Poison Ivy (11 page)

“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.”

 

C
HAPTER
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 stress.

“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?”

The phone rang. “No comment.” Victoria hung up.

“I suppose you've been getting that all afternoon.”

Victoria nodded. “Thackery went to the police barracks. Won't you have a seat?”

“Thanks.” The man sat in Victoria's usual chair and leaned back. “Hear you found a fourth victim.”

“I'm afraid we have no comment.” Victoria smiled.

He laughed and crossed an ankle over his knee. He was wearing well-worn boat shoes with no socks. He studied her with unsettling eyes. “Victoria Trumbull. I like your work.”

“Thank you.” She felt quite girlish under the scrutiny of this attractive man. “I'm sorry, I don't know your name.”

“No reason to. Name's Wellborn Price.” He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, and held out his hand.

They shook.

“I'm delighted to meet you, Dr. Price. You'll be one of our professors, won't you?” Victoria felt quite at ease talking to one of her fellow professors.

“Adjunct professor.” Wellborn grinned, showing slightly crooked front teeth. “That is, if I pass the introductory education course Professor Bigelow insists I take.”

Victoria flushed. “That's degrading.”

“That's Bigelow.” His grin broadened. “But understandable, given the personality involved.”

“Even I know something of your reputation as an economist and educator.”

Another call. Another no comment.

Wellborn sat back again, crossed his legs, and grasped his ankle. “I certainly don't need the job, Mrs. Trumbull. But I would enjoy tweaking that pointed nose of our little Professor Bigelow.” He pinched his own rather grand nose. “Bigelow's convinced I'll refuse to go along with his game.” He smiled again. “Might be fun sitting through that course with those eighteen-year-old freshmen women.”

“Can't you appeal to the university?”

“I won't lower myself. I could tell Wilson to hell with it. Or I could keep in mind that Thackery Wilson, despite his shortcomings, is doing his best to bring higher education to the Island.” He slapped his ankle. “Yes, I plan to take that course.”

The door opened and Thackery stalked in along with the raucous sound of the katydids.

Wellborn Price stood and they shook hands.

“God, Price, I'm sorry.” Thackery tossed papers he'd been holding onto his desk.

“Don't be. Not your battle. Bigelow and I go way back.”

Thackery stepped over to Linda's desk, wheeled her chair over, and sat. “The female member of the oversight committee, Dr. Wieler…”

“Dedie. Yes. A remarkable woman. Brilliant engineer. Know her well.”

“She informed the freshman ed teacher of the situation.” Thackery leaned forward, hands on his knees. “According to the teacher, if you're amenable to delivering an hour-long lecture to the class on the latest methods for teaching economics to non-economists, that would more than qualify you for an A-plus in the course.”

Wellborn laughed and got to his feet. “That's all I needed to know, Thackery. Thanks.” He bowed to Victoria. “You see, Mrs. Trumbull? I'm not alone in my feelings about our Professor Bigelow.”

*   *   *

After the door closed behind Wellborn Price, Victoria yielded Thackery's seat to him and took her usual chair.

Thackery straightened his desk calendar. “Were there any calls while I was gone?”

“Several wanting to know about the body we found.”

“Ghouls,” said Thackery.

“Have they identified the third victim? I hope it wasn't another member of the oversight committee.”

“That mongrel of Walter's is an embarrassment.”

“Brownie has some endearing qualities. What about the third victim?”

“A sociology professor at Florida State named Geoffrey Merriman. He was vacationing on the Island.”

“Didn't his family report him missing?”

“He and his wife were separated,” said Thackery, fiddling with papers on his desk. “This yours?” He held up the Packer's Fuel Oil envelope.

“That's this week's column for the
Enquirer.
”

He passed the envelope to her.

“Another college professor,” she mused. “Didn't his university miss him?”

“He was on sabbatical.”

Victoria tapped the envelope on the arm of her chair. “So sad. No one missed Professor Bliss. No one missed Professor Cash. No one missed this third victim.”

Thackery nodded. “Professor Merriman.”

“Where was he staying?”

“Smalley's trying to locate the place, but it's a cold trail.”

Victoria shook her head. “Three college professors. Two different universities. What's the connection, I wonder.”

“They were probably on someone's tenure committee,” said Thackery, with a fleeting smile.

 

C
HAPTER
13

Classes at Ivy Green started up again despite the ongoing disruption of police work. Now that their magic circle under the oaks had become a crime scene, Victoria's poetry class moved into Catbriar Hall. It had been five weeks since the body of the unfortunate Professor Bliss was found. Only an occasional reminder drifted into the room when the wind eddied from the northeast.

On Tuesday, Jodi stopped to pick up Victoria, who was waiting at the top of her steps. Jodi had cut last Thursday's poetry class.

October brought the blush of Island autumn, a pastel canvas, unlike the daring scarlets and yellows of the mainland.

“Such a glorious day,” said Victoria, climbing into the front seat of the Jeep.

“Yeah.” Jodi shifted into gear and headed down the drive. She was wearing a green T-shirt that read I
SLAND
G
ROWN
and jeans so worn that in places only the warp threads held the cloth together.