Killdeer laughed. “He kills and buries them on the Island to save ferry fare.”
“How would the killer know they were faculty members?” Victoria continued. “The victims were probably not frequent visitors, or someone would have missed them.”
Killdeer nodded. “Umm hunh.”
“The killer must know the Island well. He either lives here or spends a great deal of time here.”
Killdeer chewed steadily.
Victoria said, “He had to know when the Ivy Green campus would be deserted so he could bury his bodies. Each burial must have taken some time.”
“Want to guess his age?” asked Killdeer.
Victoria lifted up her coffee mug and held it in both hands then set it down without drinking. “Do they teach strangling in the military?”
“Depends on the branch of service, but yeah. The military would teach him how to use a rope or a wire.”
“Age,” murmured Victoria, looking down at her scratch pad. “He’d have to have completed his graduate work at the doctoral level in order to be on a tenure track.”
“Figures,” said Killdeer.
Victoria sighed and then sipped her coffee. “Let’s say he graduated from high school at eighteen and went into the military to pay for college. Three years or more in the service, four years of college, two years to get a master’s degree, four years for a Ph.D.” She paused. “Was that the route you took, Dr. Killdeer? Military service?”
“You got it. So by then he was thirty-one, -two. Somewhere around there.”
“He may have accepted a teaching job right away, on a tenure track. I think that ranges from five to seven years.” She deferred to Killdeer. “You would know more about tenure track time than I.”
“No, ma’am,” said Killdeer. “Never wanted that academic shit.’Scuse me. Puts him at around forty.”
Victoria nodded. “Assuming he was denied tenure, he may have tried to get another academic position.”
“Being denied tenure is not necessarily a career killer,” said Smalley.
“Not if he’d taught at an Ivy League college,” said Killdeer.
“But if he taught at a less-than-top-ranked institution and was denied tenure, he’d have had a difficult time finding another position,” said Victoria.
Smalley was sketching what looked like a brick pattern on his pad.
Killdeer leaned over, examined the sketch, and snapped his gum. “You want ivy on that brick wall, man. Some of that poison stuff.”
Smalley tossed down his pencil.
“I’m really just guessing here,” said Victoria. “Would it take three years, four before he started killing?”
“You’re doing just fine, Mrs. Trumbull. So we’re looking for a guy early forties.”
Victoria said, “I don’t mean to tell you what to look for.”
Killdeer leaned back in his chair again, arms behind his head. “You got a great future as a profiler, know that? Eight or nine years, you’ll be tops in the field.” He grinned. “So this guy has a Ph.D., taught at some Podunk college, lives on the Island or at least knows it well, and hates professors.”
“Not just professors.” Victoria’s face had an attractive pink flush. “I’m guessing tenured professors.” She looked down again and smiled at the growing acceptance of her as fellow investigator. “Perhaps he’s jealous of tenured professors.”
Smalley stood and refilled Casey’s coffee. “Warm yours up, Mrs. Trumbull?”
Victoria pushed her mug toward him. “Thank you.”
“The killing hasn’t stopped,” said Casey. “The body we found in Catbriar Hall was only a couple of weeks old.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Killdeer. “Following a pattern. He needs more and more stimulation to satisfy that urge he’s got. Killings get closer and closer together.”
“Looks like he’s not following the pattern, though,” said Smalley. “Seven of the bodies were buried. The most recent one’s been different, found inside a building.”
“Yup.” Killdeer set his chair back down and put his elbows on the table. “Latest body was easy to find. The body before that was only lightly buried. He wants us to find the bodies. Probably wants us to find him.”
“He had to have access to a key to Catbriar Hall,” said Casey.
“Pick the lock on that garage door with a toothpick,” said Killdeer with a snort.
Smalley stood. “We’ve got work ahead of us. A forty-something-year-old, well-educated male, attended a lesser-known college, military background, knows the Island.”
Victoria said, “He’s likely to be well-known and respected on the Island. He may attend gatherings and lectures where he’ll meet his future victims.”
“The guy’s killed eight men in cold blood,” said Casey. “You’d think he’d stand out as being different.”
“Take a look at convicted serial killers,” said Killdeer. “Neighbors thought almost every one of them looked like a normal human being.” He adopted a falsetto. “‘I never dreamed that nice man next door … He’s so polite.’” His voice dropped back. “Yes, ma’am. That smell isn’t the homemade beer he’s brewing in the cellar. He’s got twenty-three dead young boys buried there.”
CHAPTER 20
Since Jodi wasn’t available to chauffeur her after class, Victoria had an hour or so to wait for her granddaughter to pick her up after work.
She walked to the administration building still known as Woodbine Hall to turn in her attendance records. The afternoon was golden. In the distance she heard the whistle of the ferry leaving for Woods Hole. The air was full of the whisper of falling leaves. The fragrance of autumn almost hid the faint aroma of death. It was difficult to think of the campus to her right as a crime scene, the once-velvet lawn now pitted and muddy.
She heard voices of policemen she’d known as children. Shovels chinked on stones in the sandy soil. Flung dirt thudded rhythmically onto a growing pile beside a new excavation.
Victoria looked up at the oak trees, where the katydids were tuning up for their evening serenade. Beyond the treetops, Canada geese flew in formation, honking a nostalgic song of far-off places.
After the body of Dr. Journeyman Cash was found under the accumulation of leaves sloughed off by the lush vine that clung to the outer walls of Woodbine Hall, students had renamed the building Poison Ivy Hall. Victoria, too, now thought of it by that name, although she was careful not to say it aloud in the presence of Thackery Wilson.
She trudged up the creaky front steps with a firm hold on the railing. The wooden steps could use a few solid boards and a coat of paint—soon, before winter set in.
Afternoon sunlight reflected off the stained-glass panels in the front door. As she opened it, purple and green images of glass grapes and leaves shifted on the worn floorboards of the front hall.
At first, Victoria didn’t notice that Thackery was meeting with someone. She was listening to her own thoughts about poetry. Reflections would be a good theme for a sestina. She would need six words for the framework of the poem, a tricky form, with its repetition of those six words at the end of each stanza. Musing on this she walked into Thackery’s office.
“Oh,” she blurted out. “I’m so sorry, Thackery. I didn’t realize you had someone with you.”
Thackery stood as did his guest. When he turned to greet her, she recognized, with a start, the older version of Price Henderson, who’d come to her about Roberta Chadwick. No question about the relationship. Dr. Wellborn Price, the man standing before her, had to be his father. Images. Echoes. Reflections. Three words. This flashed through her mind before she could speak.
Apparently mistaking Victoria’s hesitation as trying to place who he was, the man held out his hand. “Professor Trumbull, I’m Wellborn Price.”
“Of course,” said Victoria, taking his large hand in hers. “We met when I was here in the office, trying to handle phone calls.”
“Succeeding, I would say, not trying. I believe that was the day Br
ownie discovered his fourth body.”
“Won’t you join us, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Thackery, wheeling over the chair from Linda’s desk. “Linda’s gone home for the day.”
“She’s not sick again?” asked Victoria.
“She’s upset about her younger sister, who seems to have disappeared.”
“Sister?” Victoria leaned forward and the chair tilted with a squeal.
“That needs WD-40, Thackery, old man,” said Wellborn.
Thackery opened his lower desk drawer. “Paint, new windows, squeaking chairs, new steps, new roof.” He produced a spray can and shut the drawer again. “Duct tape holds this place together and WD-40 makes things work.”
“Linda’s sister?” repeated Victoria.
“Roberta Chadwick,” said Thackery. “You know her, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course. Jodi Paloni’s advisor.”
Thackery stood and approached Victoria’s chair with the spray can. “Here, let me get at that.”
Victoria moved aside. “I had no idea Roberta had an older sister.”
Thackery nodded. “Ten years older. Linda, the consummate hypochondriac, is sick with worry. You’d think Roberta was her child.” He returned to his desk and put the WD-40 away. “I told her Professor Chadwick is attending a meeting off Island. Try rocking that chair again.”
“That seems to have done it,” said Victoria. “The police agree with you about an off Island conference.”
“What do the police have to do with it?” asked Thackery.
“Roberta’s neighbor was concerned about her cat and reported her missing.”
“I know Mrs. Hamilton,” muttered Thackery.
Wellborn had watched the chair repair with interest, and swiveled his own, as though testing its noise level. “Roberta Chadwick. I’ve come across that name somewhere.”
“She teaches sociology at Cape Cod University,” said Thackery. “Up for tenure this year and she’s under a good bit of stress.”
Wellborn smiled. “That demon word tenure again. My guess is she’s taking a break.”
“I must admit, I’m a bit uneasy,” said Victoria. “She’s single-minded about tenure. She was working on papers she planned to submit to a journal…” She stopped and thought about the three students whose research papers Professor Chadwick had appropriated. Undoubtedly those were the papers found on her dining room table. “I don’t believe she would have abandoned those papers to attend a conference.”
Wellborn asked, “What about the papers? You hesitated when you mentioned them.”
“Roberta Chadwick was working on a publications deadline. I can’t believe she would have left before she submitted those papers.” If Roberta was not attending a meeting, where could she be? Until she knew, Victoria didn’t want to say anything that would implicate the three students.
“Much ado over nothing,” said Thackery.
Victoria swiveled to face Wellborn Price. “An interesting young man came to Catbriar Hall the other day after my class let out. His name is Price Henderson.”
“Oh?” said Wellborn.
“He’s spent several years traveling around the world, and is here on the Vineyard, living on his sailboat.”
“How old is this young man of yours?”
“I would guess he’s in his early forties. He’s working on a master’s degree at Cape Cod University. I gathered he already has an advanced degree.”
Thackery was listening, his head tilted to one side, his elbows resting on his chair arms.
“He reminded me of you, Dr. Price. Even his name.”
“Price. Hardly a common first name.”
“He was adopted as a child by his stepfather. His mother is still alive, divorced now.”
Wellborn got to his feet and went to the window. “I don’t suppose he mentioned his mother’s name?”
“No.”
Thackery said, “Right age for Bigelow’s nephew.”
“Impossible,” Wellborn said under his breath. He stared out of the cracked and dusty window.
“When did you last see your son?” Victoria asked.
“I never did.” Wellborn turned away from the window. “We planned to get married, but her father was opposed.”
“Why? Even at that age it must have been clear that you had a promising future.”
Wellborn interrupted with a short laugh. “It involved academic politics. Her father rushed her off to Istanbul, I learned later, where he’d accepted a teaching position at Robert College.” He returned to his seat. “We had plans, she and I. Her father and brother, our Professor Bigelow, squelched that.” He rocked his chair. “We were in love.” He paused. “I still am. Never married.”
Victoria said nothing.
The song of the katydids seeped into the room.
Thackery shifted papers around on his desk, opened the shallow drawer, straightened pencils, and shut it again.”
“I traced them to Turkey,” Wellborn said, “then lost the trail. I finally gave up hope of finding him.”
“What about her?” asked Victoria.
“I assume she married and established a life of her own. I had no right to disrupt that. A face out of her past. But my son…”
Thackery turned to Victoria. “How did the boy end up on the Vineyard?”
“He’d heard that Dr. Price would be teaching an economics course here, and came to the Vineyard to see about taking the course.”
“Hardly a coincidence.” Thackery steepled his fingers.
“Price was told his birth father had been killed in an automobile accident. He’s been searching for years for information about his father’s death.” Victoria glanced at Wellborn. “Has he contacted you?”
He shook his head.
They sat without talking, listening to the repetitious song of the katydids. After a bit Wellborn said, “He’s enrolled in a master’s degree program?”
“Sociology. He’s one of Roberta Chadwick’s students.”
Wellborn said, “You’ve got an expressive face, Professor Trumbull. What about Roberta Chadwick?”
Victoria nodded. “The papers Roberta was editing when she disappeared were the work of three of her students.”
“CCU students?” asked Wellborn.
“Two from Cape Cod University, one from Ivy Green.”
“Jodi Paloni, I assume,” said Thackery.
“I assume one of the CCU students is Price Henderson,” said Wellborn.
Victoria nodded. “His paper was on the sociological implications of the search for birth parents by adoptees.”
Wellborn groaned.
“The students gave Roberta their papers understanding she would submit them to a journal under their names.”
“I suppose Professor Chadwick intended to add her name as co-author? That’s quite usual,” said Wellborn.
“She was submitting them under her name alone. When I spoke to her about this, she said it was imperative for her to publish.”
“The tenure issue has been cause for murder at times in the past,” said Wellborn, smiling. “I don’t suppose…”
“The three students are upset by what they perceive as injustice. Plagiarism,” said Victoria, sitting forward. “Two of the students went to the university authorities and were brushed off.”
“Soooo,” said Wellborn, drawing the single word out. “You think they’ve taken matters into their own hands.”
“I’m afraid so,” said Victoria.
* * *
Elizabeth walked into Thackery’s office just as Victoria stood. She looked from her grandmother to Thackery, whom she knew, then to Wellborn Price, who’d stood when Victoria did.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” said Elizabeth. “I’m parked outside and can wait.”
“Not at all,” said Thackery. “I don’t believe you’ve met Dr. Wellborn Price. Elizabeth Trumbull, Victoria’s granddaughter.”
“Trumbull?” Wellborn raised his eyebrows.
Elizabeth laughed.
“My mother kept her maiden name, and I kept hers. I don’t know why our name can’t carry through the female line.”
Wellborn stuck out his hand and they shook.
“I’m ready to leave,” said Victoria. “We’d been discussing Roberta Chadwick’s disappearance.”
“Among other things,” said Wellborn.
The two women left, descended the worn steps, and climbed into Elizabeth’s waiting Volkswagen. The convertible top was down to take advantage of the warm day. Duct tape on the folded-down canvas top fluttered in the light breeze.
Victoria smiled at the thought of the ubiquitous duct tape and WD-40.
They detoured past Tisbury School without speaking and went around by the Waterworks.
“What happened in there?” asked Elizabeth.
Victoria told her about Wellborn Price and his lost son. “And Roberta Chadwick has disappeared, as you know. I’m concerned about her students, who are understandably upset. Let’s get home and sit down with a drink.”
They drove past the Tashmoo overlook, a scene that always lightened Victoria’s mood. The tawny grass of the sloping meadow waved gently in the light breeze, rippling like the waters beyond.
“We can stop for mail, first,” said Elizabeth, “if you’re not in a hurry for that drink.”
“I am, but it can wait a few minutes.”
Three of the regulars were on Alley’s porch, Joe, Sarah, and Lincoln. Elizabeth parked in front of the store.
“Mrs. T, how’re you doin’?” asked Joe the plumber, leaning, as usual, against one of the posts that held up the roof as well as Joe. He pushed his faded red baseball cap back and scratched his head.
“Nice to see you, Joe,” said Victoria, stepping up onto the porch. She nodded to Lincoln, who was standing next to the sign above the rusted red Coca-Cola ice chest that read CANNED PEAS. Elizabeth had already gone into the store for the mail. Sarah moved to one side to make room.
“Nice day, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Lincoln. “Won’t have too many more like this. You teach today?” He was a tall, gangly man, a landscaper.
“I’ve just come from the college.”
“Found any more bodies lately?” asked Joe.
Poison Ivy Page 13
