Poison Ivy (15 page)

If she missed that deadline … She didn't want to think about it. But she had to. If she missed that deadline, the papers would not be published this academic year.

Three papers that would make the difference between tenure approval and rejection.

She swallowed down the lump she felt in her throat. At the moment, there was nothing she could do. Nothing.

She snuggled the sleeping bag around her, turned up the lamp, opened the book, and sipped her tea. Tomorrow was another day. She would look for the boat's papers and identify the owner. Perhaps she could signal a passing boat in some way.

She opened the book at random and her mind lightened at the familiar words.
“Grace Stepney's mind was like a kind of moral fly-paper, to which the buzzing items of gossip were drawn…”

 

C
HAPTER
17

Joe and Sarah were the first of the porch sitters to arrive at Alley's Store for their Friday afternoon commentary on the goings-on about town. Sarah seated herself on the bench.

“Thank God it's Friday.” Sarah stretched her hands over her head. She was wearing a bloodred sweatshirt emblazoned with tomahawks. “This past week felt like a year.”

“Don't complain to me,” said Joe, leaning against the post. “I get called out at two a.m. on Sunday morning because some asshole hears water dripping. Forgot to turn off the bathroom cold water faucet.”

At this point a silver Porsche pulled up to the curb. Sarah nudged Joe with her booted foot. “That's him, isn't it?”

“Who?” demanded Joe, scowling.

“That television guy. You know,
Family Riot
?”

“So?” said Joe, spitting off to one side of the steps.

“You're the one who told me who he was.”

The driver stepped up onto the porch, and Sarah whispered his name. “Bruce Steinbicker!”

Joe stood up straight.

The stranger paused at the door. “Nice day.”

“Yup,” said Joe.

“It's a lovely day,” said Sarah. “Just beautiful. Are you visiting the Island?”

The man dropped his hand from the door handle and smiled. “I'm here for the Bass Derby.”

“You look a lot like Bruce Steinbicker,” Sarah said.

“I'm not surprised.” The man grinned. “That's me.” He pointed to his chest. “You watch my show?”

Joe turned to face him. “She don't watch TV.”

“Joe!” said Sarah.

“Not much worth watching these days,” said Steinbicker. “You both from around here?”

“Born and bred,” said Joe. “She's a wash-ashore.”

“I've only lived here since I was in second grade,” said Sarah. “Where are you staying?”

“On my boat. I powered over from Falmouth. That's where I keep it.”

Sarah pulled her sweatshirt sleeves over her knuckles. “I heard you lived in California?”

“Most of the time. I'm from the Cape originally, so I'm back here a lot. I wouldn't miss the derby for anything. I take time off in October. You fishermen?”

“Not me,” said Joe.

“Well, nice talking to you.” With that he disappeared into the store.

Sarah folded her arms over the tomahawks. “How about that!”

Joe shrugged. “You hear about that disappearing lady college professor?”

Sarah nodded. “Are there any new developments?”

“Old Lady Trumbull is on the job.” Joe reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a package of Red Man.

“What do you mean?”

“The state cops called her in.” Joe carved off a chunk of tobacco with his pocket knife. “Seems one of her students has a bee in her bonnet. Claims the professor stole her research.” He stuck the chunk into his mouth.

“How can you steal someone's research?”

Joe shifted the tobacco to his cheek. “Who knows?”

“Who's the student?”

“Jodi something. Lives here in West Tiz.” Joe leaned back against the post, stuck his hands in his pockets, and crossed one foot over the other.

“Jodi Paloni?”

“You know her?”

“Sure I know her,” said Sarah. “She's dynamite just waiting to blow up. Messing with her is like swimming around a great white shark after you hit your head on a rock and you're bleeding all over the place. You ever seen her?”

“Don't recall ever seeing the lady. A few of them sharks around, these days. Global warming.”

“She's not exactly what I'd call a lady.” Sarah picked lint off her black jeans. “She wears her hair in a buzz cut, she's tattooed all over, and she's body pierced every place you can see.” She finished brushing her jeans. “Who knows what you can't see.”

“The cops say she's attending a meeting off Island.”

“The professor?”

Joe shrugged. “I guess.”

The door opened and Bruce Steinbicker came out, carrying the
Wall Street Journal
and a brown paper bag. He lifted a hand in acknowledgment. “Nice meeting you.”

“Heading back to your boat?” asked Joe.

“Not tonight,” said Bruce. “A buddy and I traded a couple weeks' stay on my boat for a couple weeks' stay in his guesthouse. With a friend, you know.” He winked. “Boat's a little too close for two.”

Joe uncrossed his feet. “Sounds like a plan.”

*   *   *

When daylight came, Roberta Chadwick examined her prison boat from stem to stern.

First, she went up the steps to the sheltered wheelhouse. The morning was bright, windy, and chilly.

The boat was about forty feet long, she guessed. A wicked current swirled past the bow as if the boat were tearing through high seas, but the taut anchor line angled out, holding fast. In the distance, she could see a white speck. The ferry, too far away to spot a signal, even if she waved a blanket. No other boats were in sight on the horizon, not even a fishing boat.

She held onto whatever support she could reach as the boat rolled and pitched in the rough sea.

She looked toward shore. It seemed a long, long distance away, far greater than she could swim, even without the current. Even on a summer's day.

She'd never been comfortable on boats. She stepped down from the shelter of the wheelhouse onto the open afterdeck, not sure what she was looking for. A signaling device? A flotation device? A way to move the boat?

She eased her way to the side and shaded her eyes against the reflected sunlight dazzling off the turbulent water and looked forward. The expanse of white deck at the front of the boat was broken only by a foot-square of framed Plexiglas, a hatch that could be opened from where she slept. No point in going forward. A streamer on a short mast at the bow fluttered straight out, away from land.

On either side of the afterdeck were lockers. She lifted the lids, one by one, and looked inside. Neat, clean, and empty. No life jackets, no lines, no floats, not even a fire extinguisher. Nothing.

She lowered the lids and plopped down on top, frustrated. The boat had an engine, didn't it? She'd need a key. She stepped back up into the wheelhouse. Behind the wheel was an instrument panel, almost like a car's, but not quite. Two engines? There were slots for keys, but no keys.

The brisk wind chilled her. She went below to the cabin and continued searching, not feeling particularly hopeful.

She searched in vain for the key. Then she turned to the radio. Her hopes rose. She'd never worked a marine radio before, but she was sure she could figure it out. No matter what she did, no lights lit up, no static, no sound, nothing. They'd disabled it. Of course.

She opened doors and drawers and found the first-aid kit again, but no flares, no signaling device, no whistle. She tried the horn. No sound.

Boats had to have life jackets, didn't they? Surely her captors wouldn't remove that necessary safety gear. Perhaps they were here belowdecks. She might chance swimming to shore, despite the chill, offshore wind, and strong current, if she could construct a sort of raft of life jackets.

None.

They had thought of that, too.

She stood in the center of the small cabin, bracing herself against the motion of the boat.

Tears welled up. She was frightened, she finally admitted to herself. Terrified.

What were her captors planning? With two weeks' supply of food on board, was she imprisoned here for two weeks?

With all that food aboard, they must not intend to kill her. Why would they? It must be mistaken identity. She was no threat to anyone, owned nothing of value, had no enemies. What insane reason was behind her captivity?

She couldn't stay here for two weeks. She simply couldn't. She had to get those papers to the journal within the week to meet that deadline. After all the work she'd done. If they didn't get published this year, the tenure committee would never, ever, approve her tenure application. Never.

Damn all tenure committees. Crabby old men. Retaining the status quo. Medieval. Academic freedom? Hardly. But she had to get their approval. She had to. Period.

She wiped away the incipient tears with the back of her hand and lit the two-burner alcohol stove. While the water was heating, she looked through the boat's papers. The owner was a Bruce Steinbicker, a name that seemed familiar, but she couldn't place it.

The water started to boil, so she put the boat's papers back in their zippered waterproof case and made a cup of tea (there was no coffee). She found a package of oat-bran rusks, slathered a couple with raspberry jam, then eased herself onto the settee behind the table, balancing her breakfast of tea and rusks against the pitching and swaying and rolling of her prison.

Think! Think!

Someone had planned this imprisonment carefully. Anchored offshore with no escape, no way to contact anyone, every object that could help her removed or disabled, and a two-weeks' supply of food.

If only she could contact one of her three Island students. They were loyal. They cared for her. They would get her out of this crazy mess.

 

C
HAPTER
18

Victoria sat patiently in the West Tisbury Police Station waiting for Casey to get off the phone. Sergeant Junior Norton was at his desk sharpening pencils with a mouse-shaped pencil sharpener. He stuck a pencil in the mouse's mouth and twisted, and the mouse squeaked.

Victoria smiled. “You won't have much left of your pencils, Junior.”

Junior held up the sharpener and wiggled its ears. “Amazing what they think of these days.”

Casey set the phone down. “That was Sergeant Smalley, Victoria. He says Mrs. Hamilton is worrying over nothing. He talked to Jodi's husband, Jonah, who said she's gone off Island for a weeklong conference.”

“Jodi mentioned it to me,” said Victoria. “She asked to be excused from classes.”

“She's got her cell phone. Jonah says she checks in with him and the boys regularly.” Casey leaned back. “We needn't worry about Professor Chadwick's absence.”

Victoria scratched at a rough spot on the back of her hand. “There's something odd about the situation, though. Why would Roberta neglect her cat? Or leave the papers on her table? Why didn't she take her car?”

“Jodi probably drove.”

“Jodi and Jonah have only one car. A Jeep. She wouldn't have left Jonah with the four boys and no car.”

Casey turned to her sergeant. “Cut it out, will you Junior? You're driving me nuts with that squeaking thing.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Junior dropped the mouse into his desk drawer and scraped the pile of pencil shavings into the wastebasket.

“Professor Chadwick is undoubtedly at the conference,” said Casey. “Probably forgot the cat.”

Junior brushed pencil shavings off his hands. “I checked with the Steamship Authority, Chief. No Paloni or Chadwick booked passage over the past three days.”

Casey sighed in exasperation. “They probably used one of the other student's cars. We've got murders to worry about, Victoria. A whole bunch of them. We can't get distracted over a problem that doesn't exist.”

The phone rang and Junior answered. He said “Yes, sir” several times and hung up.

“What was that about?” asked Casey.

“Smalley wants us to help with crowd control at the college tomorrow and Sunday. Seems Brownie has been hard at work, and the public is gathering around.”

“Another body? This takes precedence.” Casey stood.

Victoria, too, stood and headed for the door. “I don't like the feel of her disappearance.” She turned at the door. “Has anyone checked to see if there
is
such a conference?”

“Come on, Victoria.” Casey sighed in exasperation. “Loosen up, will you?”

*   *   *

The Ivy Green College campus was pitted with excavations, seven in all. Led by Brownie, the forensics team had worked steadily. The entire block was cordoned off with crime scene tape, and both Tisbury police and West Tisbury police helped with crowd control.

Even though it was Saturday and a glorious day for fishing or walking on the beach or hiking the Island's trails, half the population seemed to have gathered around the perimeter of the dug-up area. There was a continual buzz of questions, of comments, of concern, of fear.

A serial killer was at work.

Brownie, Walter's dog, seemed to understand his importance. His scruffy coat had become glossy. His eyes shone. His ears had perked up. His tail stood out straight behind him like the wing feather of a great raptor. He held his head up and his pink tongue didn't so much hang out as add to the effect of Dog on the Spot. He wore a new bright red collar that Walter had purchased from Good Dog Goods.

Walter held the matching leash and stood out of the way, mourning the mess of his beautiful lawn yet preening at the success of his masterful corpse-sniffing canine.

Thackery was nowhere to be seen.

Every one of the four corpses identified had been a faculty member at a college or university. Four had yet to be identified. The known victims were all tenured faculty members. The dates of burial went back at least seven years.