Poison Ivy (6 page)

The Steamship Authority would require a passenger ticket for the corpse, even one in this condition.

*   *   *

“Was the victim buried around the same time Professor Harlan Bliss was killed?” Victoria asked Doc Jeffers. “That was the man whose body was in the old garage.”

Doc Jeffers tossed his used gloves into a red metal box marked H
AZ
M
AT
and latched the lid. “At a rough guess, I'd say this burial was a month or so earlier.”

Casey had been crouched over with her hands on her knees, studying the remains. She straightened up. “Wonder why Brownie didn't discover the body sooner?”

“Walter keeps the dog in a fenced yard. It got out,” said Smalley. “Not much the forensics people can find after so long a time, but who knows.”

“Forensics has entomologists on staff who can date the burial pretty closely by examining insect activity,” said Doc Jeffers. “Larvae, eggs, that sort of thing.” He picked up the HazMat box and his black leather bag. “See you around.” A motorcycle started up a few minutes later.

Casey and Victoria stood back a respectful distance while Toby and his assistant maneuvered the corpse into a body bag, zipped it up, and left. Victoria heard Toby mutter, “And I'm expected to pay for a passenger ticket on the goddamned ferry.”

After the remains were taken away, Casey, Victoria, and Smalley stood together. No one spoke.

The neighbors who'd been standing around left.

Victoria pondered on the two deaths, both on the Ivy Green campus, one a Cape Cod University professor, the other as yet unidentified. This second murder had to be related to the first. Actually, this was probably the first murder, considering the condition of the corpses.

The troopers who'd dug up the ground to expose the corpse, Tim Eldredge and Ben Athearn, were sitting on the stone wall that marked the boundary of Ivy Green College campus. Tim was absently scratching his forearm.

Casey glanced again at the vine that clambered up the side of Woodbine Hall. Shiny scarlet leaves framed every window, bunches of delicate white berries hung from it. “Wish I could get my ivy to climb like that.”

“Give it time,” said Victoria. She looked up at the vine and stared at it in awe. She had never seen such a lush growth. The hairy base of the vine was as thick as the trunk of a sapling. The scarlet leaves glowed. Odd she hadn't noticed it right away. But her attention had been on the corpse, not the vine.

“Spectacular, isn't it?” Smalley had seen what they were looking at. “When we're done here I'll ask Thackery if he minds if I cut a bunch of it for my wife. She makes wreaths that she sells at the farmers' market.” He reached out a hand to touch the pretty leaves.

“No!” Victoria knocked his hand away. “That's not woodbine, it's poison ivy.”

Smalley withdrew his hand as though the vine had shot poison darts into him. Casey opened and shut her mouth.

“The dead leaves.” Smalley sounded like a fifth-grade schoolboy learning about the horrors of sex and girls. “Are they…” He stopped. “My guys dug through piles of dead leaves at the base of the vine to uncover the corpse.”

“The oil that causes the rash is quite long lived,” said Victoria. “It can be active for several years, even on clothing or gloves. You'd better send your men home to take showers, now, right away.”

“Tim, Ben!” shouted Smalley. “Get over here. Mrs. Trumbull has something to tell you.”

Victoria said, “You probably were exposed to poison ivy oil when you dug in the leaves. You need to take a cool shower with plenty of soap. Don't use hot water. Get the oil off your skin.” She leaned on her stick. “Hot water opens pores and allows oil to get into one's system. Launder your clothing. It won't hurt to launder it twice.”

“Report back as soon as you can,” Smalley ordered.

Victoria looked up at the menacing vine with its shiny bright red leaves. “It's really quite beautiful, isn't it?”

*   *   *

Thackery appeared while Smalley was giving instructions to his troopers.

“What seems to be the problem, Sergeant?”

“We've found another body.”

“You already informed me of that. Why are you sending your men home? Surely they haven't finished.”

Smalley indicated the vine-covered side of the house. “That's poison ivy, according to Mrs. Trumbull. My men need to get home to clean up.”

“Nonsense,” said Thackery. “People who don't know plants frequently mistake woodbine for poison ivy.” Before Victoria could stop him, he reached out and plucked off a stem with its three glistening leaves.

Victoria, miffed at having her knowledge of plants impugned, felt a mild glow of satisfaction, immediately replaced with concern.

“Thackery, I hope you're not sensitive to…”

At this point Walter came around the side of the building, his bedraggled mutt trailing after him. The mutt was gray, like his master, had patchy wiry hair that partly covered his eyes and muzzle, and was soaking wet.

“Where have you been, Walter?” Thackery demanded, ignoring Victoria.

“Giving Brownie a bath.”

“Woodbine,” said Thackery, crushing in his fingers the three leaves he'd picked. Before Victoria could stop him, he held them up to his nose.

Victoria, herself, was not particularly susceptible to poison ivy. She'd occasionally get a few blisters that she liked to scratch. That was about it. She hoped the same was true for Thackery. Otherwise … Her thoughts trailed off.

“Think it's woodbine, do you?” said Walter. “Won't get me to touch your woodbine like you're doing.”

Brownie shook himself, sending a spray of doggy water toward Thackery's pressed khaki trousers.

“Walter!” warned Thackery, dropping his leaves.

Smalley returned from sending his troopers off. He'd apparently heard the poison ivy exchange between the campus caretaker and the college president. “You knew it was poison ivy?” he asked Walter.

Thackery brushed at his pants with a blue-bordered handkerchief. “Control that dog, will you?”

“'Course I knew it was poison ivy. Everyone knows poison ivy,” said Walter.

“My men spaded up that area.” Smalley gestured at the disturbed heap of dead leaves.

Brownie sat on his haunches and scratched an ear.

“I had better sense than to rake up them leaves.”

“Why didn't you tell them it was poison ivy?” snapped Smalley.

“They didn't ask,” said Walter.

Brownie turned around in a circle, lay down, yawned hugely, broke wind, and closed his eyes.

“Take that animal away,” said Thackery. “Immediately!”

“Thackery,” said Victoria, “I really think you'd better wash your hands thoroughly with soap and water, and right away. Even if it's woodbine, it won't hurt to wash.”

Walter smirked, showing stubby gray teeth. “It's most likely too late.”

*   *   *

The Island grapevine is one of the most efficient communications systems known.

Joe the plumber and Sarah were in their usual places on the porch at Alley's Store the next afternoon.

“You hear about the case of the poison ivy?” asked Joe.

“What are you talking about?” asked Sarah. Today's garb was a pale green sweater with a knitted pattern of black and white and red feathers around the neck and sleeves.

Joe laughed. “That mutt of Walter's got loose and dug up another corpse buried in poison ivy.”

“What!?”

“You know Walter.”

“The caretaker at Ivy Green College. Sure.”

“You know Thackery Wilson named that house he's using for an office ‘Woodbine Hall.'”

“Yeah? So?”

“Not woodbine.” Joe cackled. “Poison ivy. The state cops finished digging where Walter's dog started.”

“Eee-yew!” Sarah lifted her sweater and scratched her stomach.

*   *   *

While Jodi, Victoria's chauffeur, was running errands after class the following Tuesday, Victoria walked over to Woodbine Hall to turn in her attendance records.

Thackery was sitting at his desk with his handkerchief held up to his nose. Both hands were covered with a dried pink paste that crumbled onto the papers on his desk when he moved.

Calamine lotion. Victoria refrained from saying anything.

Linda sat at her desk in what was formerly the dining room separated from the living room by a gracious archway.

Victoria handed her the attendance records. “Good afternoon, Linda. How are you?”

“Thank you for asking, Mrs. Trumbull. I had an awful spell of stomach trouble last night. I had supper at my sister's. I should have known better. I was up all night with diarrhea and vomiting and—”

“I'm so sorry,” said Victoria, interrupting her. “I hope you've recovered.” She retreated quickly to Thackery.

“You don't want to catch what she's got,” Thackery muttered under his breath.

“You're right,” Victoria said.

Thackery nodded at the seat next to his desk. “I owe you an apology.”

“Oh?” Victoria seated herself.

“I was sure that was woodbine. When I first saw it ten years ago it was already covering the side of the hall.”

“I don't suppose you'll want to rename the building,” Victoria said, and immediately realized her smart remark was less than tactful.

“With your police connections, have you heard any indication of the latest victim's identity?” asked Thackery, brushing a pink flake off his desk.

“It will take a while.” Victoria settled back in her chair. “Has the oversight committee appointed a new member to replace Professor Bliss?”

“I'm afraid so. They discussed Professor Petrinia Paulinia Kralich and Professor Kamil Chatterjee, both of whom would have been good choices from my point of view, but because the committee members couldn't agree, they decided on someone who's a complete unknown to me, a Reverend Bob White, professor of theology.”

“As a theologist, perhaps he'll do the right thing,” said Victoria.

“I doubt it,” muttered Thackery, shuffling papers aimlessly on his desk. Every time he moved, a small shower of dried calamine lotion dusted his desk. “When I was called back in to give my report, the committee questioned my appointing Wellborn Price as adjunct professor.”

“Good heavens! That man has been awarded more honors than I can name.”

“Apparently this is the result of a longtime feud between Dr. Price and Professor Bigelow. Price was on Bigelow's tenure committee and made sure his tenure was denied. Bigelow, as I suppose you know, is head of the oversight committee.” He sighed. “Ivy Green College will be the one to suffer in this squabble.”

There was nothing Victoria could say.

Thackery ran his hand over the back of his neck. “I hope Journeyman Cash returns from the field soon. He's missed two of the oversight committee meetings. We need his support. Desperately.”

 

C
HAPTER
7

On the following Thursday, before the second body was identified, Brownie, Walter's dog, got loose again. From his office window Thackery saw the dog trot across the street, his head and tail both up in a perky, irritating manner. Thackery heaved himself out of his chair, straightened his tie, covered the papers on his desk with his big desk calendar, and started to go after the dog. Before he reached the door, he decided he'd better first call the police and the animal control officer.

“I want to file charges against Walter and that mongrel,” Thackery told Tim Eldredge, the state trooper who'd answered the phone.

“Yes, sir. That's really a Tisbury Police matter,” said Tim. “You can file charges at the police station near the Steamship Authority terminal. But I'll be happy to dispatch a state trooper, sir,” Tim said, with a smirk in his voice, “just in case, you know, maybe the dog found another…”

“That's not amusing,” said Thackery and slammed down the phone.

He shrugged into his tweed jacket, still a bit warm for this unseasonably mild fall day, and went after the dog himself.

It took him a few minutes to find Brownie, who was chasing his tail in the center of what Thackery thought of as Professor Trumbull's al fresco classroom, a circle of grass in the dappled shade of the big oak trees.

The entire scene remained with Thackery for some time after. Brownie squatted. His head was slightly tilted. He lifted a back leg and scratched an ear. Mrs. Trumbull's green lawn chair was off to one side. Brownie lay down, yawned, and closed his eyes. His ears twitched. Suddenly, abruptly, he leapt to his feet, trembling, and started to dig.

“Hey, hey!” shouted Thackery. “Stop that! Get away!”

Brownie paid no attention.

Thackery looked around for a stick to deter the dog, but when he got close, Brownie looked up and snarled. His eyes were red, his mouth dripped saliva, his moth-eaten fur stood straight up. Thackery backed off and Brownie returned to his dig. Dirt and green grass flew. Thackery retreated to his office and called the animal control officer, the state police, the Tisbury Police, Walter, and because he was shaking with anger and couldn't think of who else to call, he called Victoria Trumbull, who said she was leaving shortly for her class.

Thackery tugged his steel watch out of his pocket and looked at it. Not yet one o'clock. He put his watch back into his pocket.

By the time the state police arrived, Brownie had uncovered a bone. Actually several bones. Not really a corpse, since it was no more than a skeleton. He'd dug up the middle of the magic circle, that tidy oasis of lush grass that Walter had kept mown like a putting green.

The state police surrounded the once-grassy circle with yellow crime scene tape. Thackery stood outside the taped-off area, hands behind his back. He turned, scowling, at Victoria's approach with her class trailing behind her.