Poison Ivy

by Cynthia Riggs

  A fire. He had to get a fire going. He always carried a disposable lighter and a pocket knife, a holdover from his boyhood scouting days. Plenty of wood had washed up, but it was soaking wet. Searching along the shore for dry wood he found dead branches on the beach plum bushes that clung to the cliff, and broke off as many as he could. The bark was wet but the inside was dry.

  He collected a good-sized stack of wood and piled it in a semicircle around the man to shelter him from the wind. Once the fire was going, the wet stuff would dry out enough to burn.

  Before taking the dogs for their walk, he’d stopped at the post office and still had bills and catalogs in his pocket. For once, he was grateful for junk mail. He crumpled up the pages, arranged the beach plum twigs on top, and piled the smaller pieces of wet wood where they would dry and burn. He held the lighter under his electric bill and was satisfied at seeing it burst into flame. The twigs flared up, the small pieces of wood started to glow.

  The man groaned.

  Howland bent over him. “You’ll be okay, buddy.”

  * * *

  Before dawn, when the black of the sea was still merged into the black of the sky, Bill O’Malley grabbed a flashlight and he and Price Henderson followed the same route they’d traversed the evening before—down the cliff to the boathouse. The cliff path was slippery from yesterday’s rain and Price fell twice, the second time skidding a dozen feet and fetching up against a lush vine that he couldn’t make out in the dark.

  “That was close,” he gasped, getting to his feet unsteadily. “I was headed for the edge of the cliff.”

  “Vine stopped you?” asked O’Malley.

  “Thank God it did.”

  “Poison ivy,” said O’Malley, shining the flashlight on the glistening leaves. “All over the place. Great erosion control.”

  “Hell!” Price stumbled and fell again. “I’m sensitive to the damn stuff.” He scrambled up, trying to avoid the tough vine that had entangled his feet. His shoe came off and he retrieved it gingerly. It was still too dark to make out details.

  “When we get down to the cove, soak yourself with seawater. It helps some,” said O’Malley, sounding amused.

  “Not funny,” muttered Price.

  When they reached the foot of the cliff, waves were lapping gently along the edges of the cove.

  “I’ll take care of the boat,” said O’Malley, “You better wash yourself. Get the oil off.”

  O’Malley checked out the motor and turned on the blower. Price waded into the chill water, clothes and all, until the water was above his waist. He ducked under, spluttering as he emerged, and scrubbed his hands and feet with sand.

  “Climb aboard,” O’Malley called out from the boathouse. “There’s a towel in the cabin. Let’s go.”

  They headed out into the lightening dawn. Price shivered in his wet clothes.

  O’Malley shucked off his sweatshirt and tossed it to Price. “Here, put this on.”

  “Thanks,” said Price.

  The line between sea and sky emerged, the sky pale pink, the sea a steel gray. As they reached the middle of the cove, the clouds flared with gold and rose. The water had calmed somewhat since the night before, but was still rough.

  They were well out into the middle of the cove before Price spotted his boat close to the far shore and to their left. “There she is!”

  “She’s stern into the wind. That’s odd,” said O’Malley, changing direction to steer toward the disabled sailboat.

  “Hey, there’s Jodi!” Price stood up and waved his arms over his head. Wind slapped and fluttered his wet trousers against his legs. “Something’s wrong. She’s all hunched over. I can’t see her face. Where’s Chris?”

  * * *

  Chris was on a stretcher. The EMTs summoned by Howland Atherton had carried him the long distance from his resting place on Paul’s Point to the closest dirt road. He was now in the Tri-Town Ambulance heading for the Martha’s Vineyard Hospital. He was conscious, could talk, but had no idea where he was or who he was.

  “Temporary amnesia,” Erica, the lead EMT, had told Howland before they’d taken off. “He seems to be in good shape otherwise. Probably fell off a fishing boat in the storm. It’s lucky you found him. He’s really, really lucky to be alive.”

  * * *

  Roberta Chadwick had been violently seasick during the storm. Her prison boat lifted and dropped, swung back and forth, rocked in crazy unpredictable directions. She wanted to die. She’d looped an arm around the ladder on the port side and heaved up everything in her stomach, then tried to heave up her stomach as well. She’d finally gone below, flopped onto her bunk, and fell into a fitful doze. When she awoke the next morning, the storm had passed and heavy swells shifted the boat in a slow rhythm that made her almost as sick as the stormy confusion of the day before.

  She hadn’t eaten. She felt weak and helpless and depressed. It seemed as though she’d been held captive for months, not days.

  Her new life had developed a routine that was like nothing she’d ever followed before. Wake up when the sun comes up. Heat water. Breakfast. An apple or an orange. Cereal. Bathe. Walk around the deck. Watch for rescue boats. Read. Write. Lunch. Check supplies. Walk. Write. Read. Watch. Supper. Read. Write. Rinse out underwear. Bed.

  Except for her seasickness during the storm, when she wished to die, she’d begun to appreciate her peaceful, contemplative life. There was a certain freedom to it. Her only responsibility was survival, and that was simple.

  She continued to wonder who had kidnapped her and why. She’d given up thinking about when they would come for her. In the past few days she’d begun to talk to herself.

  The deadline for submitting her papers had passed. The importance of tenure faded. She thought of her students, Jodi, Christopher, and Price. They would be so disappointed that the papers they’d helped her with would not be published.

  She was taking her morning walk, hoping to feel a bit better and perhaps eat something for breakfast. She adjusted her stride to the motion of the boat. Every morning she walked to the bow along the port side and back on the starboard. Posh, she amused herself by thinking. The word dated from the days of the British Empire, when the most desirable cabins aboard ships bound for India were Port Outbound, Starboard Homebound. Evenings she varied her route. Starboard to the bow, port return.

  The glorious sunrise began to lift her spirits. Pink clouds above bright orange clouds, set in the bluest sky she’d ever seen. She stood in the stern facing the rising sun and took a deep breath. She had no right to be depressed. She raised her arms to greet the day, and it was then that she saw a boat approaching. It rose to the top of a swell, then disappeared behind it. She waved. The boat was heading directly toward her. It was true! She was about to be rescued. She was saved!

  * * *

  Professor Bigelow closed his eyes. He was lying in several inches of water. Dirt tumbled from the sides of the open grave onto him. The earth around him stank of mold and decay. He’d lost his glasses. Was he lying on them? Could he find them, and were they broken, and did it matter? His ankle hurt. He must have twisted it when he fell.

  How would it feel to be buried alive? He thought of dirt filling his nostrils and lungs. Would his life flash before his eyes? He sensed he was about to find out.

  He would learn the identity of his killer, but no one would ever know. Such an untimely and ignominious end. He tried to pull out his handkerchief, but the grave was too narrow for him to get a hand into his pocket.

  He opened his eyes and looked up at the figure still looming over him, crouching, hands on knees, a black silhouette against the pale blush of dawn. His last view of the sky. The figure coughed. More dirt trickled from the side of the grave onto his chest.

  Bigelow groaned.

  “Hey, down there. You okay?”

  “I … I … I…” stammered Bigelow, closing his eyes again.

  “Need a hand?”

  “I … I…” said Bigelow. “I … beg y
our pardon?”

  “You hurt?”

  “I … I … my ankle.” The weak high voice that emerged sounded far, far away. Couldn’t have been his.

  “Can you stand up?”

  Bigelow, feeling more than nine-tenths of the way to his eternity, didn’t know whether he could stand up or not.

  “Got some newspaper twine in the wagon. Wait here, and I’ll get it.”

  Wait here? Wait here? thought Bigelow. Newspaper twine?

  Dimly he heard, or rather, felt, footsteps retreating. He dropped his head back into the water, now slightly warmed by his body heat. Water trickled into his ears, giving all sounds an ethereal quality. He thought of his glasses, and tried to lift himself to feel beneath him, but it was too much trouble. The footsteps returned.

  “Twine’s pretty strong,” the voice said. “I’ll double it up. Should hold you.”

  Hold me? Bigelow, drifted. I wonder if I can go to the meeting wearing these clothes.

  “Hey!” said the voice. “Wake up! Don’t weak out on me.”

  A hairy, thin rope descended into the grave.

  “Grab ahold!”

  Bigelow lifted a hand. His arm followed. He allowed the twine-rope to wrap around his hand. Then his arm dropped back again.

  “Come on, now. You gotta help,” said the voice.

  Bigelow was beyond caring.

  “Wasn’t that bad of a fall,” said the voice. “Grab ahold.”

  While Bigelow drifted, drifted, he heard the voice mumble something about damn cell phones and lousy reception and heart attacks and the next thing he heard were sirens.

  The Sirens were coming for him. Ah, yes. He understood now. The Sirens’ song. Greek mythology. That’s what he was hearing. The end of that song was death. The Sirens would carry him away.

  CHAPTER 29

  Bruce Steinbicker shaded his eyes against the glare coming off the water. “What’s a woman doing on my boat?”

  “Guess we’ll find out in a couple minutes,” said Richard, easing back on the throttle to slow the launch. “Bruce, put out a fender. We don’t want to scratch your paint job.”

  The woman waved frantically and did a sort of happy shuffle. She cupped her hands around her mouth, apparently shouting something they were still too far away to hear.

  Richard circled the yacht and drew up alongside.

  “Thank God!” the woman cried. “Who are you?”

  “Harbormaster,” said Richard.

  Bruce flung a line around a deck cleat and stared up at the woman. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Victoria had been sitting on the bench inside the cabin. Now that the launch was coupled with the yacht, she moved carefully into the cockpit, watching her footing and matching her steps to the roll of the boat.

  She looked up.

  “Roberta?” she asked, astonished. “Roberta Chadwick?”

  “Mrs. Trumbull! Thank God you’ve come!”

  Bruce was holding the bitter end of the line he’d just cleated. “What’s going on?” He tossed the line onto the deck of the yacht, a good two feet above him.

  “I have no idea what’s going on,” said Roberta. “Who are you?”

  “We’re coming aboard,” said Richard. “Let me take your hand, Mrs. Trumbull. High step up.”

  Victoria grasped the firm hand that lifted her up and over the railing. “Thank you,” she said, slightly out of breath.

  “This is my boat,” said Bruce to Roberta. “What are you doing on her?”

  “Your boat! I’m being held prisoner on your boat, that’s what!”

  “What in hell are you talking about, lady?”

  Victoria stepped over to Roberta who seized her in an enthusiastic hug. “I’m so glad to see you, Mrs. Trumbull!”

  “We’ve been worried about you,” said Victoria, extricating herself. Roberta looked quite attractive. She’d lost weight. She had a nice healthy tan and her hair had sun-bleached streaks that any hairdresser would aspire to copy.

  “How did you ever find me, Mrs. Trumbull?” She grasped Victoria’s hands. “Thank you, thank you!”

  “We’re so glad you’re safe.” Victoria pulled her hands away.

  Bruce cleared his throat.

  Roberta glanced at him, then asked Victoria, “Who is this man?”

  Before Victoria could answer, he said, “I’m Bruce Steinbicker.”

  “The television star,” said Victoria, with pride.

  Roberta turned on him. “You’re the TV star? Is this some fantastic plot in your miserable television series? You think this is funny, holding a woman captive on your yacht? I suppose you’ve got hidden cameras all around?” Roberta’s face was flushed an attractive pink that contrasted nicely with her tan.

  “Wait one damn minute,” said Bruce. “You’re trespassing on my boat.”

  Richard was checking out the yacht, moving forward slowly toward the bow, ignoring the drama behind him.

  “Trespassing!” shrieked Roberta. “You think I swam out here for fun?” She swept her arm at the roiling water that separated her from the Island.

  “Just a moment,” said Victoria. “I need to sit down.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Bruce, brushing off the bench seat and holding out his arm for Victoria to take.

  She sat down and smoothed out her gray corduroy trousers.

  “You know this woman, Mrs. Trumbull?” He gestured at Roberta.

  “Roberta, you’ve been reported missing, but the police believe…”

  “Police!” said Roberta.

  “… the police believe you’re attending a conference off Island,” Victoria continued. “They’re so involved in searching for the serial killer, they haven’t taken your disappearance seriously.”

  “Serial killer?” asked Roberta, paling. “What serial killer?” She glanced quickly at Bruce.

  “Don’t look at me,” said Bruce. “I want to know how you got onto my boat.”

  “So do I,” said Roberta, flushing again. “I woke up on your miserable hulk a week ago, and have been trying to get off ever since.”

  “Ever think of using the radio?” asked Bruce.

  “I tried it, of course. It doesn’t work.”

  “You have a cell phone?”

  “My kidnappers weren’t considerate enough to leave mine.”

  “I’d like you to meet Professor Roberta Chadwick. She’s with Cape Cod University,” Victoria said to Bruce. “Did I understand you lived on your boat?”

  “I’ve been staying in a buddy’s guesthouse for a week or so.” Bruce turned away.

  “And the buddy?” asked Victoria.

  “He was supposed to check on my boat occasionally.”

  “Did anyone come to check on the boat during the time you’ve been here, Roberta?”

  “Certainly not. If they had, I’d have jolly well gotten off this stinking barge.”

  “It’s not a barge and it doesn’t stink,” said Bruce. “It’s an antique Egg Harbor, and was in pristine condition, at least it was until…”

  “Don’t you dare say what I think you’re about to say,” said Roberta.

  “Who’s your buddy?” Victoria asked.

  Bruce looked from Victoria to Roberta, who was looking extremely fresh and attractive after her time on the boat. “I’d rather not say.”

  Richard leaped down onto the deck after his inspection. “You sure keep her Bristol fashion.”

  “I care about this boat,” said Bruce. “I don’t like the idea of some shopworn hussy parking her fat self on my clean boat.”

  “Shopworn!” sputtered Roberta. “Hussy? Fat! You arrogant pinhead. You think I’d set foot on this worm-eaten dump for one second of my own accord?”

  “Stop!” ordered Victoria. “Both of you.”

  * * *

  The Ivy Green College Oversight Committee met in Woodbine (Poison Ivy) Hall, convened by the university’s provost. They were seated in assorted chairs around a card table in the dining room. Hammermill Jones
had taken control of the meeting in the absence of their usual chair.

  Petrinia Paulinia Kralich flung a strand of her long white hair over her shoulder. “What are you doing here, Hammermill? I thought you quit.” Today Professor Kralich was wearing a pin-striped navy blue suit coat above layers of filmy rust-colored skirts over black leggings, bottomed off with her combat boots.

  Hammermill ignored her. “Professor Bigelow arrived this morning around four a.m., but he’s in the hospital.”

  “The hospital? What happened?”

  Hammermill shrugged. “He’s suffering from shock.”

  Noah Sutterfield had been sorting through a manila folder plastered with stickers of flags of African nations. He looked up. “How did that happen?”

  “He fell into one of the open graves at the edge of the campus,” said Hammermill. “Beyond that, we don’t know.”

  “I don’t understand why they haven’t filled in those graves,” said Petrinia. “It’s not only dangerous, it’s gruesome.” She arose in a swirl of skirts and went into the kitchen. Water splashed. The microwave chirped.

  Sutterfield closed the folder. “Did I understand you to say Bigelow got here around four? I thought the first boat got in around quarter to seven.”

  “He came over on the boat that carries the newspapers. The delivery man gave Bigelow a ride from Oak Bluffs.”

  The microwave chirped again and a moment later Professor Kralich returned, dipping a tea bag into a cup of steaming water. “I heard what you said, Hammermill, but why did Professor Bigelow come over so early?” She pushed the sleeve of the blue coat up exposing a massive watch and studied it. “It’s only a little after nine now, and this meeting was scheduled for nine o’clock.”

  “Who knows what was going through Bigelow’s mind?” said Hammermill. “The provost insisted that we meet at the earliest possible moment, and, as we know, Bigelow has a literal mind.”

  Petrinia squeezed the tea bag and dropped it into the wastepaper basket. “Why is the provost getting involved in our affairs?”

  Sutterfield covered a yawn. “He wants to deflect the bad publicity generated by that bad dog that keeps digging up corpses.”