Poison Ivy (2 page)

“Hmm,” said Smalley, covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. “When was the building last used?”

“I don't know. I would guess late August when Thackery had a forum on symbolism in fiction.”

“Two weeks.” Smalley beckoned to the trooper, who was keeping his distance. “Tim, get Thackery back here. He needs to answer a few questions.”

“I have faculty arriving,” protested the president when Tim returned with him.

“That can wait, Thackery,” said Smalley. “Since the hall was last used in late August, has it been locked?”

“Walter was supposed to keep it locked.”

“Is he your caretaker?”

“Barely.” Thackery folded his arms over his narrow chest, chin up, nose in the air. “If you're here to clean out the dead mice, I suggest you get busy so we can begin to educate our students.”

“Before we allow anyone to step inside,” said Smalley politely, “I'll be calling in the forensics team from the mainland. No one's to enter the building.”

“Oh, for God's sake!” said Thackery, tugging at the curl of hair that had plastered itself to his sweaty forehead.

 

C
HAPTER
2

“I'm so excited, Mrs. Trumbull,” cried Honesty Norton. “I've read all your books.” Honesty's long blond ringlets framed a face dwarfed by enormous brown eyes

The class of eleven, ten young women and one young man, settled down under the large oaks behind the three buildings, away from the activity around the lecture hall. Simon Mayhew, the sole male student, found a green resin lawn chair behind the administration building for Victoria.

“Why are the police here, Mrs. Trumbull?” he asked.

“There's a problem in the lecture hall,” said Victoria. “Let's introduce ourselves.”

“Well, I'm Brittany Silva?” said the dark-haired girl to Victoria's right, ending her sentence in a question. “And I've been writing poems since I was, like, eight?” Brittany tossed her long hair behind her shoulders with a shrug. Victoria had difficulty thinking of these young people as men and women. “I brought some of my poems with me.” Brittany's slender tanned legs were stretched out in front of her and she leaned forward in expectation.

“Wonderful, Brittany,” said Victoria. “We'd like to hear some of your poems in a later session. Next?”

“I'm Jodi Paloni,” the next student said. “What stinks, Mrs. Trumbull?” She, too, was dark-haired, but her hair was cropped close in a buzz cut. The tattoos on her upper arms were circles of vines or snakes, Victoria couldn't tell for sure. She had gold rings in her eyebrows and a gold stud in her nose. Victoria imagined how it must hurt when she had a cold and had to blow her nose.

“Are you related to the Paloni children on New Lane?” Victoria asked. “Their sister, perhaps?”

“I'm their mother,” said the girl.

Victoria was momentarily stumped. “Sandy is your son?”

“My youngest. What
is
that smell?”

“That's why we're out here instead of in Catbriar Hall,” said Victoria, mulling over the fact that Jodi looked fifteen and her youngest of at least four sons was eight. “They're cleaning up something.”

“The police?” asked Simon. “Cleaning up something?”

“Yes,” said Victoria. “Simon, tell us why you're taking this course.”

The two-hour class flew by. Victoria memorized the names and faces and after her students left wrote down the clues that would help her remember them for the next class meeting on Thursday. Rule Britannia for Brittany, with her ruler-straight hair. Her large eyes gave Honesty an honest expression. Simon says for Simon. And so forth.

*   *   *

Yes, it was a corpse, dead at least two weeks, possibly more, found in the crawl space under the garage. The space had been excavated when the garage was expanded, and was accessible only through a hatch in the closet floor of the new section. A man. It wouldn't be easy to identify him, especially since he'd carried no identification.

*   *   *

Toby, the undertaker, removed the corpse after Doc Jeffers, this week's medical examiner, declared the man officially dead, and the off Island forensics team had vacuumed up every bit of possible evidence.

Kerry Scott's cleaning service returned with disinfectant, bleach, and scrubbing brushes, and in a short time, Catbriar Hall, the erstwhile garage, was almost habitable again, although there was still a faint unpleasant odor that overlay the cleaning scents.

*   *   *

The following day, Walter lumbered through the front door of Woodbine Hall, the administration building. President Thackery Wilson was at his desk, poring over a stack of papers.

Linda, his assistant, had called in sick again.

Walter cleared his throat.

Thackery looked up over his glasses. “Is there something I can do for you, Walter?”

“You can apologize, that's what you can do.”

“Apologize!” sputtered Thackery. “After you walked out on the job leaving a ninety-two-year-old great-grandmother to do your work?” He slapped his pen down on the papers and stood.

Walter drew up a chair and plunked himself down on it. “I want an apology, and I want my job back.”

“I didn't fire you. You quit.” Thackery took a deep, deep breath, let it out slowly, and sat down again. “Walter, this is the third time you've walked off the job over the past year.”

“With reason, every time.” Walter leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands over his belly.

“I can't have this.”

At this point, Victoria Trumbull came into the office, which looked much like an unfurnished living room. “I hope I'm not interrupting.”

“Not in the least,” said Thackery, standing again.

Walter continued to sit, his chin lowered, his lower lip stuck out so its purplish inner surface showed.

“I was passing by and wanted to leave off yesterday's attendance record,” said Victoria. “I won't disturb you.”

“Please, have a seat, Professor Trumbull,” said Thackery. “Walter has come to request his job back.” Once Victoria was seated, Thackery sat.

“All I want is an apology,” said Walter.

Victoria glanced from one angry face to another. “I'm not sure I understand.”

“I had asked Walter to clean up Catbriar Hall, and it turned out to be a larger problem than we expected.”

“A simple apology,” said Walter.

“A long-dead corpse does require specialized attention,” said Victoria. “Not something Walter could be expected to do. I think we can safely apologize.”

“That's right,” said Walter, nodding.

“Why don't we agree that Walter deserves an apology for having been expected to do an almost impossible task, and you, Thackery, deserve an apology from Walter, who walked off the job at a critical time.”

“He apologizes first,” said Walter.

“Thackery?” warned Victoria.

“Dammit, I apologize,” said Thackery.

“Then I apologize, too,” said Walter, hoisting himself out of the chair. “I'll be on the job first thing in the morning, Mrs. Trumbull.” With that, Walter nodded to Victoria, ignored Thackery, and left.

“Jeesus Kee-rist,” said Thackery. “I hoped we'd finally gotten rid of him.”

*   *   *

On the porch of Alley's Store in West Tisbury (Dealers in Almost Everything), Sarah Germaine was sitting on the bench with her back to the sign that read
CANNED PEAS.
As usual, Joe the plumber was leaning against one of the posts that held up the porch roof, his cheek puffed out with a wad of something.

“Hope this weather holds,” said Joe, leaning off to one side to spit a stream of brown juice away from the step.

“Thanks for not smoking,” said Sarah, smiling sweetly. She had stopped, as usual, on her way home from Tribal Headquarters, where she worked. This afternoon she was wearing a turquoise sweatshirt with W
AMPANOAG
T
RIBE OF
G
AY
H
EAD (
A
QUINNAH)
emblazoned on it in reddish-orange letters that vibrated against the turquoise background.

“You being funny or something?” said Joe, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Before Sarah could answer, a silver Porsche pulled up against the granite blocks that edged the walkway and a young man in pressed jeans and ironed plaid shirt got out.

Sarah and Joe stopped talking and watched.

The young man locked the car door.

“Locked it!” exclaimed Sarah.

“New Yorker,” said Joe.

The driver walked around the front of the car, strolled across the walkway, and mounted the steps up onto the porch. He nodded to Sarah and Joe, opened the screen door, and stepped inside.

“Well,” said Sarah. “La de dah.”

“Know who that is?” said Joe.

“No idea. Not from around here, that's for sure.”

“Hollywood,” said Joe.

“Oh?”

“He's in that teevee series,
Family Riot.
You know.”

“No, I never watch that stuff,” said Sarah.

“Name's Bruce something. Steinbicker.”

“Well,” said Sarah. “Oh, my.” She tugged the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her knuckles. “Even I've heard of him. What's he doing here?”

“Playground of the rich and famous, dahlin'. Wants to be seen consorting with the natives.”

“You heard what Mrs. Trumbull is up to now, didn't you?” asked Sarah, changing the subject abruptly.

“Now what's the old lady doing?”

“She's teaching, but that's not what I meant. She found a dead body yesterday at the college.”

“No shit,” said Joe, shifting the wad inconspicuously to his other cheek. “Whose body is it?”

“They can't tell. Dr. Wilson thought it was dead mice. Mrs. Trumbull called the cops.”

“Smelled that bad?”

“Kerry Scott's cleaners refused to clean the place.”

The screen door opened again, and the man who looked like Bruce Steinbicker stepped down onto the porch carrying a
Wall Street Journal.
Sarah turned to stare at him. Joe gazed across the road at his truck, where Taffy, his golden retriever, was sitting in the driver's seat.

“Nice day,” said the stranger, nodding at Sarah. His voice was mellow. His hair, a light brown, was rumpled artistically.

“Ahh…” said Sarah.

The stranger strode across the porch, stepped down onto the walkway, unlocked the driver's side door of his Porsche, got in, started the engine, made a U-turn in front of Joe's truck, and drove off.

“Cat got your tongue?” asked Joe.

*   *   *

After a week, the Island's excitement over the unidentified dead man faded somewhat. Victoria's class had already formed an identity of its own. Even these blas
é
children had been impressed by her knowing and remembering their names, and Victoria felt quite satisfied with herself. They continued to meet under the trees during the early weeks of the Island's golden September.

Linda, Thackery's assistant, a skinny woman with a massive tangle of curly light brown hair, had returned to work from her sickbed.

Walter went about setting up chairs, un-setting them, mowing the grass, cleaning the kitchen, and generally grumbling, but grumbling with a degree of caution.

Victoria was packing up her papers at the end of the fifth class session, a Tuesday, when Jodi, the teenage-looking mother of the four Paloni boys, spoke to her.

“You got a minute, Mrs. T?”

“Of course, Jodi. I'm impressed with the work you've shown me.”

“Yeah, well.” Jodi glanced down at her bare feet. “I'm working on a project, Mrs. T, and I need your advice.”

“Of course. Poetry?”

“No, ma'am. Island history. Sociology, actually.”

“Sit down and tell me about it.”

She plopped onto the grass, her cutoff shorts barely covering what was necessary. “You know about the hearing impaired community in Chilmark?”

“I remember as a child meeting Chilmarkers who spoke only with sign language.”

“That's exactly what I mean, Mrs. T.” Jodi was more vivacious than Victoria had seen her in the previous two weeks. “I'm working on my master's degree…”

“You're what?” Victoria interrupted. “Your master's?”

“Yes, ma'am. Dr. Wilson got permission from Cape Cod University for me to work on my MA in sociology under Professor Roberta Chadwick.”

“She lives on the Vineyard, doesn't she?”

“Yes, ma'am. Oak Bluffs. She teaches at the university and commutes to Woods Hole.”

“As well as teaching here at Ivy Green College?”

“She doesn't teach here, just at CCU. She's up for tenure next year. She needs to publish stuff and needs credit for community service.” Jodi pointed a thumb at her chest and smiled. “That's me.”

“How many Island students does she have?”

“She's working individually with me and two other grad students, I think. I haven't met them.”

“Have you decided on a thesis topic?”

“Signing.” Jodi drew her feet up under her. “My grandmother was deaf. She taught me signing. I want to do legal signing, you know, for court cases. Trials, depositions, witness interviews. You know.”

“I didn't realize there was such a career,” said Victoria. “This is wonderful. How can I help you?”

“I'd like to interview you, Mrs. T, for my thesis on the Chilmark deaf-mutes. What you remember or knew firsthand about the community, any descendants you know of that I could talk to. That sort of stuff.”

“Certainly. A few people are still around who remember them. You're welcome to come to my house.”

“Thanks. I go past your place all the time.”

“Tomorrow morning would be convenient for me,” said Victoria. “I have some papers and books you may borrow.”