Poison Ivy
Page 18
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.
It was less than twenty minutes when Steinbicker showed up and stepped aboard. His hair, light brown, was artistically tousled. His tan accented his bright blue eyes. Above his strong jaw his mouth was slightly crooked, keeping his otherwise perfect face from looking too perfect.
“Thanks for giving me a ride, Richard,” he said.
Victoria smoothed her hair. Even though she didn’t have television, she recognized that mellow voice.
“No problem. Meet my mate, Victoria Trumbull. Mrs. T, meet the famous TV star.”
“How do you do,” said Victoria, holding out her hand, which Bruce took gently in his.
“Delighted to meet you. I own two of your poetry books and would love to have you autograph them for me. I’m afraid they’re pretty well worn.”
“The best kind.” Victoria smiled. “That means they’re well read.”
“And well loved,” he said. He then explained to Richard, “I don’t have my dinghy. A buddy of mine has it. He’s looking after my boat.”
The harbormaster started the engine, Bruce let go the lines, and they were underway.
It was hard for Victoria to believe that only yesterday she’d thought her granddaughter’s launch was going to founder. Just yesterday breakers had been smashing against the jetty sending up geysers of foaming water. How quickly the angry sea could calm. This morning the harbor’s surface reflected the sunrise and hulls and masts of a dozen anchored boats, all facing the incoming tide.
“Beautiful morning,” Bruce Steinbicker commented.
“It couldn’t be nicer. We were worried about your boat and wanted to check on it,” said Victoria. “But yesterday wasn’t the best day.”
“Certainly wasn’t,” said Bruce, rubbing his chin, still a bit tender from the week with Daphne. “But my boat has weathered worse storms than yesterday’s.”
The whaler’s wake broke the calm surface of the harbor. Shards of pink, orange, blue, white, and silver mingled the reflections of sky, boat hulls, and masts. A seagull swept overhead, mewling.
“Someone on your boat waved to us,” said Victoria, “but the weather was so foul we had to turn back.”
“A person on my boat?” asked Bruce. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” said Victoria, feeling less sure than she had been. “The person was waving something pink.”
Bruce rubbed his chin again.
“I did ask my buddy to check the boat. I suppose that’s who it was. Wonder why he was waving?”
They rounded the jetty and Richard pushed the throttle forward. Outside the harbor a heavy swell was running. The bow lifted and Victoria felt the thrill she always felt on the water. Salt water in her veins, she thought. She would have been a grand sea captain.
They’d know the explanation for the mysterious person on this nice man’s yacht. In the meantime, she intended to enjoy the morning. Even though the wheelhouse was sheltered, it was chilly. She put on the two sweaters she’d brought along.
They rounded Husselton Head and passed the gray-shingled summer houses on West Chop. Before the sun was high enough to warm them, they sighted the lighthouse.
Victoria shaded her eyes with her hand. “I’m sure this is about where we were when we saw the boat.”
“We’ll spot it in a couple minutes,” said Bruce. “I anchored below the light.”
The whaler surged ahead up the long, gentle swells that lifted them, then lowered them until land was hidden.
Victoria strained her eyes. “There!” she said. “There it is. I see it. Someone is out on deck, waving.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Bruce.
CHAPTER 28
Jodi awoke before dawn. Surf crashed on the beach, tumbling the band of cobbles along the shore with a continuous rumble. Heavy swell lifted the sailboat, then dropped it with a sickening lurch. She crawled out onto the deck and peered through the growing light. Through an occasional gap in the breakers she could glimpse the place she last saw Chris.
He wasn’t there. Yesterday, she’d watched him get to his feet and stagger a short distance, then collapse. He’d been battered by surf and rocks. He must be dead, his body washed out to sea. She tried to imagine how she’d feel if his corpse drifted past. What would she do?
Her stomach hurt. Her head ached. Her fingers were wrinkled from salt water, her nails were broken.
Her phone was useless. She tried the radio, but got nothing but static. She certainly couldn’t swim to shore.
The boat rose, swiveled, dropped.
How would Price react? His boat gone, Chris dead. Omigod! She couldn’t even think the word dead. He’d have returned from the grocery store during the storm. Perhaps he’d sheltered under an overturned boat with the bag of groceries, probably all soggy.
Surely, he would find them. Rescue them soon. Today.
Rescue her, she corrected herself. She shuddered when she thought of Price’s reaction. Oh, Chris! His death was her fault. His daughter, playing softball with her son.
That made her think of her four boys. Her husband. She’d misled Jonah. When the storm hit and the boats weren’t running, he’d probably assumed she’d stayed safely in a hotel on the mainland. How would she explain this whole horrible, ghastly situation to him?
She held onto the wheel as a swell passed beneath the boat, lifting it. A seagull cried. She shivered.
The torn jib flapped idly in the morning’s breeze. She glanced again toward the rocky point where Chris had landed. If only I’d thought before I started the engine. I should have figured the anchor would dig in again as the water got shallower. It was my fault the rope wrapped around the propeller. Chris would never have fallen overboard. He’s dead, and it’s my fault.
She was not a churchgoer, but she prayed. Please, dear Lord, let me see my boys and Jonah again. I’ll confess the whole awful story.
She thought of Roberta Chadwick on the yacht and a hot flush of shame washed over her. Roberta probably didn’t believe she was doing anything wrong by stealing our papers. She probably didn’t see it as plagiarism.
We kidnapped her.
We should never have kidnapped her.
That’s what we did, kidnapped her. A criminal offense.
* * *
Howland Atherton, who lived near Paul’s Point, was walking his dogs along the rocky beach, bracing himself against the wind, when he saw what looked like a mound of red cloth washed up by yesterday’s storm. Bowser, his mostly black Lab, raced ahead to investigate. Howland held onto the collar of Rover, his mostly German shepherd, who was whining to join the investigation.
“Bowser! Here, boy, come here!” but the dog paid no attention. He’d taken some of the red stuff in his jaws and was trying to tug it free.
Howland went over to pry the dog loose. What seemed like detritus from a distance, turned out to be a red jacket covering a man, probably in his thirties. At first, Howland thought he was looking at a dead man washed off a fishing boat by the storm. He steeled himself for the sight of death, the sad and broken remains of a person who had lived and loved just a few hours ago.
But as he got closer, the body took a shallow breath.
Howland pulled out his phone, sheltered it from the wind with his hand, and punched in 911, hoping to get a signal. When the communications center answered, he explained about the half-dead man.
“Paul’s Point? You gotta be kidding,” the dispatcher said. “It’s going to take one hell of a long time to get the EMTs there.”
“The man’s alive,” said Howland. “Hypothermia. I’ll do what I can to warm him.”
“Stay with him,” said the dispatcher. “We’ll get there soon as we can.”
Howland ordered the two dogs to stay, which they did, and stripped off his down jacket to cover the man. A redhead. Under a sloughing-off layer of sunburned skin that made him look like something long dead, he was deathly pale. His skin had a bluish tinge. His eyes were closed. His lips, chapped and raw looking, were parted, and he breathed through his mouth in shallow gasps. His jaw had a light stubble of beard. Howland felt for his pulse. Weak.