“Oh, no!” said Bruce.
Roberta said, “Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. Please, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have some time to settle in.” She edged past Mrs. Hamilton and headed toward the front door.
Bruce got out of the car and shut the door carefully.
“I understand, dear,” said Mrs. Hamilton. “Of course you do. And who is this nice young man?”
“Please, Mrs. Hamilton. I’ll talk to you later. Give you a call.”
“I’ve fed your poor little cat…”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. I’ll explain everything later.”
“Why don’t I bring you over a tuna noodle casserole? I know how much you like it.”
“I do, Mrs. Hamilton, but please, not now. I’ll call you. I’ve got to get into my house.”
Bruce leaned against the car and checked his fingernails.
“Your house must be a mess after all this time. I’ll be happy to help you clean, you’ve been gone so long. I hope you had a nice time.”
“No, no, no, Mrs. Hamilton. Thank you, but leave me alone for now.”
“Your gentleman friend…?” Mrs. Hamilton glanced at Bruce, then stared at him. “Aren’t you Bruce Steinbicker? Oh, my word, how I love your show. I watch it all the time.”
Bruce smiled. “Thank you.”
“Mrs. Hamilton! Please!” said Roberta.
“Would you autograph my copy of TV Week for me?”
“I’d be glad to,” said Bruce.
“Not now, Mrs. Hamilton. I have to go to the bathroom. Right now. I’ll call.”
“But, dear…?”
Roberta slipped past her and dodged into the house. After Bruce bestowed a charming smile on the smitten Mrs. Hamilton, he followed.
* * *
Roberta collapsed onto her couch and Bruce settled into the armchair at right angles.
She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “My God! That woman!”
“She means well,” said Bruce.
“Busybody.” Roberta leaned back against the soft cushions. “You said you’re staying at Chris Wrentham’s guesthouse. He’s one of my student advisees. And you said he’s taking care of your boat?”
Bruce raised an eyebrow, a gesture his fans Twittered about. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“I know I don’t understand,” said Roberta.
“Chris is a longtime friend of mine. Funny guy, real comedian.” Bruce smiled. “We were buddies in prep school. Never serious. A big practical joker. Now he owns a software development company and,” he looked modest, “I act.”
“You loaned him your boat,” said Roberta. “Someone held me captive on your boat. Someone planned the whole thing in great detail.”
“I didn’t lend him my boat.” Bruce shook his head. “Couldn’t have been Chris.”
“It took someone time to stock the boat with two weeks’ supply of food, and remove the radio, life jackets, flares—every possible means of communication or escape.”
“Jee-zus. I didn’t realize they’d stripped my boat.”
“Not exactly stripped, since it was stocked with two weeks’ worth of food.”
“I didn’t lend him my boat,” Bruce said again. “He loaned me his guesthouse.”
“In exchange for your boat?”
“No, of course not. He promised to keep an eye on it.”
“Well, he went back on his promise. No one came near your boat the entire time I was stuck on it. Unless,” she flung her arms out, “he was involved in kidnapping me.”
“He couldn’t have been. According to his wife, he’s been attending some weeklong conference off Island.”
“According to his wife?”
“Since I’m staying in his guesthouse I see her all the time. How in hell am I going to get my equipment back?”
“I’m more concerned with who did it,” said Roberta.
“Why would Chris want to kidnap you?”
“I can’t imagine. He’s a straight-A student, and I was about to publish a paper based on his work.”
“He doesn’t need a graduate degree,” said Bruce. He’s got a Ph.D. in computer science and taught at some prestigious university.”
“He’s working on a master’s in sociology.”
“What’s the subject of his paper?”
“My paper, actually. It’s based on his work. It was on the intermarriage of white settlers and Wampanoags on Martha’s Vineyard.” Roberta took a deep breath. She’d heard a faint echo of Victoria Trumbull’s voice, “Plagiarism.”
“Interesting subject,” said Bruce.
“Unfortunately, because I was imprisoned on your boat, the paper won’t be published this year.”
“There’s always next year,” said Bruce.
“Actually, there isn’t. My tenure approval depended on that paper and two others I was working on.”
“What’s so important about tenure?”
Roberta smiled. “That’s something I thought about the entire time—the importance of tenure. And you’re right. What is so important about tenure?”
* * *
Bruce’s cell phone rang with the theme song from Family Riot, his show. He answered.
“Jonah who? How’d you get my number?” Pause. “Yeah. I was staying in his guesthouse.” Long pause. “What in hell are you talking about?” Long, long pause. Bruce’s face turned red. “Thanks, I guess,” he said, and disconnected.
“What was that all about?”
“A woman named Jodi?”
“Oh my God!” gasped Roberta. “What is going on?”
“Chris is in the hospital. Some dog found him washed up on the beach.”
“Whaaat?!”
“I’ve got to go. Are you going to be okay?”
“Mrs. Hamilton will take care of me.”
“Heaven forbid,” said Bruce. “I’ll come back later and explain.” He added, with a smile, “We have a lot to talk about. You still want to go to the police?”
* * *
When Victoria arrived home shortly after noon, Robert was stacking wood neatly on the woodpile. A truckload of wood had been dumped nearby.
“Good afternoon, Robert.”
“How’re you doing, Miz Trumbull,” he greeted her. “You got a touch of sun.”
“I’ve been out on the water,” Victoria said.
He fished his cigarette makings out of various pockets and rolled, patted, licked, and lit one. That critical task finished, he said, “You must’ve got up pretty early.”
“You get up even earlier. Every day.”
He went back to wood stacking, the cigarette dangling from his lip.
Victoria continued out to the garden to see what she could find for lunch.
Late tomatoes were still ripening on her staked-up vines. She picked one and found a cucumber under the squash leaves. This had been a good year for her garden.
During lunch, she wrote a few notes for her column and checked her calendar. Another lecture was scheduled for tonight. So far, attending lectures hadn’t helped her at all to identify either a killer or a potential victim.
After being out on the water all morning, she didn’t really feel like going out again. The thought of a drink in front of the parlor fire with Elizabeth and with McCavity in her lap was much more appealing. But before Elizabeth came home, Victoria took a long, hot bath, dressed in her green plaid suit, and was ready to go.
After the storm of the day before, the evening was cool and dry and the sky was full of stars. While Elizabeth was bringing the car up to the west step, Victoria gathered up her sweater and her cloth bag.
The lecture was at the Chilmark Community Center, a twenty-minute ride. Victoria settled into her seat, pleased to have a long drive on a pleasant evening in the company of her granddaughter.
“What’s tonight’s lecture?” asked Elizabeth.
“Frank Hopkins is speaking on the Island’s geology.”
“There’ll be a crowd.”
V
ictoria nodded. “I was so sure a visiting professor would attend one of the lectures, and equally sure the killer would attend, hoping to identify a professor victim.”
“At least it’s been informative,” said Elizabeth. “Is this too much air for you? I can close the window.”
“The breeze feels good.” Victoria settled into her seat and looked out at the passing lights of houses along the way. She knew the histories of most of them, when they were built and by whom, and who’d lived in them over the years.
Elizabeth interrupted her thoughts. “How many lectures does this make, Gram?”
“Too many. One more, and that will be all. It seemed a good idea when I thought of it. Now, I just don’t know.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky tonight, Gram.”
* * *
Perhaps it was a lucky evening. The lecture was well attended. Victoria knew most of the fifty or so people. Mrs. Hamilton, Roberta Chadwick’s neighbor was there. So was Robert, her part-time helper, dressed in clean jeans and a white dress shirt. He looked quite presentable, except for his usual two-day growth of beard.
Before they took their seats, Victoria said to him, “Getting up so early, you won’t have much time to sleep.”
“I nap after I deliver the papers.” Robert’s voice always sounded weary. “Good speaker.” He nodded at Frank, who was approaching the lectern.
The Island’s geology was an interesting subject to Victoria, even though she felt Frank didn’t know as much about the Island as she did. After all, she’d known him since he was in diapers.
After the talk there were the usual questions. When did the glacier create the Island? (Twenty thousand years ago.) Where did all the varicolored rocks come from? (The northeast, from Connecticut and New Hampshire and even Canada.) Why are Chilmark and Aquinnah so hilly while the center of the Island is so flat? (Up-Island is where the glacier bulldozed rocky moraine and West Tisbury is where sand that was washed out of the moraine was deposited.)
She could have answered those questions. But two men she didn’t know asked questions she didn’t even understand.
One identified himself as a visiting professor from India. He asked a question about Pleistocene ostracods.
For the enlightenment of a puzzled audience, including Victoria, Frank explained that ostracods are common tiny crablike creatures with shells that look like miniature clams. To the professor, he said, “See me later and I’ll give you a reprint on the subject.”
The second man was a professor from MIT who was studying the movement of sand along coastal beaches.
After the lecture, Victoria made a point of talking to each of the two professors. Both were visiting the Island, neither had family with him, both planned to be away from home for an extended period. The professor from India was staying at a bed-and-breakfast, the MIT professor was staying at the Mansion House, both in Vineyard Haven.
On their way home, Victoria dozed, lulled by the pleasant drive. The lights of an approaching car flashed past. The dark road continued to unroll ahead of them.
She awoke as they were passing the Allen Sheep Farm. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to drop off.”
“You’ve had a long day,” Elizabeth said. “Looks as though you identified two possible victims tonight, Gram.”
“Possibly,” said Victoria. “I’m afraid I’ve been on a wild-goose chase, hoping to find victims and killer attending a lecture. It’s been a waste of time.”
“Mrs. Hamilton is relieved that Roberta is safe.”
“Roberta can sleep in her own bed tonight.”
“Your handyman cleans up pretty well. I never thought I’d see him attending a lecture.”
“He’s got a good mind,” said Victoria. She gazed out the window at the passing darkness. Trees, two-dimensional stage settings flashed past, lit up by Elizabeth’s headlights for a brief second. “I think the week on the boat was good for Roberta.”
“A sort of desert health spa treatment?”
“More like a retreat. It gave her time to think about what’s important.”
CHAPTER 32
The next morning the sky was a brilliant autumnal blue, washed clean. The only signs of the storm two days ago were the fallen branches, some quite large, that the wind had torn off the old maple trees.
Victoria had called Casey as soon as she got home from the lecture, and Casey set up a meeting at the state police barracks with Sergeant Smalley and Dr. Killdeer, the forensic scientist.
While she waited for Casey to arrive, Victoria walked around her property with a basket, gathering sticks for kindling and breaking up what branches she could. The rest she carted to the sawbuck, where Robert would cut them.
She was still lugging branches when Casey arrived.
“I’ll wash up and be right with you,” said Victoria. “I lost track of time.”
Joel Killdeer was already at the barracks. Victoria and Casey, Dr. Killdeer, and Sergeant Smalley moved into the conference room and Victoria took her seat at the head of the table.
Trooper Tim Eldredge set a tray of coffee and doughnuts on the table. Smalley poured, passed around mugs, then straightened his yellow pad on top of a thick manila folder.
“We’d like to hear what you have to report, Mrs. Trumbull.”
Victoria clasped her hands on the table. “At last night’s lecture, two visiting professors identified themselves, one from India and one from MIT. Neither is here with his family, and both are working on projects that will keep them away from home for a while.”
Killdeer leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “In other words, two ideal victims.”
“I didn’t spot anyone who looked like our killer.”
Smalley picked up his pencil and began to draw what looked like lush tropical vegetation.
Killdeer snapped his gum. “Our killer won’t stand out as anyone suspicious, Mrs. T. He’ll look just like you or me. Well, not you.”
“The professors?” asked Smalley.
Victoria reached into her cloth bag and brought out a business card. “Professor Ranjit Singh is a geology professor at Hyderabad University.” She handed the card to Killdeer who looked at it and handed it on to Smalley.
“He’s here alone?” asked Smalley.
“Yes. He expects to be on the Island for several weeks before he moves on to Block Island.”
Killdeer chewed steadily.
“And the second professor?” asked Smalley.
“He’s Professor Seymour Stevenson, on sabbatical from MIT. He’s spending several weeks here on the Vineyard and then will work his way down to Florida.”
“What about his family?”
“His wife is in Seattle with their daughter and a new grandson.” Victoria toyed with her coffee mug, turning it in circles on the conference table. “I’m not sure how much help this has been.”
“Fact is,” said Killdeer, “you’ve identified two men who fit the victim profile. Our killer needs to kill again, and kill soon, based on what we’ve unearthed so far.” He chewed for a moment. “Be nice to find him before he does.”
Smalley continued to draw his tropical scene. He looked up. “Let’s say we’ve got two potential victims. This raises several questions. How many lone professors in their fifties and sixties are visiting the Island now? Any thoughts on how the killer connects with them?”
“The victims have to eat,” said Killdeer. “Given their age and the fact they’re alone, they’ll eat in restaurants and most likely find a pub where they can socialize. We should check on bars and pubs where there’s some kind of evening activity.”
“That narrows it down to Oak Bluffs and Edgartown,” said Smalley, “the only towns with bars.”
“We have to move, and move fast,” said Killdeer. “Mrs. T identified two possible victims. Has the murderer targeted them, too?”
“If we’re talking about putting a tail on the two,” Casey said and shrugged, “we’re talking a lot of man hours, and we don’t have any to
spare. I don’t know what to tell you, John.”
Smalley went back to his drawing and sketched a coconut hanging from one of the palm trees. He glanced at Killdeer. “How soon is he likely to kill again?”
Killdeer unwrapped a new stick of gum and folded his used gum in the foil wrapper. “My guess is within the next week. He’s got to kill, and kill soon.”
The others were silent.
Victoria said, “What if we warn the two visitors about the potential danger? That would save manpower.”
“Do you know where they’re staying?” asked Smalley.
“Both are staying in Vineyard Haven, Professor Stevenson at the Mansion House, Professor Singh at a bed-and-breakfast.”
Smalley sketched in a second coconut, falling.
“I’ll invite them both to lunch,” said Victoria. “I’m sure a warning is all they need.”
Smalley stood. “In the meantime, we’ll dedicate what manpower we have to watching those two and identifying other potential victims. We need to get busy.”
Victoria stood, too. “I wanted to ask about something.”
“Yes, Mrs. Trumbull?” said Smalley.
“Walking around the campus, I noticed that the earliest burials were along Main Street. Didn’t anyone see the killer disposing of bodies in such a public place?”
“We checked into that. Seven years ago, the Public Works Department opened up a trench to install a sewer line. About when the first body was buried.”
“The next wasn’t for another year,” said Victoria.
“Right, but the ground would have been easy to dig for some time. No stones, no tree roots, no compacted soil.”
“The next several were buried almost on the property line between the Ivy Green campus and the Unitarian Church.”
“You’re right on it, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Smalley. “The church was connected to the sewer line about four years ago. The killer had more soft ground for his burials.”
“By the time he dug up your outdoor classroom, he was getting more sure of himself,” said Killdeer. “Got careless with his last three burials.”
* * *
After she returned from the state police barracks, Victoria phoned the Mansion House. The professor from India, Ranjit Singh, was staying at a bed-and-breakfast, but Victoria didn’t know which one. Perhaps Professor Stevenson would know.
Poison Ivy Page 21
