hill, irredeemable hippie drifter. NGH. Not going to happen, as she would say. But they did like one another.

    She wasn’t crying. Her voice was lifeless. It didn’t really even sound like her.

     “I hear you found him.”

     “I did. I’m so sorry.”

     “I guess they don’t know anything yet. In the absence of any evidence, I’m blaming Her.”

     “ Your stepmother?” He pulled over at Mosquito Beach and sat, holding the phone.  “They like me for it.”

    Finally, she spoke. “Well, I guess they must have found out how much my father disapproved of our, whadyacallit, friendship.”

    “I never really got why. I mean, yes, I’m too old for you. But he must have thought you were serious.”

    “I told him not. But he thought I shouldn’t be wasting my time on an Islander.  Should be doing the social rounds with the Witherspoon boy or something. He was always big on marriage. Shit, he did it enough.”

    “He was married more than twice?

    “Oh yeah. Married my mother. Traded up to a younger model—his assistant. That didn’t last long. Then he took up with the Wannabee Bride. Wannabee widow, now.”

     He thought. There was no gentle way to ask his question. “We never talked about your family, because I didn’t want to know any more than I already knew. But I am assuming you want to know who did this, and I am assuming you don’t think it was me.”

   “Right. What?”

   “Did your father have a lot of money?”

   “Yes. Big computer chip manufacturer. He sold it for millions. Don’t know how much is left after this real estate buying spree Catherine’s been on.”

    “Do you inherit?”

    “Yes. My brother and I. And Her. I think the prenup was equal thirds, but how the property is divided I don’t know. I haven’t seen a will. I don’t care about the money. I don’t want the money. I just want my daddy.”

      He heard emotion in her voice at last. He thought about her dark hair falling around his face as she bent over him. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and hold her safe.

     “Where are you? Is anyone with you? Are you coming out here?”

     “I’m in Brooklyn. In my apartment. Alone. My brother texted that he’s flying into Providence tomorrow. I guess I’ll meet him on the Block. My mother is in Greenwich, celebrating.”

       “She’s still bitter?”

      “You have no fucking clue."

the chief problem

“So our Bobby’s done time,” said Joseph. He sat on his mother’s settee and looked at her.

    The President of the Garden Club nodded.

   “You knew?”

   “Yes. He told me. It was a long time ago. Marijuana.”

   “But trafficking, Mother. It must have been pretty bad. They didn’t put white kids in jail for nothing. He got ten years!”

   “Reduced.”

    “It doesn’t look good. And you thick as thieves with him.”

    “What have they found?”  

    “He was shot.”

    “Well I certainly knew that!”

    “With Bobby’s nail gun. They’ve got it. And a Glock. Drug dealers’ gun of choice, they say.”

    “Bobby doesn’t own a gun. He reviles the NRA.”

    “I know that, Mother. But these experts don’t. They see Bobby’s nail gun. They see a drug conviction. They see his prints on the wheelbarrow. Now all they need to do is find out about the daughter and they’ll be adding two and two up to five in no time.”

    “Has anybody spoken with Kate Addams?”

     “Which Kate Addams? Why a man would marry a woman with the same name as his daughter is a mystery to me!”

     “Saves trouble with the names. Didn’t Johnny Carson marry three Joannes?” She thought. “No, it was Joan, Joanne and Joanna.”

     “Why are we talking about Johnny Carson, Mother? You were there when I told Kate the wife. Kate the daughter and her brother have been told. Not by me. I don’t know who told them.”

     “Where is the funeral going to be?”

      “I don’t know that either. Apparently they’ve lived here as long as anywhere—a few years in Austin, Santa Fe, New York, Mexico, Florida. All over the place.”

    “Why? Why so many places? Running from or running to?”

    “Anyway they haven’t released the body yet. And probably won’t for a while. Til all the toxicology reports and so on are in, anyway.” He shifted the gun belt he rarely wore. “Like I know anything about it!  Worst death we had was that kid who overdosed! Pretty clear how that happened with a needle sticking out of his arm! The third Block Island kid this year. Or the one who wrapped himself around a phone pole on the Neck!”