Poison Ivy

by Cynthia Riggs

  “Wellborn Price,” said Wellborn. He’d seated himself and was grinning at Bigelow, who obviously couldn’t see his expression.

  Bigelow opened his mouth and shut it again, his face pale.

  “Understand you had a grave experience,” said Wellborn, and laughed.

  “Hardly something to laugh about,” snorted Bigelow. “You haven’t changed.”

  “Still alive, Bigelow, old boy, despite reports to the contrary.” Wellborn laughed again.

  Nurse Hope reappeared. “Mr. Wrentham, your Mr. Henderson is here.”

  Price strode into the room. Chris stood up, a blank expression on his face.

  “Chris, my man! How’re you doing?”

  Victoria turned at his voice. “Price! Another surprise. When did you get back?”

  Wellborn, too, stood abruptly and stared at Price, who, with his pale hair and bright blue eyes, was the spitting image of Wellborn as a young man.

  “Back?” asked Price, not noticing Wellborn.

  “From the conference?” asked Victoria, feeling somewhat unsure of herself at this point.

  “Oh, back!” said Price.

  “Price?” asked Bigelow, moving his head to face this new visitor. “Price Henderson?”

  Wellborn, white hair and bright blue eyes, stood frozen.

  “The same,” said Price. “Who are you?”

  “I am Professor Phillip Bigelow.” He cleared his throat. “Professor of military history at Cape Cod University. Unusual first name, Price. A family name?”

  “Sort of.” Price was clearly uneasy under this scrutiny.

  Victoria sat back, hands in her lap, and watched the scene unfold.

  “My sister had a son named Price,” said Bigelow.

  Wellborn groaned, and Price glanced over at him, then did a double take. “I didn’t get your name, sir.”

  “I’m Wellborn Price.” He paused, clasped his arms under his chest, and closed his eyes briefly. “I teach economics at Ivy Green College.” He opened his eyes again and smiled. “Thanks to our Professor Bigelow, here.”

  Price continued to stare at the familiar face. “I’ve signed up for your course.” He, too, paused. “Sir.”

  “Price!” exclaimed Chris suddenly, running his hands over his hair. “It’s coming back. I know you! Your sailboat. Jodi.”

  “Jodi?” Victoria glanced away from the unfolding scene and sat up straight. “What about Jodi?”

  “Maybe we should continue the conversation outside?” said Price, looking away from Wellborn.

  “Jodi was supposed to be attending the same meeting Chris and you were attending. And so was Roberta Chadwick,” said Victoria.

  “Roberta Chadwick?” said Bigelow, peering from one blurred speaker to another. “What about Roberta Chadwick?”

  “She’s my advisor.” Chris beamed. “It’s coming back! It’s all coming back in a rush!” He twisted around. “Hope! Where’s Hope?”

  A man in the group on the other side of the solarium called out, “Press that button on the side of his chair, and she’ll come right away.”

  “Thanks!” Price glanced away from the image of himself in twenty years and called back, “I hope we’re not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all,” said the man. “If you got any juice leftover from dinner, we can party. We brought a bottle of vodka.” He held up a frosted-looking bottle.

  “Sounds good.” Chris scratched his forehead. “Come on over.”

  Price pressed the button on the side of Chris’s chair.

  “What about Jodi?” asked Victoria, glancing from Chris to Price.

  “I don’t exactly recall who she is,” said Chris. “But it’s coming back. Just the name so far. Sexy, I think.”

  “Roberta Chadwick was reported missing,” Bigelow said.

  “We found her,” said Victoria.

  “Found her?” asked Price, sitting forward. “Where did you find her?”

  The group on the other side separated into three segments. One man wheeled the robed and slippered patient, another man carried two Cronig’s grocery bags full of something, and three women, all giggling, followed along.

  “Thought we’d join you,” the wheeler said. “This is our mom, Audrey. Alzheimer’s.”

  “I’ve got the booze,” said the bag carrier. “And, ta dah! Potato chips and dip.”

  “We brought napkins,” said the women’s contingent. “I think Hope can find us some of that pineapple juice, or whatever.”

  “Someone call?” said Hope, appearing. She stopped abruptly. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Party!” cried out Mom from her wheelchair.

  Chris enveloped Hope in yet another bear hug. “I’ve remembered Jodi—hubba, hubba.”

  Hope extricated herself and pointed to the bag-carrying, bottle-wielding group. “You will leave, immediately. Out!” She pointed to the door.

  Murmurs of protest.

  “Party?” asked Mom.

  “Auntie Vic, what is going on?”

  “I have only a sketchy idea,” said Victoria. “Chris Wrentham, Price Henderson, and Jodi Paloni were supposed to be attending a conference off Island with Roberta Chadwick.”

  “Roberta Chadwick!” said Chris. “No wonder that name sounded familiar. It’s all coming back.”

  Price glanced again at Wellborn and said to the others, “We really need to continue this discussion outside.”

  Hope, fists on her hips, watched as the family gathered up scattered belongings and began their exodus from the solarium.

  “If the rest of you will excuse me,” she said, getting down to business, “I have to take Mr. Wrentham’s and Professor Bigelow’s blood pressure and temperature.”

  “Party?” asked Mom as they wheeled her away.

  CHAPTER 36

  Joel Killdeer, the forensic scientist, was in Woodbine Hall, going over reports and making notes. He scratched his head, put his pen down, leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and stared at the cracked window. He chewed his gum with a steady, grim rhythm.

  Brownie was curled up at his feet on a plush doggie bed bought especially for him at Good Dog Goods.

  Tim, the state trooper who’d been assigned to help Killdeer, looked up from his own paperwork. “You okay, boss?”

  “Our man should have made a move before now.”

  Brownie sighed, opened his eyes, looked up, and shut them again.

  “Maybe the garage corpse was his final victim. That was the only one never buried.”

  “Nope,” said Killdeer. “He’s going to kill again. He’ll keep killing until we catch him. This bastard’s meticulous about timing. Look at this.” He set his chair down and shoved the papers he’d been working on toward Tim.

  Tim picked up the papers. “What am I looking at?”

  “We’ve got the timeline down pretty close. Look here.” Killdeer pointed his pen at a series of numbers. “First death was one we dated back to seven years ago. Second death, five years ago. Then four, three, two-and-a-half. See? He’s got to get his killing fix more often.”

  Brownie got to his feet, stretched, yawned, walked over to the front door, and stood there, staring at it.

  “What makes a guy turn like that?” asked Tim. “I mean, I can understand how a guy gets into a fight in a bar and knifes someone in a rage, but killing like this? Like it’s an obsession or something?”

  “Serial killers apparently are genetically disposed to become psychopaths. A psychopath becomes a serial killer through a combination of lousy upbringing, frustration, and stress.” Killdeer took the papers back from Tim. “The reason they’re so difficult to catch is their victims seem to be picked at random, but in the killer’s mind, he’s being logical. Killer wants to rid the world of blue-eyed blondes, or prostitutes, or, like our man, college professors.” He slapped the papers with the back of his hand. “Victim six, two years ago. Victim seven, one-and-a-half years ago. Then one year, then nine months. The poison ivy victim killed six mon
ths ago, the garage victim almost three months ago.”

  “Next one should be, like, now,” said Tim.

  “What I’m telling you, man.”

  “He’s running out of time,” said Tim.

  “He’s not. We are. He’ll kill, kill, kill until he’s stopped.”

  Brownie looked over his shoulder and whined. Killdeer stood. He went through Thackery Wilson’s living room office to the front door and let Brownie out.

  “He’s supposed to have his leash on,” Tim called out.

  “Laws don’t apply to our boy,” said Killdeer, watching Brownie sniff a tree trunk.

  Thackery had moved his work to Catbriar Hall, where Victoria held her classes. Killdeer was using the entire first floor as his forensics office.

  He closed the door and rubbed his fingers up the oiled wood of the frame, across the decorative stained-glass inset of purple grapes and green leaves, along the twisted metal vine. “Such beauty,” he said. “Made for just an ordinary home. Don’t see stuff like this today.”

  “Sir?” asked Tim.

  “Nothing,” replied Killdeer.

  * * *

  “Come on, Brownie,” said Killdeer, after Tim had left for the day. “We’ve got a job to do. Need to sniff out a corpse before it becomes a corpse.”

  Brownie looked up with sad eyes and wagged his tail.

  “Hear me, dog?”

  Tail thumped.

  “All-night vigil. Might take a few all-nighters.”

  Brownie arose from his bed, stretched, yawned, and scratched himself.

  “He’s gotta strike soon. C’mon, boy.” Killdeer gathered up a flashlight and blanket and went out into the gloom. As he closed the door behind him he touched the stained glass, which glowed in the last light of day.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe you talked me into this, Victoria,” said Howland as he walked with her out to his car. Except for his white station wagon, which seemed to have gathered up the starlight, the evening was dense black velvet, and chilly.

  “There’s a chance we can catch the killer tonight,” said Victoria, shifting her cloth bag into her left hand.

  “I don’t like that ‘we.’ I want nothing to do with this caper. Have you told the police what you’re doing?”

  “Of course. Casey gave me a cell phone and showed me how to use it if I need backup.”

  “Great,” said Howland. “The killer slips a noose around my neck and you’re fumbling in your bag for a cell phone.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Victoria.

  An icy dew had settled on the grass and on the car’s windshield. The Milky Way was a bright gauzy scarf flung across the sky from horizon to horizon.

  Victoria settled into the passenger seat.

  “Explain to me what you have in mind,” said Howland, after he’d turned onto the Edgartown Road. “You were a bit sketchy this afternoon.”

  “First of all,” Victoria said, “I have no intention of confronting the killer.”

  “Good,” said Howland.

  “I intend to watch the Mansion House, see who picks up Professor Stevenson at three o’clock, and follow them. They have to go right past the Ivy Green campus. A perfect setup for the killer.”

  “Suppose they do stop at the campus,” said Howland, as he turned onto Old County Road.

  “I’ll call Casey,” said Victoria.

  “Not the state police?”

  Victoria sat up straight. “I’m going through channels.”

  “If you call the police, Victoria, the police will race up Main Street, sirens wailing, surround your professor and his new friend, and discover the friend was simply showing the professor the place where eleven professors had been buried. The Island’s latest sightseeing attraction.”

  Victoria dug into her cloth bag for her hat and set it on her head. “You’re right, of course. I’ve thought of that. We wait until the killer makes his move.”

  * * *

  An ancient white station wagon pulled up in front of the Mansion House, and in the dim light shining from the hotel, Victoria could see surf rods on the roof carriers. Professor Stevenson scrambled down the steps of the hotel and climbed into the passenger seat, and the car took off heading up Main Street.

  Howland had parked in an angled slot across the street from the hotel.

  “We don’t want to be too obvious,” said Victoria.

  Howland glanced at her in amusement. “You forget. I’ve been on a few stakeouts as DEA agent.”

  “Yes, of course.” Victoria settled into the passenger seat and Howland followed the station wagon, almost a twin to the one he was driving.

  The car with the surf rods turned left onto Greenleaf Street, which bounded the Ivy Green campus on the town side.

  “Just what I suspected,” said Victoria.

  “I’ll go around the block and park in the Ivy Green faculty lot,” said Howland. “We can walk from there to wherever Stevenson and this guy named Rabbit go.”

  * * *

  The heater in the station wagon hadn’t conquered the early morning chill, and to Professor Stevenson, the car seemed colder than the outside air after the warm hotel lobby. He shivered.

  Rabbit greeted him. “Morning, Professor. You going to be warm enough?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  After that, neither Rabbit nor Stevenson spoke for a few minutes. During the night a light frost had touched the dewy grass, and the car’s headlights reflected from myriad stiff blades. An owl flew low and silently across the road.

  “I hear the bluefish are running,” Stevenson said.

  “Right,” said Rabbit. “Derby’s on this month.”

  “I suppose it brings in a lot of anglers?”

  “All over the world,” said Rabbit. “So you’re on Island doing research?”

  “I’m spending a year studying coastal sand transport from here to Florida.”

  “Where do you teach?” asked Rabbit.

  “MIT. I’m on sabbatical this year, doing my own research.” Stevenson was well aware of Victoria Trumbull’s warning. But Rabbit seemed like a pretty ordinary guy, at least, so far. “How’d you get the name ‘Rabbit’?”

  Rabbit laughed. “I was a sprinter in college and my name is Jack, so it morphed into Jack Rabbit.”

  A skunk wandered into the road and Rabbit braked hard. “Don’t want to tangle with them,” he said as four baby skunks tottered across behind their mother.

  “Where’d you go to college?” asked Stevenson, when the skunks had reached the other side of the road.

  “Harvard.” He pronounced it “Hah-vud.”

  Stevenson laughed. “What’s your field?”

  “Astrophysics. Got a Ph.D.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Stevenson. “Astrophysics and you’re working as a carpenter?”

  “You needn’t be impressed. This Island has the most highly educated workforce in the world. Ph.D.’s all over the place working as landscapers, fishermen, farmers, carpenters, painters, you name it.” Rabbit waved a hand at the trees arching over the road. “We want to live here and we don’t much care whether we use those degrees or not.” He checked the rearview mirror. “Someone else is up and about. Another crazy fisherman.”

  “Did you ever teach?” asked Stevenson, feeling a first twinge of anxiety. The serial killer had been a college professor at some time, Mrs. Trumbull had assured him.

  “I taught for a while, got fed up with academic politics and the petty power struggles and quit. Carpentry is a lot less stressful. No one to bite your back.”

  “Tell me,” said Stevenson.

  Rabbit slowed the car. “We’re about to pass our latest attraction, the site of mass burials. Care to take a side trip and see where they’ve dug up eleven bodies?”

  “I heard about that.” Stevenson felt a touch of fear.

  “College professors,” said Rabbit. “All eleven victims were college professors.”

  “So I heard.” Stevenson’s
voice was tight. “And they haven’t caught the killer yet.”

  “Nope. They probably won’t until he kills again.”

  Stevenson said nothing.

  They turned left onto Greenleaf Street. Rabbit pulled over to the side of the road and parked.

  “Place is really dark,” said Stevenson.

  “The Island doesn’t have much light pollution. Get to see the stars that way.”

  “Let’s forget the sightseeing,” said Stevenson. “I don’t want to miss a minute of fishing.”

  “Scared?” asked Rabbit. He reached across Stevenson and opened the glove compartment. “Flashlight in here somewhere. Remember how it was when you were a kid listening to ghost stories? This is the grown-up version. Real scary stuff.”

  “Uh…” said Stevenson.

  “It’ll be fun. Won’t be another chance like this.”

  * * *

  “I appreciate your giving me a lift from the hospital at this hour of the morning,” Bigelow said to the newspaper delivery man.

  “No problem,” said Robert. “No big deal.” He took one hand off the wheel, and with the other, found cigarette papers in the well between the seats. One-handed, he detached a paper, filled it with tobacco, rolled a cigarette, licked the edge of the paper, and sealed it by pressing it against his chin.

  Bigelow watched in awe.

  Still one-handed, Robert stuck the cigarette onto his lower lip, produced a kitchen match from a shirt pocket, swiped his thumbnail against the tip to ignite it, and lit his cigarette, steering all the while left-handed. He transferred the steering responsibility to his left knee, opened the window, and tossed out the spent match. He started to close the window.

  “I like the fresh air,” said Bigelow.

  “It’s fresh, all right. Frost last night.” Both hands back on the wheel, the cigarette dangling from his lip, he said, “Shouldn’t take long to find your glasses.”

  Bigelow said, “We’ll need a ladder. I suppose we can find it in one of the buildings.”

  “I saw a lawn chair around someplace.”

  Bigelow watched the cigarette ash grow and drop onto Robert’s shirt. “Pity the grounds are such a shambles. It was an attractive property.”

  “Aeration does it good,” said Robert. The cigarette rode up and down on his lip when he spoke.