Poison Ivy (18 page)

“We can stop for mail, first,” said Elizabeth, “if you're not in a hurry for that drink.”

“I am, but it can wait a few minutes.”

Three of the regulars were on Alley's porch, Joe, Sarah, and Lincoln. Elizabeth parked in front of the store.

“Mrs. T, how're you doin'?” asked Joe the plumber, leaning, as usual, against one of the posts that held up the roof as well as Joe. He pushed his faded red baseball cap back and scratched his head.

“Nice to see you, Joe,” said Victoria, stepping up onto the porch. She nodded to Lincoln, who was standing next to the sign above the rusted red Coca-Cola ice chest that read C
ANNED
P
EAS
. Elizabeth had already gone into the store for the mail. Sarah moved to one side to make room.

“Nice day, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Lincoln. “Won't have too many more like this. You teach today?” He was a tall, gangly man, a landscaper.

“I've just come from the college.”

“Found any more bodies lately?” asked Joe.

“Stop it, Joe.” Sarah patted the bench. “Have a seat, Mrs. Trumbull.”

“Thank you,” said Victoria. “Elizabeth is picking up a few groceries. Do you have any news for my column?”

“Tell her about that TV star,” said Lincoln.

“This really buff guy came into the store.” Sarah smoothed her bright orange T-shirt. “I didn't recognize him but Joe did.”

Joe spit and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“That's disgusting, Joe.” Sarah turned back to Victoria. “It turned out he was Bruce Steinbicker, the TV actor.” She looked expectantly at Victoria, who took a small notebook out of the cloth bag she was carrying.

“I don't have television,” Victoria said.

“He's in a show called
Family Riot,
and he lives in California.”

“What is he doing here?” Victoria scribbled notes.

“The Bass Derby,” said Joe. “Comes here every October.” He jammed his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the post.

“He keeps a boat in Falmouth and lives on it when he's here,” said Sarah.

“Did he tell you the name of his boat?” asked Victoria.

“
Star Lite,
” said Joe. “You know, star, actor. Lite as in lite beer.”

“Yeah, Joe, we know,” said Sarah.

“Does he keep his boat in the Oak Bluffs Harbor?” asked Victoria. “That's where Elizabeth works.”

“Vineyard Haven,” Sarah answered. “He loaned his boat to a friend in exchange for staying at the friend's house for a couple of weeks.”

“Got a girlfriend. His boat's too small, he says.”

“I won't intrude on his privacy,” said Victoria. “It will make a nice mention in the column that he's on the Island.”

Sarah looked up. “Hey, Elizabeth.”

“How are you, Sarah?” Elizabeth stepped down onto the porch from the store with a jug of cranberry juice and an armload of catalogs.

“What a waste of paper.” Elizabeth held up a lingerie catalog and an inch-thick book of office supplies.

“Let's see that.” Joe held out his hand. “Not that one,” he said of the office supply catalog.

Lincoln, who'd been silent up to this point, guffawed. “Get your jollies any way you can, Joe. Ladies' undies.”

 

C
HAPTER
21

The evening was mild, not really cool enough to warrant a fire, but Elizabeth lighted one in the parlor fireplace anyway. They settled down with their drinks, Victoria in her wing chair, Elizabeth on the horsehair sofa.

Victoria held up her cranberry juice and rum to let firelight flicker through the ruby-colored drink. “Just what I needed. Thank you.” She sipped her drink, then set it down on the coffee table. “Roberta is so anxious about tenure, I doubt if she would go off Island voluntarily.”

McCavity strode into the parlor with something in his mouth and headed toward Victoria. A large mouse, clearly beyond rescue.

“Good kitty,” Victoria said.

McCavity stalked out of the room with his trophy, and a moment later, there was a crunching noise in the kitchen that didn't sound like his normal cat chow.

Elizabeth got up and put another log on the fire. Sparks rose and the fire flared up. “I saw you took notes at Alley's. Did Sarah give you some news?”

“A nice item about a television star coming to the Island for the Bass Derby.”

“Who was it?”

“Bruce Steinbicker. Have you heard of him?”

“Sure. He stars in that Christian TV series,
Family Riot.
All about family values and morals. Where is he staying?”

“He usually stays on his boat, but he's at a friend's guesthouse in Vineyard Haven.”

“Where's he keeping his boat?”

“Apparently anchored off Vineyard Haven.”

“I'd love to take a look at it next time I'm out on the water. Vineyard Haven's not my territory, but, hey. Bruce Steinbicker is a big name. Since he's not staying on board, I won't be intruding, at least not on a big TV star. If it's nice tomorrow, I might take the harbor launch on my lunch hour.” Elizabeth looked up at her grandmother. “Want to come?”

“I'll pack a lunch,” said Victoria.

“Should be a nice day. The NOAA weather station is calling for another cold front day after tomorrow.”

McCavity returned and settled in front of the fire. He licked a paw and rubbed it behind his ear again and again. When he finished, he stretched out with his soft belly fur to the fire and dozed off.

*   *   *

The following day was as fine as Elizabeth had predicted, bright with a low row of summery clouds on the mainland horizon and a gentle mild breeze. Casey dropped Victoria off at the Oak Bluffs harbor and Victoria walked down the dock to the harbormaster's shack, swinging her lilac wood stick. She was greeted by Domingo, the harbormaster.

“Sweetheart! Haven't seen you for a while.” His dark face lighted up with a broad smile. He took a last puff on his cigarette and flicked it into the water. “Understand you're taking a cruise to Vineyard Haven.”

“With a picnic lunch.” Victoria indicated the bulging paper bag she was carrying.

“Better keep a weather eye out. Storm's predicted for tomorrow, but since this is New England, who knows.” He pulled his faded NYPD hat down on his forehead. “You know the weather better than I do. Got your sunscreen?”

“I have my hat,” she said, holding up the wide-brimmed straw hat she'd bought in Mexico years before.

The short, stubby harbormaster and his tall, ancient companion strolled to the end of the pier. Elizabeth had just pulled up in the launch after checking moorings out in the harbor. She tossed a line to Domingo, who wrapped it around a cleat, then climbed onto the dock, brushing her sun-bleached hair away from her face. She bent down and held the boat close for her grandmother to climb in.

Victoria had spent most of her life around boats and was determined not to appear infirm. Balancing herself carefully, one hand on Elizabeth's back, she stepped gracefully into the launch and seated herself in the bow facing the stern.

Elizabeth sat in the stern, Domingo tossed the bow line into the boat, and Victoria coiled it neatly. Her granddaughter put the motor into gear and they went slowly out of the harbor, past a lobster boat in need of paint, past the
Island Queen,
and past the dock of the paper boat. Long before sunrise, summer and winter, no matter what the weather, the
Patriot,
more familiarly known as the paper boat, made a daily run from Falmouth to the Vineyard to transport the
New York Times
and other mainland newspapers to the Island while most readers were still asleep.

Once out of the channel, they sped up and soon neared East Chop, one of two chops or headlands that marked the entrance to Vineyard Haven harbor. Despite the warm sun and light breeze, it was cool, and Victoria, knowing the water as she did, tugged on one of the sweaters she'd brought, pulled on her windbreaker, and tied a scarf over her floppy straw hat to hold it in place.

She held onto the gunwale, delighting in the sounds of the motor, the slap of the bow hitting each wave, the splash of wake that trailed behind them in a V. She lifted her great nose to breathe in the scent of salt water and seaweed, fish and plankton. A gull flew down over the water and rose with a fish in its beak, and Victoria clapped her hands in approval. The breeze was at her back and she turned her head to face into it.

High on Telegraph Hill she could see the East Chop light, one of the five lighthouses on the Island.

“The lighthouse was painted brown in my childhood,” she called out to Elizabeth above the sound of the motor. “We called it the Chocolate Light.”

Elizabeth laughed and looked up at the dazzling white column high on the bluff as they passed beneath it. “Why'd they call it Telegraph Hill?”

“In whaling days, a semaphore system signaled that a vessel was approaching and what sort of cargo it carried.”

“A visual signal?”

Victoria nodded. “From East Chop to Chappaquiddick to Nantucket. They could signal the mainland and the signals were carried up the coast as far away as Boston.”

They rounded the chop. Elizabeth asked, “Where did Sarah say he'd anchored his boat?”

“All she said was outside the Vineyard Haven harbor.”

“I'll skirt around past the harbor then. I don't suppose she knew what make of boat it is?”

Victoria shook her head. “A power boat. I didn't ask the make, and I doubt if she knew.”

They ran along the stretch of East Chop Drive where a line of cottages faced the harbor, only a foot or two above the water, only a few feet from the shore. The frail buildings looked extremely vulnerable to the elements. The cottages had been there for years, since Victoria was a young woman. Above the small houses, the huge new hospital was a bright landmark. Cars sped along the barrier bar that separated Lagoon Pond from the harbor, close enough so they could make out drivers and passengers.

“Not many boats on the water this time of year,” said Elizabeth. It was easier to talk now they were going more slowly. “At the Eastville beach I'll cut directly across to Owen Little Way, north of the jetty, and head along the shore. That will save us some time.”

“Once we round Husselton Head, we should be able to see all the way to the West Chop light,” said Victoria.

“If we get to West Chop and don't see his boat we can head back and check the harbor on the way.”

“Where would you like to eat lunch?” asked Victoria.

Elizabeth checked her watch. “Not yet noon. Let's stop off West Chop and drift. If tide's running, we can anchor.”

*   *   *

During the week she'd been a prisoner-at-sea, Roberta Chadwick examined every nook and cranny on her boat prison looking for some means of escape. She opened every hatch she could find. Some were screwed down and she used a table knife for a screwdriver, since there was no tool chest aboard. She didn't like heights and left the deck over the wheelhouse until last. When she worked up nerve enough to scale the ladder, she found another place to run the boat, with identical controls, a wheel, and a seat. But no key.

Every day she watched the ferry ply the waters between Woods Hole and Vineyard Haven, so close and yet so far. She knew its schedule. Each time a ferry passed she went out on deck and waved on the off chance that someone on board might scan the horizon with binoculars and see her.

She had now become more concerned about herself and what would happen to her when the food ran out than she was about those three papers. Her hopes of submitting them to the journal on time to meet the deadline were fading.

There was too much work to be done on them. She'd run out of time.

She ran her fingers through her hair. She had no comb and the only way she could control her wild curls was to finger comb them.

Fortunately, there were enough good books aboard so she had her choice of reading material. She lost herself in them. Her captors had left paper and pencils, and she started a journal.

She'd used up the salad makings, but still had plenty of food. She spent a long time each day planning what she would eat and anticipating mealtimes. She'd lost several pounds.

She'd seen nothing of her captors.

No boats had come within hailing distance during the entire week. During the first day or two, she'd thought of starting a fire. Maybe signal with a torch. After all, she'd been left with matches and alcohol for the stove.

She'd dismissed the idea. By the time someone spotted the fire, it would be too late. She'd be drowned or cooked.

Occasionally, she would think about Jodi, her Ivy Green College advisee. The girl didn't understand how things worked in academia. When she, Roberta, had been a student, her first few papers had been published under her professors' names.

Damn the tenure committee! She'd always had positive comments on her teaching. She had a creditable record of community work. Publications and the inflexibility of the tenure committee were all that stood in her way.

When Mrs. Trumbull had invited her to lunch and accused her of plagiarism, Mrs. Trumbull, a mere adjunct professor, hadn't understood the academic world. Mrs. Trumbull had been so self-righteous. Roberta burned at the thought.

During the first few nights, it had taken her a long time to get to sleep, but eventually the rocking, the swish of water, the coziness of the down comforter lulled her, and she slept well.

When she awoke on Wednesday, it was almost ten o'clock, far longer than she'd intended to sleep. The night before she'd rinsed out a few things and dressed again in her pink sweatshirt and jeans, the clothes she'd been wearing since she'd been abducted.

She was fixing her breakfast—lunch, actually—when she heard the distant sound of a boat engine. She immediately turned off the stove and rushed up on deck.