Poison Ivy (30 page)

 

C
HAPTER
34

Price took some time figuring out the eight gears on the convertible, but once he was on the dirt road leading away from O'Malley's place with the top down and the wind brushing the trees on either side, his spirits lifted.

It was hard to think of Chris as dead. One instant you were living and thinking about breakfast, the next you were dead. For him to have been swept overboard, knocked around on the rocks, flung onto the shore, and survive, would have to be a miracle.

Price turned onto the paved Lambert's Cove road. He had a brief moment of appreciation of the changing colors, the rich reds and rusts of beetlebung and oak, the orange and yellow of sassafras, the scarlet of poison ivy.

After that brief moment, he thought again of Chris, the wild man with a wacky sense of humor.

I've spent too much time searching for the dead, Price mused. A dead father, now a dead friend.

He'd been so excited when he'd heard about Professor Price. Was he so desperate for a father figure? Setting himself up for yet another disappointment? It was time to give up. The kidnapping debacle had shaken him badly. The idea had been stupid. Was it going to end with Chris dead and Jodi gone crazy?

He moved his hands high up on the steering wheel of this incredible car. What gear was he in, third? Fourth?

How had Professor Chadwick weathered the storm? He slapped his hands on the wheel. Prison. He was going to prison. Their research papers had seemed important a week ago. How important were they now?

He shifted down through gears to pass around a truckload of firewood.

A mile or so later he turned from the Lambert's Cove road onto State Road, followed it through Vineyard Haven, across the Lagoon Pond bridge into Oak Bluffs, and turned into the new hospital's parking lot.

He looked down at himself. Pretty scruffy. He took a deep breath and strode through the main entrance.

“May I help you?” A pretty woman wearing an elaborate hat was at the reception desk, probably the age of his mother. She smiled, and her face lit up.

“I'm inquiring about a man who was brought in this morning, apparently fell off a boat,” Price began.

She looked questioningly at him.

“I think I may know who he is.” Price stopped, not knowing what to say. He finally blurted out, “Is he okay?”

“We're not supposed to tell anything about a patient's condition. Privacy laws, you know.”

“Well…” Price shifted uncomfortably.

“Must be a full moon tonight,” the receptionist said with a laugh. “We always get weird stuff on the full moon.”

“Oh?” said Price.

“This morning they brought in some elderly gentleman who fell into a grave and thinks he's dead, and a little while later they bring in this man some dogs found washed up on the shore.”

“Is he dead?” Price asked.

“I don't know. Did you want to see him?”

“If I can.”

“I'll check with Nurse Hope.” She swiveled her chair around to make the call. After a brief conversation, she said, “Hope will be here in just a moment.”

In a short while he heard the squeak of rubber soles moving swiftly down the corridor, and a clear voice said, “Hi, there! Need help?”

Hope was a tall, slender woman with long, dark hair, large dark eyes, and a mischievous expression that seemed to be permanent. She was wearing a blue scrub suit, a shirt with V-neck and long pants.

Price cleared his throat and said, “I heard that a man is here in the hospital who was washed up on the beach.”

“That's true,” said Hope.

Price shifted uneasily. “A friend of mine, Chris Wrentham, fell off a sailboat during yesterday's storm, and we think he may have ended up on Paul's Point.”

“You know we can't give you any information on our patients,” said Hope.

“I know. Privacy laws. Can you tell me, is he alive?”

“He's alive,” said Hope.

“May I see him?”

“Afraid not. At least, not yet,” said Hope, folding her arms over her chest. “He doesn't know who he is.”

“I may be able to identify him,” said Price.

“Sorry about that. We want his memory to return before he has visitors.”

“I understand the privacy rules, but maybe you can help. My friend is a redhead with a bad sunburn.”

Hope smiled. “I've seen a man around here answering that description.”

“Thanks. Thanks a million!” Price suddenly felt lighter, freer. “Let me give you my phone number.” The receptionist handed him a pad. He scribbled his cell number on it and handed it to Hope. “I don't expect you to call me, but if he gets his memory back?”

“I'll see that he gets it,” said Hope.

Price went out of the wide front doors into a brighter world. The man could only be Chris and he was alive.

*   *   *

The man was sleeping soundly. Hope turned on the light over his bed and he awoke with a start. “Where in hell … Oh, yeah.” He sat up.

“Dinner's on the way,” said Hope. “Do you want to use the toilet, get cleaned up?”

He rubbed his eyes. “Okay if I get up?

“Of course. There's nothing wrong with you. At least, not that I can see.” She wrapped the blood pressure sleeve around his arm. “You had a pretty good nap. How are you feeling?”

“Okay, I guess. Sore. I remember hitting the beach and crawling out of the surf.”

“Good plan, that.”

“I'm Chris,” he said suddenly. “My name's Christopher,” he added. “Christopher Wren, the architect!” He must have seen her expression because he laughed. “I'm kidding. I'm Chris Wrentham. That's who I am. I've remembered, thank God!” Hope unwound the blood pressure sleeve, Chris slid off the bed, grabbed Hope in a bear hug, and danced her around. “It's awful to not know who you are.”

“Good,” said Hope, pushing him away. “Remember anything else? Do you live here on the Island?”

He frowned.

“Never mind. Don't forget that you need to use the toilet.”

There was the sound of a cart being wheeled down the hall. It stopped by his door.

“Here's your dinner. You're in luck. Steak.”

Hope hurried to the nurses' station and looked up Christopher Wrentham in the phone book. A listing in Vineyard Haven. She put in a call to Doc Jeffers.

“Our patient remembers crawling out of the surf and his name, and he lives on Island,” she said. “Want me to call the home number?”

“Does he recollect anything before that?”

“Not yet. He's having dinner now.”

Doc Jeffers paused. “Any calls asking about him?”

“A man came in this morning,” said Hope. “He was looking for a friend who fell off a sailboat, a redhead with sunburn.”

“Sounds like our patient.”

“I told him no visitors yet, Doc.”

“Right. We'd better get more information from the patient before making any calls,” said Doc Jeffers. “I'll stop by in a half hour. We're keeping him overnight?”

“We are,” said Hope, and disconnected, wondering what the story behind her patient's present plight could be.

*   *   *

On the way back, Price had trouble keeping the convertible under the 45 mph speed limit. He sang a lusty sea chantey bellowing out the chorus that ended, “Oh for a life on the rolling sea!” at the top of his lungs, stretching out the “rolling” through three gears as he slowed before the turn into O'Malley's road. He was on the third rendition of the chantey by the time he skidded to a stop next to O'Malley's garage. He vaulted out of the convertible and raced into the house.

“Jodi!” he shouted as he opened the kitchen door.

The smell of Scotch hit him, and he smiled, thinking how low Jodi had been when he left, how O'Malley was nursing her with two or three, well, maybe four, fingers of Scotch, and how this news—Chris risen from the dead—was going to perk her up.

But when he moved into the living room he saw why the Scotch smell was so strong. The empty Macallan bottle was lying on its side on the coffee table next to two empty glasses. Jodi was asleep on the couch, snoring. A box of tissues was on the floor, crumpled used tissues dropped around it. O'Malley was sprawled in the chair that had been next to the fireplace and was now pulled up close to the Scotch bottle.

O'Malley looked up, eyes unfocused. “How're you doin', Price, my man?”

Price, prepared to blurt out the good news that Chris was alive, hesitated.

“Well, well, my man. I had my firsh drink in five years, seven months, three days, and…” He peered at his empty wrist. “Can't tell hours.”

“My God!” said Price.

O'Malley pointed vaguely at the bookcase. “Behind the
Chicago Manual of Schtyle,
er,
Style.
Got more Macallan. The Macallan, that is.”

“I'm so sorry!” Price exclaimed.

“Nothin' to be sorry about. We've been celebrating the late lamented Christopher Wren. A wake,” said O'Malley. “Only she's asleep. Go ahead, hep yourself.”

“Jodi?” Price asked.

“She tol' me all about the great caper.” O'Malley looked serious. “Then she called her ol' man.”

“She called Jonah?”

“Told
him
all about it.”

“What did he say?”

“She passed out after a couple swallows. Had to finish it for her.” A sly grin. “Can't waste good single malt Scotch, y'know.”

“What did Jonah say?”

“Said he was gonna come pick her up.”

 

C
HAPTER
35

Bigelow, still feeling a bit shaky, fumbled along the corridor to the solarium, where he found himself an easy chair and settled into it. The hospital intended to keep him overnight for observation. Probably just as well. Have dinner and a night's sleep. Then return home on the paper boat early the next morning. Have to make arrangements to be discharged early. He'd get the delivery man who'd fished him out of the grave to give him a lift. He picked up a magazine from the table by his chair. He could see the print if he held it close to his nose. A fashion magazine. He dropped it back on the table with disgust. He had to find his glasses. That meant going back to the so-called campus. That meant ticks. He shuddered. He'd have to get someone to go down into that grave and search for the glasses.

“Mind if I join you?” A voice out of the myopic fog.

“Please,” said Bigelow. “Forgive me, but I've lost my glasses and all I can see is that you're quite tall and you're a redhead. What are you in here for?”

“It's a long story, but the short of it is, I fell off a boat and some dogs found me washed up on the beach. Still trying to get my memory back, but at least I know my name.” He held out a hand. “Chris Wrentham.”

Bigelow held out his own and they shook. “Professor Phillip Bigelow.”

Chris pulled up a chair close to Bigelow's and sat.

There was a hum of conversation coming from the other side of the sunny room, where a robed and slippered wheelchair-bound patient and several members of her family had gathered.

“Professor, eh? Where do you teach?” asked Chris.

“Cape Cod University.”

“Interesting,” said Chris, not recalling that he was taking a graduate course in sociology there. “Your field?”

“Military history.” Bigelow went into some detail about the courses he taught.

Chris listened attentively.

Bigelow finally came to the end of his discourse and asked, “Do you live on the Island or are you visiting?”

Chris scratched his forehead, where the sunburned skin itched. “I don't know where I live. They tell me my memory will come back. In the meantime, it's frustrating.”

“I don't suppose you recall what you do for a living?”

“Bits and pieces,” replied Chris. “Software development rings a bell, but damned if I know whether I'm the head of a Fortune 500 company or some flunky who shreds records.”

“I'm sure it's the former,” said Bigelow with rare tact. He glanced up. “Is someone heading this way? I hear footsteps.”

Chris turned to look. “Hope. My nurse.”

“Yes, mine, too. Excellent woman.”

“Visitors' day for you two,” said Hope. “My great aunt, Victoria Trumbull, is here with the head of Ivy Green College and one of his professors to see you, Professor Bigelow.”

“That would be Thackery Wilson,” said Bigelow, “along with Professor Trumbull. And the other professor?”

“I didn't get his name. Okay if I show them in? Auntie Vic brought one of her poetry books for you.”

“I can hardly appreciate it until I find my glasses,” grumbled Bigelow. “Show them in. I'll talk to them.”

Hope turned to Chris. “There's a Mr. Henderson to see you. You okay with that?”

Chris shrugged. “Sure. I guess. His name doesn't ring a bell, but maybe he'll jog my memory.”

Hope left, and shortly after, Victoria arrived, followed closely by Thackery and Professor Wellborn Price.

Thackery was acting like a kid dragged away from his baseball cards to Sunday school. His face was a scowl set off by thick horn-rimmed glasses. His fringe of hair curled untidily around his scalp.

Dr. Wellborn Price was dressed in his usual plaid shirt and jeans and was wearing a happy smile.

Chris went to fetch more chairs.

Professor Bigelow stood and held out his hand to the nearest fuzzy shape.

Victoria grasped it. “I was horrified to hear of your fall, Professor Bigelow. What a frightening experience. Are you all right?”

“I was badly shaken, as you can imagine,” said Bigelow. “I seem to have recovered, though.”

Chris pushed over three more armchairs.

Victoria glanced up. “Chris Wrentham! What a surprise to see you here. We thought you were attending a conference off Island.”