Poison Ivy (29 page)

“It must be difficult being away from home for such a long period,” Victoria said as they seated themselves, Victoria in her wing chair, Professor Stevenson in the rocker, and Professor Ranjit Singh on the stiff couch. “Especially for you, Dr. Singh. Do you have children?”

Professor Singh clasped his hands over his ample stomach. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I have three daughters. All are grown and married to fine young men.”

“And your wife?”

“She is staying with my youngest daughter, who is about to have her first child.” He smiled, showing a gold tooth.

“Your first grandchild?” asked Victoria.

“Oh, no. This will be my fifth.”

“And I understand your wife is with your daughter and new grandchild in Seattle, Professor Stevenson.”

They talked about grandchildren and Victoria bragged about her own granddaughter for an appropriate amount of time, then she led them to the cookroom and brought out the chicken salad she'd made earlier.

After they'd eaten and talked more about families, about India, about Professor Singh's study of ostracods and Professor Stevenson's study of sand transport, they were on a first-name basis.

Victoria pushed her plate back and stood. “Coffee for you, Ranjit? Seymour?”

“Oh, yes,” said Professor Singh. “If it's no trouble.”

“Love some,” said Professor Stevenson, also standing. “Can I help?”

“You can bring in the mugs and sugar and cream…”

“Glad to.”

When the coffee was poured, sugared, and creamed, Victoria said, “I had a special reason for inviting you.”

“Oh, certainly.” Professor Singh set his coffee mug down. “Whatever I can do to help, Mrs. Trumbull, that is, Victoria. It will be my pleasure.”

“A special reason?” asked Professor Stevenson.

“We are concerned about a series of murders on the Island,” said Victoria, “the work of a serial killer.”

“How unfortunate. How horrible,” said Professor Singh, leaning forward.

“The first seems to date back seven years,” said Victoria, “and the most recent was in mid-August.”

“What is your involvement, Victoria?” asked Professor Stevenson.

“I found the first body.” Victoria glanced out of the window at the church spire in the distant town.

“Really!” exclaimed Professor Singh. “How very distressing. How appalling.”

“How many victims have there been?” asked Stevenson.

“The groundkeeper's dog, Brownie, found ten more bodies after the first that I found.”

Professor Singh held up his pudgy hands. “Terrible. Just terrible.”

Professor Stevenson asked, “Have the victims been identified?”

“All but two,” said Victoria. “They were tenured professors at various colleges and universities.”

Both men were silent.

“The police believe the killer may be a frustrated scholar who was denied tenure,” said Victoria.

Professor Stevenson stroked his chin. “The tenure process can be stressful.”

“The killer wishes to even the score,” said Professor Singh, nodding. “I see.”

“We're concerned that any visiting professor far from home may be in danger.”

“You think, Victoria, that we should be aware of a too friendly stranger?” asked Professor Singh.

“I do,” said Victoria.

“This is most interesting, Victoria,” said Professor Stevenson. “Last night a man at the Tidal Rip invited me to go surfcasting with him early Friday morning.”

“Who was he?” asked Victoria.

“He was well-known, I'd say. At least at the Tidal Rip. The bartender drew him a draft beer before he asked. Everyone called him Rabbit.”

“‘Rabbit'?” asked Victoria.

“I didn't ask him how he got that name.”

“How did he happen to invite you to go fishing?”

“He sat next to me at the bar, asked if I was visiting the Island. I said I was. We got to talking. Nice guy. Seemed well educated. I told him about my research on coastal beaches. He said he'd bet I was a fisherman. I told him I love fishing, but I didn't bring gear with me. He promised to lend me a surf rod and reel.”

“When are you going?”

“He's picking me up around three in the morning.”

“Fishing is a route throughout the world to fast friendships,” said Professor Singh.

Victoria nodded.

“Ranjit's right. Fishing leads to good friendships. I'm sure his invitation is completely innocent, but I'll keep on the alert.” Professor Stevenson looked at his watch. “I'm afraid I have an appointment with the outgoing tide, Victoria. Thank you so much. This has been a delightful break. I appreciate the warning.”

“As do I,” said Professor Singh, getting up and bowing to Victoria. “I will most certainly heed your advice.”

Victoria went with them to the door and watched them get into the green Ford. She hurried back into the house and called Casey.

“The name Rabbit means nothing to me,” she said. “But someone needs to follow Professor Stevenson and whoever meets him at the hotel Friday morning.”

“I'll tell Smalley what you said. It could be nothing. A visiting professor gets invited to go fishing. Happens all the time. You think that raises a red flag?”

“Dr. Killdeer says pressure is building up in the killer and he must kill again. Soon,” Victoria said. “He's preying on tenured professors and I've found one who's been invited to go out in the middle of the night with a complete stranger. Yes, that raises a red flag.”

“Did you warn the professors?”

“I did.”

“That should be enough. They're grown men.”

“So were the other eleven victims.”

“I'll call Smalley, but he's short of manpower, too.”

After Victoria hung up, she paced back and forth, thinking. If she were the killer, she would do exactly what this man named Rabbit did. Befriend a stranger at a bar, learn that he's a college professor away from home, invite him to go fishing at night. The killer might simply ask his victim if he wants to see the graves at the college, quickly wrap a rope around his neck, and push him into the grave.

Who could she get to help her with a stakeout?

*   *   *

Howland Atherton dropped by later that afternoon.

Victoria greeted him warmly.

“I'm taking Bowser and Rover to the vet's for their shots and thought I'd say hello.”

“Do you have time for coffee?” she asked.

“I'll make time.”

She started a fresh pot, and they seated themselves at their usual places at the cookroom table.

“I haven't seen you for several days,” said Victoria while they waited for the coffee to brew. “Do you have news I can use for this week's column?”

“I do.” Howland was wearing his baggy gray sweater and tan slacks. He pulled off his sweater and flung it over the chair at the end of the table. “The dogs found a man washed up on the beach this morning.”

“Dead?” Victoria asked.

“Not quite. He's at the hospital now. He seems in fairly good shape except he doesn't know his name or where he came from. He's a redhead with a bad sunburn.”

“Is he a fisherman swept off his boat in the storm?”

“He doesn't look like a fisherman,” said Howland. “His hands aren't calloused. He was wearing expensive sportswear and a good wool jacket. He may have come off a yacht.”

“That storm hit suddenly. Elizabeth and I barely made it to the Vineyard Haven harbor.”

“What were you doing out in it?”

Victoria told him about her adventure and the follow-up rescue of Roberta Chadwick.

“How did she end up on the boat?”

“I have no idea.”

The coffee finished with a last few gurgles. Howland got up and returned with two steaming mugs.

“What about the castaway you found?” asked Victoria.

“Hope was on duty when we got him to the hospital and she said his amnesia is probably temporary. He's suffering from exposure and dehydration. She thinks he'll be fine.”

“What a strange experience that must be,” said Victoria, “to awaken in the hospital and not know who you are or how you got there.”

*   *   *

At the hospital, Hope, Victoria's grandniece, pulled aside the curtain surrounding the redheaded castaway. He'd been rehydrated and the sloughed-off skin of his face had been cleaned off. He turned out to be quite nice looking.

“How's the patient?” Hope asked. “Need anything?”

“Just want to know who I am.”

“It'll come back. Don't push it.” She thrust a thermometer into his mouth, checked his pulse, took his blood pressure, and wrote something on her clipboard.

“I remember being on a boat,” he mumbled around the thermometer.

“We figured as much.” She removed the thermometer and recorded his temperature. “A fishing boat?”

“A sailboat. I was up at the bow. I slipped and remember falling.” He sat up and winced. “How long have I been here?”

“Only a few hours. The ambulance brought you in this morning, and it's a little after two now.”

“When can I be discharged?” He lay back down again.

“As far as your physical condition, you'd probably be kept for observation but we can't let you go until we can identify you.”

“Thanks. That sounds weird. ‘Identify you.' Makes me feel like a dead body.”

“You almost were,” said Hope. “Get some rest now. Dinner's at five-thirty and the meals here are pretty good.”

*   *   *

On the sailboat, O'Malley was trying to get through to the communications center on his handheld radio.

“You're breaking up, sir. All I hear is ‘body.'”

“Lambert's Cove!” O'Malley shouted into his cell phone, as if that would make the reception clearer.

“Body off Lambert's Cove.”

“Yes!” shouted O'Malley.

“Unidentified man found at Paul's Point, sir.”

“Dead?” asked O'Malley.

“Can't hear you, sir.”

“Hell!” shouted O'Malley. “Is he dead or alive?”

“No information, sir. He was taken to the hospital. Your name, sir?”

O'Malley disconnected. “Someone found a man on the beach at Paul's Point and took him to the hospital.”

“I've got to see what those characters did to my boat,” said Price. “They got the anchor line fouled in the prop.”

Jodi was hunched over in the cockpit, mumbling.

“We'd better get her to shore,” said O'Malley. “Your boat can wait.”

Price scowled. “Those idiots.”

“Who are you talking about? Your friend may be dead and Jodi's a basket case. Come on, help her into my boat. We'll get back to my place and try to figure out what's going on.”

*   *   *

As Howland was leaving, Victoria asked, “Do you have any plans for this evening?”

Howland paused at the door. “What do you have in mind?”

“A stakeout.”

Howland laughed. “I've got to get to the vet's. I'll stop by on my way back and we can discuss this stakeout.”

*   *   *

Price and O'Malley, between them, took turns carrying Jodi up the path from the boathouse. At the top of the cliff they set her down, and, one on either side, walked her to the house.

“You don't need to do this,” mumbled Jodi, her voice broken and scarcely audible. “I can walk.”

“No, you can't,” said O'Malley.

They marched her into the living room, laid her on the couch, O'Malley put a blanket over her, and Price brought out the bottle of Scotch.

“One of us should stay with her,” said O'Malley. “The other needs to go to the hospital to identify the man who washed up on the beach, dead or alive.”

“I'll go,” said Price. “If it's Chris, I can identify him.” He nodded toward Jodi. “Sorry to lay this on you.”

“One of these days, you'll have to tell me what this is all about,” said O'Malley. “Take my car. The keys are in the ignition.”

After Price left, O'Malley poured a half-glass of Scotch. He poured it slowly and sniffed its fragrance, held the glass up to the light and let the sun shine through the golden liquid. He lifted it to his lips. Before it touched them he pushed the glass away and set it down firmly on the kitchen counter. He took a deep breath.

He picked up the glass again and took it into the living room, where Jodi was sitting up.

For a brief moment, he watched her sip.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “Thanks.”

He turned away. “I'm fixing an omelet. Think you can eat something?”

“I guess I'm hungry.” She set the glass down, scarcely touched. “I've got to talk to Jonah, and I dread it.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Husband. He's taking care of our boys.”

O'Malley didn't even get as far as the kitchen. “You were on a sailboat for a week with those two guys?” He sat down in the chair next to the fireplace and raised his eyebrows. “What did Jonah think about that?”

“Oh, God!” She pressed her hands over her eyes. “What can I say!”

“You're welcome to use my phone to call Jonah. You'd better let him know you're safe.”

Jodi tossed the blanket off and swiveled around, bare feet on the floor.

“Would it help to talk to me? I'll bet you a hundred bucks I've been through worse scrapes than what you've got yourself into.” He fished out his wallet, withdrew a dollar bill, and placed it on the coffee table under her glass.

She smiled.

O'Malley stretched, loosening his back muscles. “You need to tell someone, and it might as well be me.”

She glanced away, smile gone.

“Think about it while I'm making the omelet. I'll keep your secrets safe. After you tell me, you can decide what to say to Jonah.” He grinned. “Maybe you'll win the bet.”