Poison Ivy (21 page)

“You never know,” said O'Malley.

Price, distracted, was worried. He couldn't row back to his boat in this weather. Staying put in the store was probably the wisest thing to do.

“Be glad to give you a ride back to the cove. Your shipmates don't seem to know which end is up,” O'Malley said.

“I gotta ask,” said Price, “how come you know so much about my boat?”

“That's my home opposite Paul's Point. Saw you anchor there a week ago.” O'Malley grinned. “You've had some fun trying to shape up that crew of yours.”

*   *   *

The crew was not comfortable. When the storm hit, the northeast wind swept down Vineyard Sound pushing ahead of it horizontal sheets of rain and a ferocious chop. The sailboat pitched and rolled. The Scrabble board slipped off the table, spilling tiles on the deck.

“I don't like this,” said Jodi. “This is not fun.” She retrieved a sweatshirt from her suitcase.

“Best place to be in a storm at sea is in a sailboat,” said Christopher.

“What about those charts showing all the wrecks around Martha's Vineyard?” Jodi kept from falling over by bracing her hand on the overhead. “They don't even note dinky little sailboats like this.”

“Stop fussing, will you?” snapped Christopher. “You're tiresome.” He bent down to pick up the Scrabble tiles.

“It wasn't supposed to rain until tomorrow,” said Jodi.

“Well, it's raining now.” He dropped the tiles he'd recovered into the plum-colored velvet Crown Royal bag.

“We ought to check the anchor.”

“Check it if you want, Jodi. I'm staying put where it's warm and dry.” He sifted through the tiles in the bag. “I think we lost the
Q
.”

“It's by your foot.” She lurched suddenly. “What was
that
?”

“The wind. I hope Price isn't rowing back now.”

She spread her bare feet for better balance. “You know, it feels like the boat's moving.” She grabbed a handrail near the settee. “Something's crazy wrong. I'm starting up the engine again.” She staggered up the ladder, crawled out on deck, and lifted herself upright, holding onto the wheel stanchion. Rain and blowing spume slashed at her face.

She wiped the spray out of her eyes and glanced toward the stern. The wind shifted briefly and she suddenly saw Paul's Point, the western point of the cove, much closer. The stern was backing directly toward it.

“Christopher!” Jodi hollered and started the engine. “Get the anchor up!” She shifted into gear and spun the wheel. The boat turned away from the wind and toward the open Sound, the stern swiveled away from the rocky point of land. Christopher clambered up on deck. They were almost clear of the Point. On his knees, hanging onto the railing as the boat tossed, he edged up toward the bow. The anchor line, instead of stretching out ahead of the boat at a low angle, was now riding under the boat.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Cut the engine! You're running over the anchor line!”

Jodi hadn't heard. She pushed the throttle to full power. Just as it looked as though they would clear Paul's Point, the engine shuddered and cut out.

“Shit!” Jodi cried. “The anchor line! Caught in the prop. Oh, shit!”

*   *   *

Back in Vineyard Haven, the harbormaster peered out the rain-streaked window. “The wind's let up a bit,” he remarked to Elizabeth. “Want to try for it?”

“I'm ready,” said Elizabeth. Her clothes were still damp, but her hair had dried and was curled around her head like a crown. “We've got to pick up my grandmother.”

“I don't think…” Richard shuffled papers on his desk.

“She knows more about boats than both of us put together.”

“Suppose something happens…”

“What?” said Elizabeth. “You're the boss, aren't you?”

Richard looked up from his papers and grinned. “Okay. You win. Get your ninety-two-year-old grandmother to the dock and I'll bring the boat around and help her aboard.”

“She doesn't need help,” said Elizabeth, and started toward the door and the still pelting rain.

“Here, catch!” Richard tossed her one of the yellow oilskins that hung by the door, and she grabbed it and left before the harbormaster could change his mind.

When she reached the Steamship Authority waiting room she saw a throng of day-trippers gathered around Victoria, who was autographing books. The visitors had been marooned when the ferries stopped running because of the wind. Bridget had hustled up to the Bunch of Grapes Bookstore a block away and returned with a shopping bag full of Victoria's poetry books.

“You can't go out in this,” protested a large woman in a lavender sweatshirt. “You'll catch your death!”

“If you're still here when I return,” said Victoria with a smile, “I'll be happy to autograph the rest of the books. Good-bye!” She waved airily.

“Here's a slicker,” said Bridget, helping Victoria into a hooded yellow oilskin. “Belongs to one of the guys.”

“Thank you,” said Victoria, heading out into the storm. Elizabeth followed. They crossed the staging area to where Richard had pulled his boat next to the floating dock. Elizabeth went down the ladder first and Victoria climbed carefully after. She set both feet firmly on the floating dock, then took the hand Richard offered in a gentlemanly fashion, and stepped aboard.

She sat on the bench near Richard, and they pulled away from the dock. The whaler, the harbormaster's boat, was larger than the one Elizabeth had piloted from Oak Bluffs, and had a cabin that sheltered them from the wind and rain.

As they rounded the jetty, the seas were still heavy, and the boat pounded and shuddered as it hit each wave.

They passed Husselton Point and had just made out the boat anchored south of the lighthouse when the engine quit.

“Damn!” said Richard.

“Water in the fuel line?” asked Victoria.

“Hand me the mike, Elizabeth.” He radioed the shipyard, and the Travelift guy said someone would be there in ten minutes to give them a tow back, and what the hell did you idiots think you were doing out in this?

“Ten-four,” said Richard and hung up the mike. “Gotta put the anchor out.” He went forward and once the boat was no longer drifting, he checked the engine. He ducked back into the cabin. “You're right, Mrs. Trumbull. Water in the fuel line.”

 

C
HAPTER
25

Professor Bigelow, wearing the ubiquitous yellow foul-weather gear, jacket and trousers, held his hood in place against the wind and rain. He struggled into the Woods Hole Steamship Authority terminal.

“When's the next boat?” he asked the ticket taker, looking at his watch. He'd received an urgent message from the university's provost to get over to the Ivy Green campus immediately and begin damage control.

The ticket taker was a pale man with thinning gray hair and steel-rimmed glasses. He'd been sorting a stack of printed schedules when Professor Bigelow interrupted him. “All sailings cancelled. Rest of the day.” He went back to his sorting without looking up.

“I've got to get to the Island,” said Bigelow, rapping his hand on the counter.

“So do a lot of other people.” The ticket taker peered over the top of his glasses and waved at the staging area full of cars, shapes barely visible through the rain.

“I have an important meeting.” Bigelow paced away from the ticket window, then back. “Is there another boat?”

“Try the paper boat out of Falmouth.”

“Paper boat?” demanded Bigelow.

The ticket taker shook his head. “Crazy fools will go out in anything.” He stuck the schedules in a box and set the box where passengers could reach them. “Falmouth harbor. They deliver newspapers to the Island.”

“Thanks for your help,” said Bigelow, turning away.

“Don't need to get sarcastic with me,” said the ticket taker. “
I
don't make the weather.”

Bigelow tugged the hood of his jacket back over his head and strode out through the automatic door into a blast of windblown rain and salt spray. He braced against his car as he opened the door into the wind.

On the Falmouth road, his was the only car. Fallen branches littered the asphalt. Trees on both sides swayed in the wind, as though about to crash down on him.

Given the weather, it took him a half hour to get to the Falmouth harbor, although it was less than five miles from Woods Hole. But even the
Patriot
wasn't running.

Bigelow had to force the door open against the wind to enter the shack that seemed to house the boat's operations.

A huge, black-bearded guy looked up from his mug of coffee. Thick black eyebrows almost met under the peak of a scruffy captain's hat.

“Where's the captain?” asked Bigelow.

“You're looking at him,” said the man.

“I've got to get over to Martha's Vineyard.”

“Yeah?” The captain leaned back in his chair and scratched the back of his neck. “What's the emergency?”

Bigelow's eyes twitched. “I have business to attend to in Vineyard Haven.” His tongue flicked out and in again.

The captain shoved his hat back with a hairy knuckle. “That right?”

Bigelow smoothed his thin white mustache with his forefinger. “I'm the head of the Ivy Green College Oversight Committee, and I must get there immediately. The police have uncovered several bodies there.”

“Heard about that.” The captain covered a yawn with his hairy fist. “Sounds to me like you're a bit late.”

Bigelow flushed. “I'm Professor Bigelow, and I…”

The large man set his chair down on all four legs and stuck out a big paw. “Howdy, Mister Bigelow. I'm Captain Littlefield. Big meets Little, right?” He grinned.

Bigelow ignored the extended hand. “I want some cooperation.”

“Why sure,” said Capt. Littlefield. He pushed his chair back and stood up. He towered above Professor Bigelow. He straightened his shoulders and tugged his trousers up by the belt. “Got a nice rowboat out there I can rent you. Even a set of oars to go with it.”

Bigelow turned on his heels, yanked the door open, and the wind slammed it behind him, shutting out the loud guffaw.

When he reached his car, his yellow slicker streaming rainwater, he punched the Ivy Green College number on his cell phone, trying to reach Thackery Wilson. A robotic voice told him there was no service.

He slammed the cell phone down on the passenger seat and drove back to the university, only to learn that the wires were down over much of the Island, which meant most phones weren't working.

He pushed away from his desk, swiveled his chair, and thought. Three members remained on his oversight committee. That pompous ass, Hammermill Jones; that superannuated hippie math professor, Petrinia Paulinia Kralich; and that arrogant black man—African-American, he corrected himself—Noah Sutterfield. That self-satisfied young woman, Dedie Wieler, had accepted a job paying double what he, a full tenured professor of military history, was making.

Rain lashed against his window. His stomach growled. He glanced at his wall clock. After two, but he wasn't hungry.

The minister who looked like a pigeon had resigned because of moral issues. What moral issues? Coward, that was all. And that effeminate wimp, the romance languages man Cosimo Perrini. Probably gay. Couldn't stomach the murders.

He, Professor Bigelow, had a right to be informed about what was going on over at that college. He needed to know how many bodies had been recovered, how many had been identified, and most especially, what persons of interest the police had named.

Worst of all, Wellborn Price had pulled another fast one. When Wellborn had cheerfully agreed to take that introductory course, he, Professor Bigelow, should have been suspicious. Instead of putting Wellborn in his place, the instructor had invited him to deliver a lecture, just one. Gave him a five hundred dollar honorarium when he did—which he contributed to the university's scholarship fund. She also presented him with a document certifying that he'd completed the course with an A-plus. Just thinking about the way that insufferable man had turned things around made Bigelow's stomach boil with acid.

Wellborn Price. Bigelow still felt outrage when he thought of the associate professor who'd fathered his sister's bastard son. He'd gotten even, to some extent. He'd convinced Laurel that Wellborn had been killed in an automobile accident. As far as he was concerned, Wellborn
was
dead.

Bigelow intended to do everything in his power to make sure Wellborn Price stayed dead.

He must get over to the Island before the police found any more bodies.

*   *   *

“Throw the anchor out!” shouted Jodi. “We're heading for the rocks!”

“The anchor's already over, idiot!” Christopher shouted back. He was wearing a red wool shirt that clashed with his orange hair. The shirttail flapped like a danger signal.

The anchor dragged along the sandy bottom and slowed the boat somewhat. But the engine wouldn't start. The wheel wouldn't turn. With the anchor line caught in the propeller, they were now stern first to the wind, and pointed directly at Paul's Point.

“The jib! Raise the jib!” shouted Jodi.

The small sail at the front of the boat lay on the deck in a sail bag. Christopher tugged off the bag with one hand and the bag flew overboard. He held onto the mast with his free arm. His shirt fluttered around him.

“Hurry!” shouted Jodi.

“I'm going as fast as I can, dammit!” He shouted back. As Christopher hauled up the jib, the wind shook the canvas, and it rattled and snapped like gunshots.

Suddenly, the dragging anchor caught on the shoaling bottom. The boat juddered to a stop and Christopher lost his footing on the slick wet deck.