Poison Ivy

by Cynthia Riggs

  Thackery brushed at his pants with a blue-bordered handkerchief. “Control that dog, will you?”

  “’Course I knew it was poison ivy. Everyone knows poison ivy,” said Walter.

  “My men spaded up that area.” Smalley gestured at the disturbed heap of dead leaves.

  Brownie sat on his haunches and scratched an ear.

  “I had better sense than to rake up them leaves.”

  “Why didn’t you tell them it was poison ivy?” snapped Smalley.

  “They didn’t ask,” said Walter.

  Brownie turned around in a circle, lay down, yawned hugely, broke wind, and closed his eyes.

  “Take that animal away,” said Thackery. “Immediately!”

  “Thackery,” said Victoria, “I really think you’d better wash your hands thoroughly with soap and water, and right away. Even if it’s woodbine, it won’t hurt to wash.”

  Walter smirked, showing stubby gray teeth. “It’s most likely too late.”

  * * *

  The Island grapevine is one of the most efficient communications systems known.

  Joe the plumber and Sarah were in their usual places on the porch at Alley’s Store the next afternoon.

  “You hear about the case of the poison ivy?” asked Joe.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Sarah. Today’s garb was a pale green sweater with a knitted pattern of black and white and red feathers around the neck and sleeves.

  Joe laughed. “That mutt of Walter’s got loose and dug up another corpse buried in poison ivy.”

  “What!?”

  “You know Walter.”

  “The caretaker at Ivy Green College. Sure.”

  “You know Thackery Wilson named that house he’s using for an office ‘Woodbine Hall.’”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Not woodbine.” Joe cackled. “Poison ivy. The state cops finished digging where Walter’s dog started.”

  “Eee-yew!” Sarah lifted her sweater and scratched her stomach.

  * * *

  While Jodi, Victoria’s chauffeur, was running errands after class the following Tuesday, Victoria walked over to Woodbine Hall to turn in her attendance records.

  Thackery was sitting at his desk with his handkerchief held up to his nose. Both hands were covered with a dried pink paste that crumbled onto the papers on his desk when he moved.

  Calamine lotion. Victoria refrained from saying anything.

  Linda sat at her desk in what was formerly the dining room separated from the living room by a gracious archway.

  Victoria handed her the attendance records. “Good afternoon, Linda. How are you?”

  “Thank you for asking, Mrs. Trumbull. I had an awful spell of stomach trouble last night. I had supper at my sister’s. I should have known better. I was up all night with diarrhea and vomiting and—”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Victoria, interrupting her. “I hope you’ve recovered.” She retreated quickly to Thackery.

  “You don’t want to catch what she’s got,” Thackery muttered under his breath.

  “You’re right,” Victoria said.

  Thackery nodded at the seat next to his desk. “I owe you an apology.”

  “Oh?” Victoria seated herself.

  “I was sure that was woodbine. When I first saw it ten years ago it was already covering the side of the hall.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll want to rename the building,” Victoria said, and immediately realized her smart remark was less than tactful.

  “With your police connections, have you heard any indication of the latest victim’s identity?” asked Thackery, brushing a pink flake off his desk.

  “It will take a while.” Victoria settled back in her chair. “Has the oversight committee appointed a new member to replace Professor Bliss?”

  “I’m afraid so. They discussed Professor Petrinia Paulinia Kralich and Professor Kamil Chatterjee, both of whom would have been good choices from my point of view, but because the committee members couldn’t agree, they decided on someone who’s a complete unknown to me, a Reverend Bob White, professor of theology.”

  “As a theologist, perhaps he’ll do the right thing,” said Victoria.

  “I doubt it,” muttered Thackery, shuffling papers aimlessly on his desk. Every time he moved, a small shower of dried calamine lotion dusted his desk. “When I was called back in to give my report, the committee questioned my appointing Wellborn Price as adjunct professor.”

  “Good heavens! That man has been awarded more honors than I can name.”

  “Apparently this is the result of a longtime feud between Dr. Price and Professor Bigelow. Price was on Bigelow’s tenure committee and made sure his tenure was denied. Bigelow, as I suppose you know, is head of the oversight committee.” He sighed. “Ivy Green College will be the one to suffer in this squabble.”

  There was nothing Victoria could say.

  Thackery ran his hand over the back of his neck. “I hope Journeyman Cash returns from the field soon. He’s missed two of the oversight committee meetings. We need his support. Desperately.”

  CHAPTER 7

  On the following Thursday, before the second body was identified, Brownie, Walter’s dog, got loose again. From his office window Thackery saw the dog trot across the street, his head and tail both up in a perky, irritating manner. Thackery heaved himself out of his chair, straightened his tie, covered the papers on his desk with his big desk calendar, and started to go after the dog. Before he reached the door, he decided he’d better first call the police and the animal control officer.

  “I want to file charges against Walter and that mongrel,” Thackery told Tim Eldredge, the state trooper who’d answered the phone.

  “Yes, sir. That’s really a Tisbury Police matter,” said Tim. “You can file charges at the police station near the Steamship Authority terminal. But I’ll be happy to dispatch a state trooper, sir,” Tim said, with a smirk in his voice, “just in case, you know, maybe the dog found another…”

  “That’s not amusing,” said Thackery and slammed down the phone.

  He shrugged into his tweed jacket, still a bit warm for this unseasonably mild fall day, and went after the dog himself.

  It took him a few minutes to find Brownie, who was chasing his tail in the center of what Thackery thought of as Professor Trumbull’s al fresco classroom, a circle of grass in the dappled shade of the big oak trees.

  The entire scene remained with Thackery for some time after. Brownie squatted. His head was slightly tilted. He lifted a back leg and scratched an ear. Mrs. Trumbull’s green lawn chair was off to one side. Brownie lay down, yawned, and closed his eyes. His ears twitched. Suddenly, abruptly, he leapt to his feet, trembling, and started to dig.

  “Hey, hey!” shouted Thackery. “Stop that! Get away!”

  Brownie paid no attention.

  Thackery looked around for a stick to deter the dog, but when he got close, Brownie looked up and snarled. His eyes were red, his mouth dripped saliva, his moth-eaten fur stood straight up. Thackery backed off and Brownie returned to his dig. Dirt and green grass flew. Thackery retreated to his office and called the animal control officer, the state police, the Tisbury Police, Walter, and because he was shaking with anger and couldn’t think of who else to call, he called Victoria Trumbull, who said she was leaving shortly for her class.

  Thackery tugged his steel watch out of his pocket and looked at it. Not yet one o’clock. He put his watch back into his pocket.

  By the time the state police arrived, Brownie had uncovered a bone. Actually several bones. Not really a corpse, since it was no more than a skeleton. He’d dug up the middle of the magic circle, that tidy oasis of lush grass that Walter had kept mown like a putting green.

  The state police surrounded the once-grassy circle with yellow crime scene tape. Thackery stood outside the taped-off area, hands behind his back. He turned, scowling, at Victoria’s approach with her class trailing behind her.

  “You
may as well cancel your class, Professor Trumbull. I don’t believe any of us can accomplish anything here today.”

  “What happened?” asked Victoria. “That was such a lovely spot.”

  Thackery sighed. “That dog of Walter’s dug it up.”

  Victoria leaned on her stick. “Ah.”

  “He found bones.”

  “Not ones he’d buried?”

  Thackery shook his head, disgusted. “Human bones.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You might as well dismiss your class. Not much we can do here.”

  “We don’t want to waste such a lovely day,” said Victoria. “I’ll take my class on a field trip.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, the skeleton had been disinterred and was lying on a plastic sheet next to the excavation. All that remained besides bones were a few scraps of clothing, a few buttons, a belt buckle, and boating shoes. No socks.

  “A man, from the looks of the belt buckle and size twelve shoes,” Smalley said to Thackery, who hadn’t gone near the grave after Brownie’s discovery. Sergeant Smalley had called in Doc Jeffers, who thought the body had been in the ground for six to eight months. Hard to tell.

  The off-Island forensics team returned to the Island.

  “How about renting us a permanent place, Thackery, old boy?” said the head of the team, whose name was Joel Killdeer. “In between your corpses, we can go fishin’.” Killdeer was a tall slender man in his forties with skin the color of black coffee and a shiny shaved head.

  “That’s hardly amusing.” Thackery turned his back on Killdeer and saw Victoria to his left, returning from her field trip with Jodi next to her. And to his right, Walter was dragging Brownie along with a clothesline looped around his neck.

  Thackery, more upset than he cared to show, called to Walter, “Can’t you control that wretched dog of yours?”

  Walter didn’t answer. Brownie made a half-circle at the end of his rope toward Thackery and sniffed his leg. “Get away from me!” shouted Thackery as Brownie lifted a leg.

  Walter hauled in on the clothesline and Brownie, tongue out, backed reluctantly toward his master.

  “He the dog that found the body?” asked Joel Killdeer, the forensics boss.

  “Yes, sir,” said Walter.

  “Found the other corpse, too, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Walter.

  Victoria stopped next to Thackery.

  “How was the field trip?” asked Thackery.

  Killdeer said, “We could use a corpse-sniffing dog on this case.”

  “The field trip will result in some wonderful poetry, Thackery. The surf was dramatic.” She turned to Walter. “Brownie must have an unusually sensitive sense of smell.”

  Walter said to Killdeer, “You pay the dog for sniffing out corpses?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Hourly rates?”

  “Flat rate per case.”

  “What if he gets hurt?” asked Walter.

  “Dog gets killed in the course of duty, he gets buried with honors.”

  Victoria bent over and patted Brownie, who looked up at her with sad eyes. His tongue hung out, he was panting, and the clothesline seemed awfully tight around his neck. Victoria loosened it.

  “Third body,” said Walter thoughtfully to Killdeer. He studied the dug-up patch of once-green lawn.

  Killdeer ran a hand over his smooth scalp. “Could be more.”

  “Certainly not, Dr. Killdeer,” said Thackery.

  “With the crazies running this place you never can tell,” said Walter.

  “Walter,” warned Thackery. “Dr. Killdeer has—”

  “How about we borrow your dog for a couple days, Walter?” asked Killdeer, snapping his chewing gum.

  Walter stuck out his purplish lower lip. “For pay?”

  “’Course,” said Killdeer. “Who knows what your pup might sniff out?”

  * * *

  “You seemed a bit downcast today, Jodi,” Victoria said as they were driving home after the remains had been taken away. “This business of dead bodies on campus must be terribly distressing to you.”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “How is your thesis research coming along?”

  Jodi, hands high up on the steering wheel, looked straight ahead. “Okay, I guess.”

  They were driving home along the shady road that skirted Tashmoo. Jodi braked to let a flock of wild turkeys strut across the road. They reached the waterworks before either spoke again.

  “You know that paper Roberta wanted me to write?”

  Victoria felt a surge of anxiety at the tone of Jodi’s voice. “For a professional journal, you said. That would be a feather in your cap.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  They reached the stop sign at State Road.

  “What is it, Jodi? Something’s bothering you.”

  Jodi turned, pulled into the overlook, and shut off the engine. Victoria waited for her to say what was on her mind.

  The view spread out before them. The end-of-September day was unnaturally clear, so clear Victoria could make out the water tower, houses, and trees on the mainland, four miles away. Today was what her sea captain grandfather would have called a weather breeder. No wonder the surf had been so heavy at Quansoo. Foul weather was brewing, and would be here in a day or two.

  She turned to Jodi and waited. Something was wrong in the life of the bright, gutsy, too-young mother of four boys, the body-pierced and tattooed rebel, the scholar testing the waters of graduate school.

  “I finished that journal article, Mrs. T. I was so excited about it.” Jodi wiped a wrist across her eyes. Victoria handed her a paper napkin she’d kept from her lunch at the senior center and Jodi dabbed at her tears. “I think the article was pretty good.”

  “Was?” asked Victoria.

  “Yeah, well.” Jodi made a fist, squeezing the napkin. “Roberta said it needed editing. I figured she knows best. She changed it all around and it doesn’t sound like my work anymore.”

  “She was probably editing it to meet the standards of a particular journal.”

  “Yeah. Well, I thought okay, she knows best. She’s helping me. You know how interested she is in my research.”

  “You’ve been quite enthusiastic about her.”

  A tour bus pulled in behind them, and Victoria could hear the driver’s voice over the loudspeaker describing the summer homes of various celebrities. The bus left after a few minutes, trailing diesel fumes.

  “I don’t know what to think,” said Jodi. The bus geared up the hill and disappeared around a bend in the road. “She’s putting her name on my paper.”

  Victoria said, “It’s standard academic practice for an advisor to put his name on a student’s paper as junior author. It gives an unpublished student credibility.”

  “Yeah, well.” Jodi had draped both arms over the steering wheel and was staring straight ahead in the direction the bus had taken. “She said, since she’d done so much work on it—and she didn’t, Mrs. T.” Jodi glanced at Victoria. “She maybe changed my words around, but she didn’t add any stuff—she said she was putting her name on my paper as senior author. In other words, she’s taking credit for all the work I did.”

  “Have you spoken to her about it?”

  Jodi shook her head. “I don’t want to rock the boat. I need that degree.”

  “Would you like me to talk to her?”

  Jodi glanced back at Victoria. “Omigod, no, Mrs. T! That would be the kiss of death for sure.”

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, Victoria was on her kneeler, weeding the squash and bean rows. Robert Springer, who helped her occasionally with yard work, was mowing her grass, the last cutting of the year.

  She felt a sudden chill. Clouds had moved across the sun, high broken clouds that looked like fish scales, a mackerel sky. Weather was on its way, and soon.

  She tossed the pulled weeds into the garden cart and hoisted herself to her feet with the handles of her
kneeler. She’d done enough work for now.

  Robert pulled up to her on the lawn tractor. “Want me to dump those on the compost heap?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Robert.”

  He got off the tractor with a sigh. He was a short man with a two-day growth of beard, not the stylish kind boys the age of her grandchildren affected, but more like a street person’s. One of his ubiquitous hand-rolled cigarettes was dangling off his lower lip, the smoke curling up past his nose into his red-rimmed eyes.

  “Going to have some rain, looks like,” he said when he returned with the empty cart. “The garden can use it.”

  “I believe you’re right,” said Victoria.

  Early this morning, before her class, she’d hung laundry on the line to dry in the good southwest wind. Now the wind had backed around to the southeast. By tomorrow it would be northeast, bringing two or three days of rain. The surf pounded on the south shore, a steady rumble that she could feel through her feet. She needed to bring in the laundry before the storm broke.

  She unpinned the sweet-smelling sheets, folding them right off the line, carried the basket of clean laundry into the house, and set it on the washer in the downstairs bathroom. Elizabeth would put it away when she got home.

  She decided to write a sonnet inspired by Jodi’s initial delight and enthusiasm changing into such abject misery. She would title the poem “Weather Breeder.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Victoria was taking her typewriter out of its case when a silver Honda she didn’t recognize stopped in the drive. A tall, nicely built young man with bright red, almost orange, hair got out and headed toward the house. She met him at the entry door.

  “Mrs. Trumbull? I’m Christopher Wrentham. I’d like to talk to you, if I may. Is this a bad time?”

  Victoria wasn’t sure whether this was a bad time or not. She was in the throes of composing her sonnet, but she was curious about this young man’s mission. Now that he was up close she could see his dark eyes and fine large nose.

  “What is it you need to speak to me about?”