Poison Ivy (23 page)

“That's it. I'm turning back,” shouted O'Malley. “This is insane! Next breaker is going to flood the motor.”

He turned the wheel sharply. During the seconds it took the boat to respond, they were broadside to the waves. A torrent of water poured over the side into the cockpit.

“Bail!” shouted O'Malley, and Price scrambled for the cutoff Clorox bottle that floated in the bilge. He scooped water overboard as rapidly as he could, feeling helpless as he tried to keep up with the chilly water that poured in over the side. Once around, they faced into fearsome breakers, quite different from the smooth backs they'd sped over in the other direction. The following wind had swept them along a quarter mile or more. Now they had to beat back against the wind. With rain and sea spray in his face, Price could see nothing.

Suddenly, when Price had lost hope of ever getting back to their starting point, they reached the shelter of the bluff. The water was unnervingly calm.

O'Malley let out a deep breath, turned the boat to face out, and backed into the boathouse.

Price continued to bail until what remained he could sop up with a wrung-out rag. Without saying a word, they winched the boat out of the water and made their way up the slippery muddy path back to O'Malley's house.

They shed their wet gear and relit the fire. Inside, the rattle of rain on the windows and the howl of the wind made their journey out into the storm seem remote.

Price stood near the fire, wet clothes steaming.

“I'm sticking to O'Doul's,” said O'Malley. “Go ahead and pour yourself a stiff Scotch.”

“Thanks,” said Price. “I will.”

 

C
HAPTER
27

Professor Phillip Bigelow spent most of a sleepless night listening to the howling wind and beating rain, worried about things over which he had no control. He finally fell asleep and woke in time to drive over to the paper boat dock in Falmouth. The sun wasn't up yet.

“Mornin',” said Capt. Littlefield cheerfully.

“Yes,” said Bigelow, frowning.

“Not too bad this morning,” Capt. Littlefield said, taking Bigelow's money and stashing it in an ancient cash register drawer under a heavy metal shackle. “Sea's down, but there's a few rollers out there. Got your sea legs?”

Bigelow, who hadn't had time for coffee, grunted.

Capt. Littlefield heaved a bundle of newspapers onto the deck of the boat docked beside the shack and climbed aboard. Bigelow followed. The entire afterdeck was stacked with bundles of newspapers.
Boston Globe. New York Times. Washington Post. Wall Street Journal.

The engines were running and the boat shook with the rhythm. Diesel fumes made Bigelow a touch queasy.

“We land in Oak Bluffs, you know,” the captain said, over the sound of the engine. “If you're going to Vineyard Haven, you'll have trouble getting a ride at this hour. You can always walk. Only about four miles.”

Bigelow looked at his watch. “How long will it take us to get to the Island from here?”

“Little over a half-hour. We're faster than the Steamship Authority boats.” Littlefield uncleated lines and tossed them onto the dock, then went back to the wheel and pulled away, looking over his shoulder.

Bigelow said nothing as he seated himself on a bench beside dozens of stacks of newspapers. Once settled, he folded his arms over his chest. The fumes were getting to him. “Order a taxi for me, if you would, please, Captain.”

The captain pushed his hat back and guffawed. “You're a pretty comical feller, I'd say.”

Bigelow stared at him, but the captain was intent on the boat's instruments and didn't seem to notice Bigelow's disdain. He'd pulled out a microphone from above his head and was muttering into it something Bigelow couldn't hear above the engine noise. Clearly, he was not calling a cab.

They eased out of the harbor and in a short time were on the open Sound. Heavy swells lifted the boat and then dropped it again with a sickening motion. Capt. Littlefield pushed the throttle forward and the boat sped up, trailing a curling wake astern.

For the entire trip across this vast, heaving sea, with its oily swell and its sensation of imminent death, Capt. Littlefield didn't say another word to Bigelow, who was just as glad not to be obliged to hold a conversation with this man. He couldn't have heard him, anyway.

The boat pulled up to the dock in Oak Bluffs just as Bigelow was feeling the growing pressure of seasickness. A half-shaven man with grizzly gray hair was leaning against the hood of a battered white station wagon that was parked near the dock. He wore a torn army jacket and was smoking a cigarette. He dropped the cigarette, crushed it out with the sole of his shoe, ambled over to the paper boat, and flung a line to Littlefield.

“Mornin', Robert.” The captain heaved a bundle of newspapers up onto the dock.

“Mornin', Skip,” said Robert. “Rough ride?” He lifted the bundle and stacked it in the back of his car.

The captain heaved a second bundle. “Not too bad.”

Bigelow waited uncertainly to get off this craft.

Another stack got shifted into the station wagon.

Capt. Littlefield turned to Bigelow. “Thought you wanted to get off here, son.”

Bigelow looked up at the dock, then down at his feet.

“Ladder,” said Littlefield, pointing to a set of three rusty iron bars bolted onto the side of the dock.

Bigelow started the uneasy climb up.

“Robert, you heading for Vineyard Haven first?” called up Capt. Littlefield.

“I guess.”

“This gentleman”—the captain grinned, showing large yellow teeth, and indicating Bigelow, who was halfway up the ladder—“needs to get to Vineyard Haven.”

Bigelow reached the top and stood, still feeling a bit rocky. He faced Robert, who was rolling a cigarette one-handed. “I'd appreciate a ride.”

“No problem,” said Robert, licking the cigarette paper. “Can drop you at Cumbys.”

“Cumbys?” asked Bigelow.

“You know. Cumbys. Convenience store.”

Bigelow nodded. “Cumberland Farms. That would be fine.”

The station wagon reeked of stale cigarette smoke and the floor was littered with Milky Way candy wrappers and empty cans of Diet Pepsi.

“You deliver papers every day?” asked Bigelow.

Robert held his hands high on the steering wheel as though it was his only support. “Every day.” He spoke with what seemed to be a final breath.

“On a day like yesterday…” Bigelow began.

Robert coughed. “Customers didn't get their paper.”

Bigelow decided to give up on the chat and concentrated on mentally urging the ancient vehicle onward.

Robert pulled into the Cumberland Farms parking lot and the car shuddered to a stop.

“How much do I owe you?” asked Bigelow.

Robert shrugged. “Whatever,” he said.

Bigelow handed him a twenty. “That enough?”

“That'll do,” said Robert, eyeing the bill with great weariness.

“Thank you.” Bigelow got out of the car.

“Yeah,” said Robert, opening up the back and lifting a stack of newspapers. “See you.”

Bigelow made his way in the growing dawn from Five Corners up the hill to Main Street and turned right. The college campus was only five or six blocks from here. He was feeling better by the time he reached the street that bounded the campus. The air was fresh, everything was rain-washed and sweet smelling. The sun, still below the horizon, had lit up the clouds in a spectacular display of gold and rose.

For the hundredth time, Bigelow wondered why the provost had ordered him to the college in such a hurry. Made it sound like life or death. As chair of the oversight committee, of course, he, Professor Bigelow, was responsible for damage control, getting to the Island before they found any more bodies. Check out the open graves. Get a line on that corpse-sniffing mongrel.

Well, he'd tried. There was no reason why this morning shouldn't be early enough.

Bigelow was so intent on his thoughts, he scarcely noticed the stillness of the morning.

The brisk walk cleared away the remains of his nausea. He crossed Upper Main Street and reached the corner of the Ivy Green campus. He heard a bird call, a mourning dove. A vehicle stopped somewhere nearby. He left the sidewalk and decided to cut diagonally across the wooded area that bordered the property. Check out the locations of the bodies. A strip of yellow tape blocked his way. Dawn hadn't reached inside the night-black thicket that grew under the tall oaks bordering the street. He lifted up the yellow tape and took a step into the darkness, then paused to let his eyesight adjust. He probably should walk the long way around, but that would mean an extra block. This was shorter.

He shoved a foot into the undergrowth. He'd better watch for ticks, check his legs first thing when he reached the administration building everyone now called Poison Ivy Hall. He smiled and took another small step.

Thackery Wilson, that pompous ass. Founded a college, did he? Thought he could run one. Thought he could teach. In a very short time, he, Phillip Bigelow, would bring this charade to a halt. His sister's seducer, too. He knew exactly how to deal with that fool, Wellborn Price. He laughed out loud.

From the thick darkness under the oaks he could see out to where the shadows ended and an area of lightness began. He recognized that as what used to be the grassy campus. The place was dug up and pitted like a bombed-out war zone. Once he could see where he was setting his feet, he'd be able to move faster. He took another step and heard a cough.

“Who's there?” he called out.

No answer.

“Is someone there?” He took another step. “Speak up!” His feet hit a mound of dirt surrounding one of the half-dozen or more graves and he stumbled.

He heard another cough. Closer.

He recovered his balance. “Who's there?” He turned to see if he could probe the deep blackness and as he turned, he tripped over the dirt mound and tumbled into the grave beyond. He was too startled to cry out. He landed on his back with a thud that knocked the wind out of him. He peered up. The grave was at least six feet deep. He could see the dawn's grayness far above him. He tried to get to his knees but there wasn't room enough for him to turn around easily. Dirt tricked down onto him from the side of the grave. The dirt smelled foul. Before he had time to recover himself, a figure loomed over him, blocking the little light there was.

“Who are you?” Bigelow croaked, struggling to get to his feet. “Who are you?”

*   *   *

Victoria was an early riser. She loved the awakening day. On the morning after the storm before the sun came up, the phone rang. Dawn was still only a promise, a faint line between dark gray land and light gray sky. She recognized the mellow voice of Richard Williams, the Vineyard Haven harbormaster.

“Mrs. Trumbull,” he said. “Thought you might be willing to go with me again to check out Bruce Steinbicker's boat. I could use an extra hand.”

“Of course. I'd be delighted.” Victoria immediately began to plan a lunch she could pack quickly.

“Tried again to reach Steinbicker on the radio,” said Richard. “No luck. He's not answering his cell phone either.”

“That seems strange,” said Victoria.

“Yeah, it is. Figured I needed to take along someone who can troubleshoot engine problems.” He laughed.

“Thank you,” said Victoria, primly. “I'll be there shortly.”

“Need a ride?” asked Richard.

“I hitchhike,” she replied.

“I'll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said. “I know where you live.”

“Hitchhiking is faster,” said Victoria. “Also greener. The first car that passes will pick me up.” she added.

“You wait for me,” insisted Richard.

Victoria packed her cloth bag with cheese and crackers, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, carrots, and a hardened end of salami, filled an empty cranberry juice jug with good well water, and topped the bag with her police deputy hat. She gathered up sweaters and a scarf and was waiting in the drive when Richard pulled up in the harbormaster's van.

He helped her up into the high seat. “Not likely to have trouble on the water today. Heavy swell running, but it's calmed down since yesterday.” He was wearing his khaki uniform with a blue windbreaker and looked quite handsome with his tanned face and dark wavy hair trimmed neatly around his ears. As they pulled out of her drive, Victoria studied this nice young man. He was about Elizabeth's age. No wedding ring. He and Elizabeth would make an attractive couple.

He turned onto Old County Road.

Victoria said, “I'm really quite sure I saw someone on the boat waving as though they were in trouble.”

“Doesn't hurt to check,” Richard said, glancing at her with a smile. “I called Domingo at the Oak Bluffs harbor to see if your granddaughter was available, but she's out in the harbor in the launch.”

“How did the launch get back to Oak Bluffs?” Victoria asked, thinking of Elizabeth pulling the heavy boat up onto the sand near the ferry dock.

“Calmed down a bit last night and I ran it down there. A friend brought me back.”

“Ah,” said Victoria, wondering who the friend was.

Richard pulled into an empty place at the foot of the Owen Park road and went into the harbormaster's shack to take care of last-minute business. Victoria sat on a bench overlooking the harbor.

He came out of the shack after a bit.

“Got a message from Bruce Steinbicker on my answering machine. Wants a ride out to his boat. He should be here in twenty minutes or so. Mind waiting?”

“Not at all,” said Victoria. “I'd like to meet him.”

“I'll be ready to take off soon as he arrives.” Richard strode down the dock and Victoria followed. He stepped onto the whaler, took her bag from her, and offered her a hand, which she accepted. She settled herself on the bench in the wheelhouse and kept out of his way while he checked the engine and jotted notes in his log.