Poison Ivy

by Cynthia Riggs

  “It’s not funny, Noah.” Petrinia blew on her tea. “How long will Professor Bigelow be in the hospital?”

  “Who knows? They’ll probably keep him overnight for observation and release him tomorrow,” said Hammermill. “It’s hardly life threatening to fall into an open pit.”

  “Grave, not pit,” said Petrinia. “How did he get out?”

  “The delivery man was heading to West Chop and spotted him cutting through the police tapes,” said Hammermill. “The fellow parked and saw him fall.” Hammermill selected a letter from the pile of papers in front of him and held it up. “The provost wants us to make a determination on whether or not to continue the university’s support of this”—he waved his arm around the shabby room—“this institution.”

  “It’s a college,” corrected Petrinia.

  “Whatever,” said Hammermill. “There’s not much we can do until we get the committee back up to strength.”

  “Someone had better find the killer first,” said Sutterfield. “Committee members are losing interest right and left. Harlan Bliss and Journeyman Cash—dead. Dedie Wieler—left the university. The Reverend Bob White—moral issues with the murders. Cosimo Perrini—too sensitive to handle the plethora of corpses.” Sutterfield leaned back in his chair. “I’m ready to quit. What about you, Petrinia?”

  “Frankly, I think this oversight committee is a sham,” said Petrinia. “Thackery Wilson is trying to make education available to Island residents. What’s wrong with that? Why should he need an oversight committee?”

  Hammermill cleared his throat. “Standards, Petrinia.”

  “Standards, baloney. Best qualified faculty I’ve ever heard of. Retired from Ivy League colleges, Nobel Prize winners, Pulitzer Prize winners.” She gestured around the dining room. “So what if the buildings are shabby? And what’s going on between Bigelow and Wellborn Price?”

  Sutterfield laughed. “You mean, you hadn’t heard?”

  Petrinia sat forward. “Now what?”

  “Wellborn Price, who was an associate professor at the time, fathered Bigelow’s sister’s son. She was his graduate student.”

  “And Wellborn Price wouldn’t marry her?” asked Petrinia.

  “Her father wouldn’t let them marry. He tried to block his tenure application, but Wellborn got tenure anyway.”

  Hammermill pushed his chair away from the card table, got up, and strolled over to the window. “I don’t think we need to go through all of this,” he said.

  “I hadn’t heard about it,” said Petrinia. “I gather that didn’t settle the matter?

  “Of course not,” said Sutterfield. “A couple of years later, Wellborn was on the tenure committee when our Bigelow applied for tenure.” Sutterfield waved a hand in the air. “Tenure denied.”

  “So that explains why he’s harassing Wellborn Price,” said Petrinia. “I wondered. What happened to the son?”

  “Who knows?” said Sutterfield.

  Hammermill returned to his seat. “I make a motion that we adjourn.”

  “We’ve come all this way, it seems as though we ought to accomplish something,” said Sutterfield.

  Hammermill gathered up loose papers and stashed them in his briefcase.

  “Has anyone talked to Thackery Wilson recently?” asked Petrinia.

  “Can’t imagine why we would,” said Hammermill, standing up again.

  “I think we should call the hospital and find out how Bigelow is,” said Petrinia.

  “Privacy laws. They won’t tell you a thing,” said Sutterfield.

  “Isn’t anyone concerned about him?” Petrinia looked from one to the other.

  “Not especially,” said Hammermill.

  “I need a cup of real coffee,” said Sutterfield, heading for the door.

  CHAPTER 30

  When Victoria ordered the two combatants, Roberta and Bruce, to stop squabbling, they looked at her in astonishment, but stopped.

  Richard grinned.

  “Professor Chadwick has been missing for more than a week, Bruce,” said Victoria. “Clearly, she was taken here by people who knew you were otherwise occupied.” She paused. “Who knew your plans?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She asked Roberta, “What do you recall of your capture?”

  “I was working on my papers for the journal when someone came to the door, and that’s the last I remember.”

  “Do you recall what the person looked like? Tall or short?”

  Roberta paused. A wave lifted the boat and she shifted with the motion. “Tall. Quite a bit taller than me.”

  “Man or woman?”

  Roberta paused again. “It was awfully dark. Man, I’m pretty sure. I was bleary-eyed from editing. Someone may have been behind him. There may have been two people.”

  Victoria started to get to her feet. The boat rocked and Richard held out his arm. She took it.

  “We need to get Roberta back to shore right now,” she said. “Bruce, you must talk to the police. Roberta was kidnapped. This is a police matter.”

  “I don’t want the police involved,” said Bruce. “My show. My reputation.”

  “You have no choice. Check out your boat. Then we’ve got to get back to shore.”

  Richard jumped down into the whaler and started the motor. He held out a hand for Victoria, who eased herself down into the launch. She glanced up at Roberta. “Do you have anything of yours on board Bruce’s boat that you want to take with you?”

  Roberta indicated the wrinkled pink sweatshirt she was wearing. “This is it.” She thought a moment. “A couple of things I want are below.” She went down into the cabin and came back with the journal she’d been keeping. She was wearing a blue down jacket.

  “That’s my jacket,” said Bruce.

  “Tough,” said Roberta, zipping it up.

  * * *

  O’Malley and Price Henderson pulled up alongside Price’s sailboat, and were met by a sobbing, hysterical Jodi.

  Price tossed a line to her, but she was incapable of doing anything with it, so O’Malley snuggled his boat against the sailboat and held it there while Price reached up and wrapped the line around a cleat.

  “What’s the matter, Jodi?” Price asked, clambering aboard. “The boat? No big deal. I’m sure she’s okay.”

  Jodi sobbed and shook her head. Price noticed that her nose stud had fallen out.

  “You hurt? Where’s Chris, down below?”

  Jodi dropped onto the deck, curled up, and put both arms over her head.

  O’Malley finished making the two boats fast and climbed aboard the sailboat. “What in hell’s her trouble?”

  Price knelt next to her. “Jodi? Chris—where’s Chris?”

  “Da … da … da … dead,” she whispered.

  “What? Where is he?”

  Jodi sobbed. “No … no … no…”

  “For Christ’s sake,” said O’Malley. “Let’s get her below and give her a shot of brandy.”

  They got her to her feet and down the three steps into the cabin, laid her on the settee, and put a blanket over her.

  “You got brandy aboard? Whiskey? Spirits of any kind?”

  “Rum,” said Price, searching through lockers.

  “There it is, right there,” said O’Malley, reaching above Price’s head. “I always did have a nose for finding the stuff.”

  O’Malley poured a dose into a plastic tumbler, held Jodi’s head up, and poured some of the rum into her. “I hope you’re not an alky,” said O’Malley. “This would be the last thing you need.”

  Jodi coughed and sputtered. She shook her head as O’Malley tried to get her to drink more. He handed the glass to Price with an inch of rum still in it. “Take it away from me, will you?”

  Price took the tumbler. “Jodi, you gotta tell me what’s happened.”

  Jodi gasped out, “Chris fell overboard. He’s dead.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw him make it to shore. He staggered a few fee
t and collapsed.” Jodi coughed.

  “Drink some more of this, Jodi.”

  She shook her head. “The surf must have washed him out to sea. I’ll never see him again.”

  “Use the radio in my boat, Price,” said O’Malley. “Call the communications center.”

  “Not the Coast Guard?”

  “Communications first. He may have made it to shore. After that, call the Coast Guard.”

  * * *

  On the way back to the Vineyard Haven harbor, Bruce Steinbicker and Roberta Chadwick sat as far apart as anyone can get on an eighteen-foot boat. Neither spoke.

  The sound of the engine made it difficult to talk, anyway. Victoria seated herself on the bench in the sheltered cabin and Richard headed back to the harbormaster’s dock.

  During the short time they’d been gone, the bright clouds of sunrise had cleared away leaving a brilliant blue sky. The sea surface had only an occasional whitecap.

  At the dock, Bruce helped the harbormaster tie up the launch, then held out a hand for Victoria to step ashore.

  What a difference a week had made in Roberta’s appearance, Victoria thought. It wasn’t just dropping four or five pounds, it seemed to be her entire attitude. She was more relaxed than she’d been at their aborted luncheon. The tan was becoming. Her eyes were clear.

  On the dock, Roberta turned and embraced Victoria again. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much you’ve meant to me.”

  At Victoria’s puzzled look, she continued. “Not only did you rescue me, but during this past week I’ve thought a lot about what you said.”

  “What I said?” Victoria repeated, leaning against a dock piling.

  “Plagiarism.”

  “Ah,” said Victoria.

  A gull flashed by in the brilliant sky. Victoria looked up. Richard stepped up onto the dock. “Any time you need to leave for home, I’ll give you a ride, Mrs. Trumbull.”

  “Thank you,” said Victoria.

  He left them and began to coil up the tangle of lines that had been tossed onto the dock.

  “You were saying, Roberta?” said Victoria.

  “I guess tenure isn’t all that important. There are other jobs out there,” Roberta said. “Anyway, I wanted you to know I listened to you.”

  Bruce Steinbicker helped Richard tidy up the boat and approached Roberta.

  “Excuse me, Professor Chadwick.” He cleared his throat. “I believe I owe you an apology.” He spoke with the mellow voice so familiar to TV viewers. “I was too hasty. May I buy you lunch at the Black Dog to make amends?”

  “Well…” Roberta looked down at her faded and grubby clothes.

  “As you know, the Black Dog is accustomed to serving sailors. After lunch, I’ll be glad to drive you home.”

  “Thank you. I accept your apology,” said Roberta. “I suppose I may have been a bit hasty myself.”

  “Both of you need to talk to the police, right away,” said Victoria. “Now.”

  “We need to eat lunch first,” said Bruce. “The police station is practically next door to the Dog.”

  * * *

  They parked in front of the Black Dog Tavern and sat by the wide windows on the porch where they could look out at the harbor and the ferries coming and going.

  “Again, let me tell you how sorry I am that I snapped at you,” said Bruce, once they’d ordered. “I didn’t understand the situation. Someone apparently played a silly practical joke on you.”

  “Hardly silly,” said Roberta, bristling.

  “I’m sorry. Putting my foot in my mouth, again. You’re quite right. It was a nasty practical joke.”

  “Not a very funny one,” said Roberta, straightening her utensils. “Any idea who the joker might be?”

  “No. Certainly not.” Bruce toyed with his utensils.

  Roberta said, “Someone had access to your boat, right?”

  “The harbormaster does.”

  She gave a short laugh. “The harbormaster didn’t kidnap me. Surely you must know who had access to your boat. I’m going to the police.” She gestured toward the door. “If you know something I should know and aren’t leveling with me…”

  “No, no, no.” Bruce covered his eyes with a hand, his elbow on the table.

  “Well? What about it?”

  “A guy I know loaned me his guesthouse for a couple of weeks so I could,” he paused, “entertain a woman friend.”

  “Oh?” Roberta tapped her fingers on the table. “Are you married?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t wear a wedding ring.”

  No answer.

  “Is she?”

  No answer.

  Roberta laughed again. “I suppose you don’t want the media trumpeting it around that Bruce Steinbicker was shacked up with someone else’s wife?”

  Bruce looked away.

  “This guy who loaned you his guesthouse, did you let him use your boat in return?”

  “He was going to keep an eye on it for me.”

  “Right,” said Roberta again. “And his idea of keeping an eye on your boat was to kidnap me and hold me prisoner on that boat? Give me a break.”

  The waiter brought their orders, Roberta’s iced tea and hamburger, rare, and Bruce’s beer and fish-and-chips.

  “Will there be anything else?” asked the waiter.

  “Not for me,” said Roberta, eyeing the huge hamburger in front of her.

  “No, thanks,” said Bruce.

  After the waiter left, Bruce said, “I don’t know the explanation, Roberta.” He glanced at her and shrugged.

  “After we eat, we’re going to the police. Mrs. Trumbull is right.” She picked up her knife and cut into the hamburger.

  “Please,” said Bruce. He hadn’t touched his fish-and-chips. “I can’t afford the publicity if this gets out.”

  “What about me?” She gestured at him with the knife. “Think of my life. Do you expect me to just accept the fact that I was a prisoner on your boat for a week?”

  “Before we go to the police, let me talk to the guesthouse owner. Find out what he has to say about the whole thing. Then we can go to the police.”

  She went back to cutting the burger. “You’re not listening to me. When I finish my lunch I’m going to the P. O. L.…”

  “Stop!”

  She put down her knife. “So, who is this guy?”

  “We went to prep school together.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I can’t believe he would do something so crazy.”

  She picked up one of the halves of the hamburger and bit into it. They were both silent while she chewed. He still hadn’t touched his food.

  She said, “This isn’t some cute practical joke, Bruce. Two men drugged me, carried me out to your boat, and left me there with no way to communicate, no way to get off the boat, and a two-week supply of food. Explain that, if you can.”

  “Wait for a day. Just one day.”

  “A day?!” Roberta put the burger down. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Half a day, then.”

  “Be practical, Mr. Steinbicker. The police are going to wonder why I waited a half-day to contact them about a kidnapping? I mean, that’s serious stuff. What sort of fool do you think I am? What kind of fool are you?”

  Bruce sat back. Pushed his plate with its uneaten fish aside. “I can’t let this get out to the press.”

  “I see,” said Roberta. “Your fans. Viewers of Family something.”

  The ferry whistled, and they both glanced out the window as it pulled away from the dock, a trail of seagulls coasting on the air astern.

  “I’ve never watched your show. You preach family values, I suppose?”

  Bruce looked down at his plate. “Give me a half-day.”

  “To save your neck? So you can warn the practical jokester kidnapper? Come on, Bruce. The police will never believe I let even two minutes pass before notifying them.”

  “What can I do to persuade you?” said
Bruce.

  “What?! You want to bribe me?” Roberta threw her napkin on top of her partly eaten hamburger and stood up, toppling the bench she’d been sitting on.

  The waiter rushed over. “Is everything all right, Mr. Steinbicker?” He set the bench upright.

  “It’s fine,” said Bruce at the same moment Roberta said, “No, it’s not all right. This guy stinks,” and she walked up the step into the main dining room and out of the restaurant.

  Bruce tossed a hundred-dollar bill onto the table and strode after her. “Roberta!”

  He caught up with her outside and grabbed her arm. “I’m taking you home.”

  “No, you’re not. I’m walking myself over to the police station.”

  “You’ve got no car, no money. How are you going to get home?”

  “The police will give me a ride.” She pulled away from him. “Mrs. Trumbull hitchhikes.”

  He held his hands up, palms out. “Truce.”

  “Not until you give me the name of your so called friend.”

  “I’ll go back in and get us doggy bags.”

  “Forget it,” said Roberta, heading toward the police station. “I want the guy’s name.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay. You win. I doubt if you even know him.”

  She stopped and turned, hands on her hips, her face flushed beneath the tan, her eyes glittering. “Well?”

  “He’s president of a software company. Name’s Chris Wrentham.”

  Roberta froze. Her face paled. She opened and shut her mouth as if she were gasping for air. “Christopher Wrentham?”

  “You know him?” asked Bruce, concerned.

  “I can’t believe it.” She wrapped her arms around her waist as though she were cold.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Take me home,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER 31

  As Bruce pulled up to Roberta’s small house on the outskirts of Oak Bluffs, Mrs. Hamilton, always alert to the goings-on in their secluded neighborhood, bustled over.

  “Miss Chadwick, I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “I’m glad to be home, Mrs. Hamilton.” Roberta eased herself out of Bruce’s Porsche. Bruce remained in the driver’s seat.

  “Where have you been? I was so worried I contacted the police.” Mrs. Hamilton planted a concerned look on her face and folded her arms under her ample bosom.