Poison Ivy

by Cynthia Riggs

  “Professor Stevenson is not answering his phone, ma’am. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Please have him call me right away,” Victoria said. “It’s important.” She gave her phone number.

  She didn’t want to stray too far from her phone, yet she needed to go out to her garden. This was one of the few times she wished she had a cell phone. Robert would be here soon, and she wanted him to buy gas for the mower and to remind him not to put the grass clippings on the far bin. The compost in that bin was ready to spread on the garden.

  She decided the answering machine would pick up the return call from Professor Stevenson, and went out to the vegetable garden to harvest beets. The tops had died down and the roots were the size of lemons, perfect for winter storage.

  Robert drove up in the rusted white station wagon he used to pick up the newspapers from the paper boat.

  “Sorry I’m late, Mrs. T. Customer complaints.”

  “What could they possibly complain about?”

  Robert sighed and got out of the car. “Rough weather. Some of the papers got wet. They want dry papers.”

  Victoria always marveled at his voice, which was dejection personified. She imagined that Eeyore, the stuffed donkey in Winnie-the-Pooh, might sound like Robert. “Surely they don’t blame you?”

  Robert shrugged. “Who else are they going to blame?” He opened the back of the car and brought out two battered five-gallon plastic buckets. “Washed up on the beach. Want them?”

  “Yes, thank you. I like to use them for compost.”

  “Figured. I’ll put them by the bins.”

  Victoria instructed him about the grass clippings and gas, and he nodded.

  Like many Islanders, he worked at a series of jobs and seemed well educated, and like too many, he had a drinking problem. Some mornings he reeked of the previous night’s intake, other mornings he reeked of breath mints. However, he worked hard, didn’t talk much, and accepted in a surprisingly gracious way what she was able to pay him.

  Victoria finished harvesting the row of beets, snipped off the dried tops, and dropped them into her basket. These would last her well into the winter.

  The phone was ringing as she went into the kitchen. She hurried to answer. “Hello!”

  “Mrs. Trumbull? Seymour Stevenson returning your call.”

  “Thank you for calling back.” Victoria moved her chair next to the table in the cookroom and sat down with the phone. “We met last night at the geology lecture.”

  “I remember, of course, Mrs. Trumbull. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to invite you and Professor Singh to lunch. But I don’t know where he’s staying.”

  “I do. He’s at the Foghorn Inn on Upper Main Street.” He paused, and Victoria imagined a fleeting grin. “We two lone academic souls compared notes and had planned to get together tomorrow for lunch.”

  “Come to my house, then.” Victoria gave him directions. “I’ll call Professor Singh, but if I can’t reach him, would you mind?”

  “Of course. Tomorrow at noon. I look forward to getting to know the eminent poet, Victoria Trumbull.”

  Victoria hung up with a smile.

  * * *

  From Upper Main Street to the far side of Woodbine (Poison Ivy) Hall, from Greenleaf, the side street nearest town to the Unitarian Church, the Ivy Green campus was a shambles. Altogether, eleven bodies had been unearthed, ten located by Brownie, the sniffer dog.

  Thackery Wilson surveyed the once peaceful grounds now pitted with nearly a dozen open graves. Victoria stood beside him. Classes had continued, despite the constant sound of shovels and police radios.

  Victoria’s class was working on a small book of poetry that she intended to have published. Every one of the poems was special, the kind of poetry she loved to read and reread and think about. She was amazed at the depth of feeling these children, her students, could distill into words, universal feelings, not self-centered navel gazing. Despite the disruption of the search for corpses, Brownie’s frenetic barking signaling yet another discovery, and voices shouting, her students had concentrated on their work and she was proud of them. A few had worked the theme of sudden death into their poetry. One had written a limerick on a dog, clearly patterned after Brownie. Thackery and she walked along the narrow lanes between open graves.

  “Is that it?” asked Thackery, not expecting an answer. “They’ve checked every square foot of the campus. There’s no place else to bury a body.”

  “There’s room in the cellar of Woodbine Hall,” said Victoria, then felt ashamed of herself for making light of the situation. “Dr. Killdeer expects the murderer to strike again soon.”

  “I can’t stand much more,” said Thackery, wiping his hand across his forehead. “I want it all to be over.”

  “I don’t blame you,” said Victoria. She leaned down, picked up a hacked root that she’d almost stumbled over, and tossed it into the grave they were passing on their right. “You must be relieved to have Dr. Price finally approved as a faculty member.”

  “Such nonsense,” muttered Thackery.

  “His presence will certainly be a draw.”

  “I want it to be over,” said Thackery.

  They had to make a jog to the right to avoid a pit directly ahead of them.

  “Once the police are finished here, you’ll be able to have the graves filled in and the campus leveled.”

  “And who’ll pay for it?” Thackery kicked a stone into a nearby pit.

  “You could have a work party for the entire Island. You could charge so much per hour for the privilege of filling in the graves, like Tom Sawyer whitewashing his aunt’s fence. Wonderful publicity for the college, and it will make people feel it’s their own college.”

  “Last thing I want,” muttered Thackery.

  “You’ll probably make the national news.”

  They’d reached their goal, the grave at the edge of the campus abutting Upper Main Street into which Professor Bigelow had fallen.

  “Curious. Why was he cutting across campus in the dark like that?” asked Victoria. “Surely he knew what this looked like.” She waved her arm around the giant waffle iron with its six-foot-deep pits.

  “I don’t want to discuss Bigelow. In case the man files legal action of some kind, I simply want to see where he fell.”

  “Wasn’t it lucky that Robert, the newspaper delivery man found him? He does some gardening work for me.”

  “The Island’s version of a street person. Drink. Down on his uppers,” said Thackery. “Bigelow would have gotten himself out eventually.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Victoria. “He was suffering from shock, and shock can kill.”

  “Insufferable man. Serves him right.” Thackery kicked another stone into a grave.

  “I can’t imagine what could have shocked him,” said Victoria.

  CHAPTER 33

  The two professors parked their green rental car under the Norway maple. Victoria ushered them into the parlor.

  “A delightful house, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Seymour Stevenson, the MIT professor. “Thanks so much for inviting us for lunch.”

  “It must be difficult being away from home for such a long period,” Victoria said as they seated themselves, Victoria in her wing chair, Professor Stevenson in the rocker, and Professor Ranjit Singh on the stiff couch. “Especially for you, Dr. Singh. Do you have children?”

  Professor Singh clasped his hands over his ample stomach. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I have three daughters. All are grown and married to fine young men.”

  “And your wife?”

  “She is staying with my youngest daughter, who is about to have her first child.” He smiled, showing a gold tooth.

  “Your first grandchild?” asked Victoria.

  “Oh, no. This will be my fifth.”

  “And I understand your wife is with your daughter and new grandchild in Seattle, Professor Stevenson.”

  They talked about grandch
ildren and Victoria bragged about her own granddaughter for an appropriate amount of time, then she led them to the cookroom and brought out the chicken salad she’d made earlier.

  After they’d eaten and talked more about families, about India, about Professor Singh’s study of ostracods and Professor Stevenson’s study of sand transport, they were on a first-name basis.

  Victoria pushed her plate back and stood. “Coffee for you, Ranjit? Seymour?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Professor Singh. “If it’s no trouble.”

  “Love some,” said Professor Stevenson, also standing. “Can I help?”

  “You can bring in the mugs and sugar and cream…”

  “Glad to.”

  When the coffee was poured, sugared, and creamed, Victoria said, “I had a special reason for inviting you.”

  “Oh, certainly.” Professor Singh set his coffee mug down. “Whatever I can do to help, Mrs. Trumbull, that is, Victoria. It will be my pleasure.”

  “A special reason?” asked Professor Stevenson.

  “We are concerned about a series of murders on the Island,” said Victoria, “the work of a serial killer.”

  “How unfortunate. How horrible,” said Professor Singh, leaning forward.

  “The first seems to date back seven years,” said Victoria, “and the most recent was in mid-August.”

  “What is your involvement, Victoria?” asked Professor Stevenson.

  “I found the first body.” Victoria glanced out of the window at the church spire in the distant town.

  “Really!” exclaimed Professor Singh. “How very distressing. How appalling.”

  “How many victims have there been?” asked Stevenson.

  “The groundkeeper’s dog, Brownie, found ten more bodies after the first that I found.”

  Professor Singh held up his pudgy hands. “Terrible. Just terrible.”

  Professor Stevenson asked, “Have the victims been identified?”

  “All but two,” said Victoria. “They were tenured professors at various colleges and universities.”

  Both men were silent.

  “The police believe the killer may be a frustrated scholar who was denied tenure,” said Victoria.

  Professor Stevenson stroked his chin. “The tenure process can be stressful.”

  “The killer wishes to even the score,” said Professor Singh, nodding. “I see.”

  “We’re concerned that any visiting professor far from home may be in danger.”

  “You think, Victoria, that we should be aware of a too friendly stranger?” asked Professor Singh.

  “I do,” said Victoria.

  “This is most interesting, Victoria,” said Professor Stevenson. “Last night a man at the Tidal Rip invited me to go surfcasting with him early Friday morning.”

  “Who was he?” asked Victoria.

  “He was well-known, I’d say. At least at the Tidal Rip. The bartender drew him a draft beer before he asked. Everyone called him Rabbit.”

  “‘Rabbit’?” asked Victoria.

  “I didn’t ask him how he got that name.”

  “How did he happen to invite you to go fishing?”

  “He sat next to me at the bar, asked if I was visiting the Island. I said I was. We got to talking. Nice guy. Seemed well educated. I told him about my research on coastal beaches. He said he’d bet I was a fisherman. I told him I love fishing, but I didn’t bring gear with me. He promised to lend me a surf rod and reel.”

  “When are you going?”

  “He’s picking me up around three in the morning.”

  “Fishing is a route throughout the world to fast friendships,” said Professor Singh.

  Victoria nodded.

  “Ranjit’s right. Fishing leads to good friendships. I’m sure his invitation is completely innocent, but I’ll keep on the alert.” Professor Stevenson looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I have an appointment with the outgoing tide, Victoria. Thank you so much. This has been a delightful break. I appreciate the warning.”

  “As do I,” said Professor Singh, getting up and bowing to Victoria. “I will most certainly heed your advice.”

  Victoria went with them to the door and watched them get into the green Ford. She hurried back into the house and called Casey.

  “The name Rabbit means nothing to me,” she said. “But someone needs to follow Professor Stevenson and whoever meets him at the hotel Friday morning.”

  “I’ll tell Smalley what you said. It could be nothing. A visiting professor gets invited to go fishing. Happens all the time. You think that raises a red flag?”

  “Dr. Killdeer says pressure is building up in the killer and he must kill again. Soon,” Victoria said. “He’s preying on tenured professors and I’ve found one who’s been invited to go out in the middle of the night with a complete stranger. Yes, that raises a red flag.”

  “Did you warn the professors?”

  “I did.”

  “That should be enough. They’re grown men.”

  “So were the other eleven victims.”

  “I’ll call Smalley, but he’s short of manpower, too.”

  After Victoria hung up, she paced back and forth, thinking. If she were the killer, she would do exactly what this man named Rabbit did. Befriend a stranger at a bar, learn that he’s a college professor away from home, invite him to go fishing at night. The killer might simply ask his victim if he wants to see the graves at the college, quickly wrap a rope around his neck, and push him into the grave.

  Who could she get to help her with a stakeout?

  * * *

  Howland Atherton dropped by later that afternoon.

  Victoria greeted him warmly.

  “I’m taking Bowser and Rover to the vet’s for their shots and thought I’d say hello.”

  “Do you have time for coffee?” she asked.

  “I’ll make time.”

  She started a fresh pot, and they seated themselves at their usual places at the cookroom table.

  “I haven’t seen you for several days,” said Victoria while they waited for the coffee to brew. “Do you have news I can use for this week’s column?”

  “I do.” Howland was wearing his baggy gray sweater and tan slacks. He pulled off his sweater and flung it over the chair at the end of the table. “The dogs found a man washed up on the beach this morning.”

  “Dead?” Victoria asked.

  “Not quite. He’s at the hospital now. He seems in fairly good shape except he doesn’t know his name or where he came from. He’s a redhead with a bad sunburn.”

  “Is he a fisherman swept off his boat in the storm?”

  “He doesn’t look like a fisherman,” said Howland. “His hands aren’t calloused. He was wearing expensive sportswear and a good wool jacket. He may have come off a yacht.”

  “That storm hit suddenly. Elizabeth and I barely made it to the Vineyard Haven harbor.”

  “What were you doing out in it?”

  Victoria told him about her adventure and the follow-up rescue of Roberta Chadwick.

  “How did she end up on the boat?”

  “I have no idea.”

  The coffee finished with a last few gurgles. Howland got up and returned with two steaming mugs.

  “What about the castaway you found?” asked Victoria.

  “Hope was on duty when we got him to the hospital and she said his amnesia is probably temporary. He’s suffering from exposure and dehydration. She thinks he’ll be fine.”

  “What a strange experience that must be,” said Victoria, “to awaken in the hospital and not know who you are or how you got there.”

  * * *

  At the hospital, Hope, Victoria’s grandniece, pulled aside the curtain surrounding the redheaded castaway. He’d been rehydrated and the sloughed-off skin of his face had been cleaned off. He turned out to be quite nice looking.

  “How’s the patient?” Hope asked. “Need anything?”

  “Just want to know who I am.”

&n
bsp; “It’ll come back. Don’t push it.” She thrust a thermometer into his mouth, checked his pulse, took his blood pressure, and wrote something on her clipboard.

  “I remember being on a boat,” he mumbled around the thermometer.

  “We figured as much.” She removed the thermometer and recorded his temperature. “A fishing boat?”

  “A sailboat. I was up at the bow. I slipped and remember falling.” He sat up and winced. “How long have I been here?”

  “Only a few hours. The ambulance brought you in this morning, and it’s a little after two now.”

  “When can I be discharged?” He lay back down again.

  “As far as your physical condition, you’d probably be kept for observation but we can’t let you go until we can identify you.”

  “Thanks. That sounds weird. ‘Identify you.’ Makes me feel like a dead body.”

  “You almost were,” said Hope. “Get some rest now. Dinner’s at five-thirty and the meals here are pretty good.”

  * * *

  On the sailboat, O’Malley was trying to get through to the communications center on his handheld radio.

  “You’re breaking up, sir. All I hear is ‘body.’”

  “Lambert’s Cove!” O’Malley shouted into his cell phone, as if that would make the reception clearer.

  “Body off Lambert’s Cove.”

  “Yes!” shouted O’Malley.

  “Unidentified man found at Paul’s Point, sir.”

  “Dead?” asked O’Malley.

  “Can’t hear you, sir.”

  “Hell!” shouted O’Malley. “Is he dead or alive?”

  “No information, sir. He was taken to the hospital. Your name, sir?”

  O’Malley disconnected. “Someone found a man on the beach at Paul’s Point and took him to the hospital.”

  “I’ve got to see what those characters did to my boat,” said Price. “They got the anchor line fouled in the prop.”

  Jodi was hunched over in the cockpit, mumbling.

  “We’d better get her to shore,” said O’Malley. “Your boat can wait.”

  Price scowled. “Those idiots.”

  “Who are you talking about? Your friend may be dead and Jodi’s a basket case. Come on, help her into my boat. We’ll get back to my place and try to figure out what’s going on.”