Poison Ivy (28 page)

“Roberta can sleep in her own bed tonight.”

“Your handyman cleans up pretty well. I never thought I'd see him attending a lecture.”

“He's got a good mind,” said Victoria. She gazed out the window at the passing darkness. Trees, two-dimensional stage settings flashed past, lit up by Elizabeth's headlights for a brief second. “I think the week on the boat was good for Roberta.”

“A sort of desert health spa treatment?”

“More like a retreat. It gave her time to think about what's important.”

 

C
HAPTER
32

The next morning the sky was a brilliant autumnal blue, washed clean. The only signs of the storm two days ago were the fallen branches, some quite large, that the wind had torn off the old maple trees.

Victoria had called Casey as soon as she got home from the lecture, and Casey set up a meeting at the state police barracks with Sergeant Smalley and Dr. Killdeer, the forensic scientist.

While she waited for Casey to arrive, Victoria walked around her property with a basket, gathering sticks for kindling and breaking up what branches she could. The rest she carted to the sawbuck, where Robert would cut them.

She was still lugging branches when Casey arrived.

“I'll wash up and be right with you,” said Victoria. “I lost track of time.”

Joel Killdeer was already at the barracks. Victoria and Casey, Dr. Killdeer, and Sergeant Smalley moved into the conference room and Victoria took her seat at the head of the table.

Trooper Tim Eldredge set a tray of coffee and doughnuts on the table. Smalley poured, passed around mugs, then straightened his yellow pad on top of a thick manila folder.

“We'd like to hear what you have to report, Mrs. Trumbull.”

Victoria clasped her hands on the table. “At last night's lecture, two visiting professors identified themselves, one from India and one from MIT. Neither is here with his family, and both are working on projects that will keep them away from home for a while.”

Killdeer leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “In other words, two ideal victims.”

“I didn't spot anyone who looked like our killer.”

Smalley picked up his pencil and began to draw what looked like lush tropical vegetation.

Killdeer snapped his gum. “Our killer won't stand out as anyone suspicious, Mrs. T. He'll look just like you or me. Well, not you.”

“The professors?” asked Smalley.

Victoria reached into her cloth bag and brought out a business card. “Professor Ranjit Singh is a geology professor at Hyderabad University.” She handed the card to Killdeer who looked at it and handed it on to Smalley.

“He's here alone?” asked Smalley.

“Yes. He expects to be on the Island for several weeks before he moves on to Block Island.”

Killdeer chewed steadily.

“And the second professor?” asked Smalley.

“He's Professor Seymour Stevenson, on sabbatical from MIT. He's spending several weeks here on the Vineyard and then will work his way down to Florida.”

“What about his family?”

“His wife is in Seattle with their daughter and a new grandson.” Victoria toyed with her coffee mug, turning it in circles on the conference table. “I'm not sure how much help this has been.”

“Fact is,” said Killdeer, “you've identified two men who fit the victim profile. Our killer needs to kill again, and kill soon, based on what we've unearthed so far.” He chewed for a moment. “Be nice to find him before he does.”

Smalley continued to draw his tropical scene. He looked up. “Let's say we've got two potential victims. This raises several questions. How many lone professors in their fifties and sixties are visiting the Island now? Any thoughts on how the killer connects with them?”

“The victims have to eat,” said Killdeer. “Given their age and the fact they're alone, they'll eat in restaurants and most likely find a pub where they can socialize. We should check on bars and pubs where there's some kind of evening activity.”

“That narrows it down to Oak Bluffs and Edgartown,” said Smalley, “the only towns with bars.”

“We have to move, and move fast,” said Killdeer. “Mrs. T identified two possible victims. Has the murderer targeted them, too?”

“If we're talking about putting a tail on the two,” Casey said and shrugged, “we're talking a lot of man hours, and we don't have any to spare. I don't know what to tell you, John.”

Smalley went back to his drawing and sketched a coconut hanging from one of the palm trees. He glanced at Killdeer. “How soon is he likely to kill again?”

Killdeer unwrapped a new stick of gum and folded his used gum in the foil wrapper. “My guess is within the next week. He's got to kill, and kill soon.”

The others were silent.

Victoria said, “What if we warn the two visitors about the potential danger? That would save manpower.”

“Do you know where they're staying?” asked Smalley.

“Both are staying in Vineyard Haven, Professor Stevenson at the Mansion House, Professor Singh at a bed-and-breakfast.”

Smalley sketched in a second coconut, falling.

“I'll invite them both to lunch,” said Victoria. “I'm sure a warning is all they need.”

Smalley stood. “In the meantime, we'll dedicate what manpower we have to watching those two and identifying other potential victims. We need to get busy.”

Victoria stood, too. “I wanted to ask about something.”

“Yes, Mrs. Trumbull?” said Smalley.

“Walking around the campus, I noticed that the earliest burials were along Main Street. Didn't anyone see the killer disposing of bodies in such a public place?”

“We checked into that. Seven years ago, the Public Works Department opened up a trench to install a sewer line. About when the first body was buried.”

“The next wasn't for another year,” said Victoria.

“Right, but the ground would have been easy to dig for some time. No stones, no tree roots, no compacted soil.”

“The next several were buried almost on the property line between the Ivy Green campus and the Unitarian Church.”

“You're right on it, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Smalley. “The church was connected to the sewer line about four years ago. The killer had more soft ground for his burials.”

“By the time he dug up your outdoor classroom, he was getting more sure of himself,” said Killdeer. “Got careless with his last three burials.”

*   *   *

After she returned from the state police barracks, Victoria phoned the Mansion House. The professor from India, Ranjit Singh, was staying at a bed-and-breakfast, but Victoria didn't know which one. Perhaps Professor Stevenson would know.

“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.

 

C
HAPTER
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.”