“Didn’t he win the Nobel Prize in Economics a couple of years back?” asked Reverend Bob White.
Silence. Dedie smiled.
Reverend White looked around the group, most of whom avoided his eyes. “Why a freshman course in education?”
“He’s required to be fully qualified to teach,” said Bigelow, staring him down.
“Wellborn Price?” asked Bob White. “You expect him to take an introductory course in order to be qualified to teach? Surely you’re joking.”
Bigelow stood and looked at his watch. “I believe we can catch the three-forty-five boat if we hurry.”
“You know, Bigelow, you’re asking for a lawsuit.” Bob White leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach.
“Hardly,” said Bigelow. “No grounds whatsoever.” He turned back to the others. “The next IGCOC meeting will be back on schedule, second Tuesday in October.”
“I could come up with a half-dozen grounds,” said Bob White, “starting with defamation of character.”
“I guess you know about lawsuits,” said Dedie. “Aren’t you suing the university over that statue?”
“Inappropriate. Offensive piece of so-called art.”
Bigelow ignored them.
Thackery said, “One other matter.”
“What is it?” Bigelow glanced at his watch again.
“I’m sure you’ve heard by now that a skeleton was unearthed on campus this past week.”
“It was in the news.” Bigelow sat down again. “Do you have any further information? One hopes the skeleton is, perhaps, an Indian artifact?”
“It’s a relatively recent burial,” said Thackery. “Within the past year.”
The eyes of all the committee members were on Thackery.
“That wasn’t mentioned in the news,” said Bigelow. “Has the body been identified?”
“There isn’t enough left to identify readily. The state forensics team is working on his ID as we speak.”
“His?” snapped Bigelow.
“A belt buckle, size twelve shoes.”
“At least it’s not another member of BIG…” Dedie stopped. “Of IGCOC,” she finished.
* * *
The four regulars gathered on Alley’s porch after work that same afternoon. Donald Schwartz, the boat builder, was sitting next to Sarah on the bench.
“Who’s the seedy character working for Mrs. Trumbull?” asked Donald.
“No idea,” said Joe. “Didn’t think she hired anyone to help her.” As usual, Joe was leaning against the post near the step where he could spit his tobacco juice off into a tuft of dried grass.
“You’re killing that grass,” said Sarah.
“Shouldn’t be growing there,” said Joe.
Lincoln stood in the doorway, scratching his back on the door frame. “If it’s who I think it is, he delivers the morning papers. Picks them up from the paper boat.”
“Okay, I know who he is,” said Donald. “Name’s Robert. Has a drinking problem.”
“I hear they found another corpse up to the college.” Joe cut off a fresh chunk of Red Man and stuffed it into his mouth. “Number three.”
“That’s old news,” said Sarah. “Almost a week ago.”
“Mrs. Trumbull find the body?” asked Lincoln.
“Caretaker’s mutt dug it up,” said Joe. “Must’ve thought it was a bone he buried.”
Donald laughed.
“It’s not funny, you guys,” said Sarah. “Three dead people?”
“You heard of corpse-sniffing dogs?” said Lincoln. “Like drug-sniffing dogs at airports, only different.”
“I heard they use gerbils to sniff drugs these days,” said Donald. “Less threatening.”
“Stop it!” said Sarah, putting her hands over her ears. “This is awful. Do they know who it is?”
“Was,” said Joe. “Nothing but bones.”
“They ID’d the second corpse yet?” asked Lincoln.
“Yup. Another college professor. Somebody hates college professors,” said Joe.
“Killer’s probably a college professor himself who didn’t get tenure,” said Donald.
“What do you know about tenure?” said Joe.
“Never did get tenure,” said Donald.
“Figures,” said Joe.
CHAPTER 11
“I’m sure it’s not personal, Thackery,” said Victoria.
The IGCOC group had walked to the ferry without a word of thanks to him. He was obviously still smarting from Victoria’s having attended the first part of the meeting from which he’d been excluded.
“They didn’t even have the decency to say good bye.” Thackery was standing by the cracked window, his back to Victoria, hands clasped behind him.
“I suspect each of them was thinking about his own self interest,” said Victoria. “I don’t know why they bothered to come over to the Island. They could have nominated a new member on the mainland.”
Thackery still said nothing.
Victoria said, “They may have felt that Reverend Bob White, the new member, needed to see the campus.”
“They might have asked me to show him around,” said Thackery without turning. “Only common courtesy. It is my campus, after all. I put the whole thing together with no help from anyone.”
“What you’ve achieved is remarkable, Thackery. No one else could have done what you have.” Victoria was seated in the chair next to Thackery’s desk, still speaking to his back. “The committee members seem to be letting some form of personal animosity get in the way of helping the college.”
Thackery said, “After the last meeting, that female member, Dr. Wieler, took me aside and shed some light on the personal animosities.” Thackery returned to his seat.
“What did she have to say?”
“She explained why Bigelow is making it so difficult for us to appoint Dr. Wellborn Price.”
“Cape Cod University ought to be delighted to have Dr. Price listed among adjunct professors who teach at Ivy Green.” Victoria smoothed her hair. “They didn’t seem to have a problem approving me.”
“Of course not,” said Thackery.
“Even I, who know nothing about economics, am familiar with the name Wellborn Price. Wasn’t he a consultant to the White House economics policy group?”
“He was on Bigelow’s tenure committee,” said Thackery.
“Oh?”
“He was responsible for denying Bigelow tenure.”
“Was there justification?” asked Victoria.
“The only justification was personal vindictiveness,” said Thackery. “Years before, Bigelow’s father had served on Wellborn’s tenure committee and blackballed Wellborn.”
“Why?”
Thackery shrugged. “For personal reasons.”
“And that’s the reason Wellborn blackballed his son, our Professor Bigelow? That’s as archaic as the Hatfield and McCoy feud,” said Victoria. “Did our Professor Bigelow, appeal?”
“He did. But lost the appeal.”
“And ended up teaching at Cape Cod University instead of at Stanford.”
“Exactly. Tenure denial is a kiss of death for an academician with aspirations for teaching at a major university.”
“It must be discouraging to put in five or more years at the beginning of one’s career only to be fired. That’s what it amounts to, doesn’t it?”
* * *
Joel Killdeer, the forensics boss, was standing near the lush poison ivy vine that hid the shingles of Woodbine Hall when Walter let Brownie off his clothesline leash.
Brownie turned around in a circle, squatted down, scratched his ear with a hind leg, and yawned.
Killdeer nodded at the vine. “Stuff’s pretty.”
“Go on, Brownie,” said Walter, nudging his dog with his toe. “Sic’um!”
Brownie turned his head to look at his master with sad eyes, and lay all the way down. He dropped his head on his front paws.
Killdeer was chewing gum. Hi
s sunglasses covered his eyes, his arms were folded over his chest. He leaned back against the side of the building. “Pretty lively mutt, you got there, Walter.”
Walter bent down and lifted Brownie to his feet. “Go on, sic’um!”
At that point, Thackery and Victoria emerged from the building.
“That’s poison ivy, Dr. Killdeer,” said Victoria. “I hope you’re not sensitive to it.”
“Oh, shit!” Killdeer straightened up and stared at the vine. “Last case I got damned near killed me.”
“Woodbine Hall has an upstairs shower,” said Thackery.
“Cool water,” said Victoria. “Be careful not to touch your clothes where they’ve come in contact with the vine.”
Killdeer left to clean up. Brownie staggered to his feet and looked reproachfully at Walter. He then put his nose to the ground and started circling, making wider and wider circles, moving away from the administration building. He stopped suddenly and began to dig, almost tripping up Walter, who’d been following closely behind his dog. Thackery and Victoria gathered around.
“Smart dog,” said Walter, preening himself.
Thackery scowled.
“I hope he hasn’t found yet another body,” said Victoria.
Brownie dug furiously with his front paws. Dirt shot out between his hind legs. After a few minutes he stopped, looked up at Walter, and yelped.
Walter bent down to look into the foot-deep hole. “Can’t see nothin’.”
Thackery turned his head away.
Brownie yelped again. Walter reattached the clothesline leash and held him back.
Victoria leaned over the dark hole. “Something is moving down there.” She could just make out a wad of some cottony stuff with seven or eight, or maybe nine, wriggling pink creatures the size of the last joint on her little finger.
“Mice?” asked Walter.
“I don’t believe mice would nest underground. These are probably voles.” Victoria stood up and patted Brownie. “Good boy,” she said. “That was clever of you.”
“I hope you don’t plan to charge Dr. Killdeer for Brownie’s latest discovery,” said Thackery, turning back to the scene of the dig.
“At least they’re not dead mice,” said Walter, “if you know what I mean.”
“Voles are harmless,” said Victoria.
Killdeer peered into the hole. “Look like mice to me.”
Walter was holding Brownie back with the clothesline. “They’re mice.”
“They’re called meadow mice,” admitted Victoria.
“Drown’em,” said Killdeer.
Victoria leaned over the hole in the ground. “We’ll cover their nest and leave them alone.”
Brownie whined, and tugged at his leash.
“Better encourage that dog to look elsewhere,” said Killdeer.
Victoria gathered up a handful of fallen leaves and placed them over the tiny pink creatures, then gently mounded dirt back over them.
Brownie looked up at her and wagged his tail.
Thackery, who’d been silently glaring at the goings-on, grunted. “I have business to attend to.” He strode back to Woodbine Hall.
Walter led Brownie away from the voles and removed the clothesline from the dog’s neck. “C’mon. Get to work!”
Brownie sat down and scratched his ear.
“Good job, Brownie.” Victoria leaned down to pat him.
“He’s got fleas,” warned Walter.
Brownie stood and yawned, then began circling again.
Victoria moved the lawn chair she used for class away from the former magic circle, set it back up in the late afternoon shade of the oaks, and sat down.
Brownie circled. He stopped. He sat and scratched himself again. He looked over at Victoria.
“Go on,” said Walter. “What’ve you got?”
Brownie dug for several minutes, kicking dirt behind him until he’d excavated a shallow ditch.
The katydids stopped singing for a second, then started up again.
“What the hell was that?” asked Killdeer.
“Katydids,” said Victoria. “That’s their mating song.”
“Mating song.” Killdeer rubbed the back of his neck. “Wonder if my babygirl would mate if I chirped like that.”
“They start calling right around now, late afternoon. They’re nocturnal.” Victoria glanced up. “They live in trees and look like large grasshoppers.”
“Thanks,” said Killdeer.
A breeze blew through the tall oaks, and a few leaves drifted down. On the side of Woodbine Hall, the poison ivy vine blazed with color as the low rays of the afternoon sun struck the house. A V of Canada geese flew overhead, and their continuous honking faded into the distance.
Brownie stopped digging, yawned, and lay down in his ditch. He lowered his head onto his paws. His tail thumped.
“For cryin’ out loud. Get up!” Walter demanded.
Brownie opened his eyes and looked up.
Walter grunted, turned his back, and shuffled toward the road in front of Woodbine Hall.
Victoria stood up and leaned over, hands on her knees. “That was hard work, wasn’t it, Brownie?”
The tail thumped.
“You haven’t finished, have you?”
Brownie staggered to his feet, stretched, his rear end up, his front paws out straight, yawned with a sort of groan, moved a foot or so to the right, and recommenced his digging. After a few minutes, as though he’d simply been warming up, he began to dig furiously. Dirt flew behind him. He panted. He yelped. He dug. Dirt flew. Saliva dripped from his grizzled jaws.
* * *
Killdeer returned, his sunglasses perched on top of his dark, smooth head. “Your pup earned his salary today,” he said with admiration. Walter had returned from his place across the road, and was zipping up his pants. Killdeer dropped his sunglasses into place. “You can retire, Walter, my man, and let that pup support you the rest of his life. Corpse-sniffing dogs ain’t cheap.”
Victoria was leaning on her stick peering down into Brownie’s excavation. Thackery had summoned the police, and the troopers finished the disinterment.
“Number four, I gather,” said Killdeer.
“Something like that,” Smalley replied. “No question about it. Serial killer.”
“Who’s been at it for some time.” Killdeer turned to Thackery. “Likely have to dig up your whole place, man.”
Thackery grunted. “Can you tell how long ago this victim was buried, Dr. Killdeer?”
Killdeer shoved his glasses up on his shiny head again and leaned over. “More recent than the last one. Still has bits of dried flesh. Lab can tell us more.”
CHAPTER 12
The next morning, Thursday, a crowd materialized. The Island grapevine had been at work. Five or six people gathered behind Woodbine Hall and another eight or so had walked from Main Street through the oak grove toward Brownie’s hole in the ground.
“Sorry folks,” said Smalley, as he ordered his troopers to string crime scene tape around the entire perimeter of the campus. “Not much to see. We’ll give the Island Enquirer and WMVY all the information we can.”
“Was this the third body you’ve found?” asked a gray-haired woman holding a bulging Black Dog shopping bag.
“Afraid we have no comment, ma’am.”
“It’s number four,” said a man standing next to her.
A young woman wheeling a baby stroller asked, “What’re you doing to catch the killer?”
“Folks, I’m afraid I really have to ask you to step back,” said Smalley.
“They’re dealing with a serial killer,” said the same man who’d spoken. “Won’t catch him until he kills again.”
* * *
“Do you want me to mind the office while you’re gone, Thackery?” asked Victoria. Sergeant Smalley had requested Thackery to accompany him to the state police barracks. Thackery hesitated. He was rubbing his hand over the back of his neck in a way Victoria suspected meant s
tress.
“I’d appreciate that, Mrs. Trumbull.” He turned to Smalley. “How long will this take?”
“An hour or so” Smalley replied.
“Perhaps we’ll have some word on the identity of the third victim,” said Victoria.
“Let’s hope so,” said Smalley.
Victoria watched at the cracked window as the two men headed for the police car in the faculty parking lot. The two were about the same height, but Thackery Wilson was almost as gaunt as the skeletons Brownie had unearthed, while John Smalley, a good ten years younger, had the broad chest and tight bottom of a discus thrower. Thackery loped along with an awkward stork gait, Smalley strode along as though he was about to accept his gold medal. Victoria watched until they got into the police car and drove off.
The phone rang. She took Thackery’s seat at his desk and answered.
“Was that another body they found?” the caller asked.
“I’m afraid we have no comment,” said Victoria.
“That means yes, then.” The caller disconnected.
Victoria searched in her cloth bag for something to write on, found a pen and a fuel oil bill in an envelope with a clean reverse side and began to draft her column for the Island Enquirer in her loopy backhand.
The phone rang again.
“Understand a dog dug up another corpse?”
“I’m sorry, we have no comment.” Victoria hung up.
She would have to be careful not to divulge too much information in writing her column. She had been privy, she knew, to more than the police would care to release to readers of the weekly newspaper.
Another call, another no comment.
Victoria was sorting through her notes when the front door opened and a tall heavyset man entered. She first noticed his hair, a tousled white mane, then his eyes, a clear cerulean blue. He was probably in his sixties, about the same age as her daughter Amelia. He wore jeans belted below his stomach. The top buttons of his plaid shirt were undone showing a clean white T-shirt.
“Wilson around?” He had a deep mellow voice.
“Dr. Wilson should be back shortly,” Victoria said. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Where’d he go, if I may ask?”
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