Poison Ivy Read online

  “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 WAMPANOAG TRIBE OF GAY HEAD (AQUINNAH) 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 blasé 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.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I get the kids off to school. Around nine-thirty?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Thackery was in his office going over his paperwork when Victoria dropped by after class. She handed him more papers, covered in her loopy backhand writing.

  “Linda’s left for the day. She can record your attendance records tomorrow.”

  “She seems to be fairly casual about her work,” said Victoria, sitting in the chair next to Thackery’s desk.

  Thackery rubbed the back of his neck. “She doesn’t really need the job. Her husband’s in the merchant marine and is away from home weeks at a time. This job is so she has something to do.”

  “No children?”

  He shook his head. “How is the poetry course?”

  “We’re discussing formal poetry.” Victoria brushed off bits of grass from her green plaid skirt. “Villanelles, sonnets, triolets, and sestinas.”

  Katydids were singing their late-summer mating song in the trees behind the building. Thackery’s window was open and rich scen
ts of approaching autumn drifted into the room. “I’ve given them six words to work into a sestina.”

  “Fine, fine,” Thackery said. “Whenever you’re ready to move indoors, I believe Catbriar Hall is habitable. It’s been two weeks since…” He didn’t finish.

  “We enjoy meeting outside. It’s a lovely spot with that magic circle of lush grass.” Victoria smoothed her skirt. She really should get another ensemble now that she was an adjunct professor. “One of my students, Jodi Paloni, tells me she’s working on her master’s degree.”

  “She’s quite a promising scholar,” said Thackery, “improbable though her appearance is. She has a good mind.”

  “What you’ve accomplished is remarkable, Thackery.”

  He looked down at his desk and moved his desk calendar a half inch to the left.

  “There must have been some formidable obstacles in setting up the college.”

  “Quite so. With such a small student body, only a half-dozen students are likely to enroll in any particular course we might offer.” He dropped Victoria’s attendance records into a wire tray and pushed his glasses back into place. “In our favor, a number of distinguished academicians have retired here. I believed, rightly, that many would welcome the opportunity to teach again.”

  “Teaching a small class must be appealing.”

  “Precisely,” said Thackery. “A change after facing a lecture hall of five hundred students, half dozing, half texting on their electronic devices.”

  Victoria heard the honking of Canada geese overhead. A nostalgic sound. When she was a child, that meant geese heading south for the winter. Now they circled the Island’s ponds and wintered here.

  Thackery said, “At Ivy Green, professors can make eye contact with five or six students, all eager to learn.”

  “I’m surprised you’re able to offer college credit.”

  “We worked out a compromise with Cape Cod University in order to award credit.” Thackery lined up his pens. “The university and teachers’ union made concessions and they set up an oversight committee to keep tabs on us. So here we are.” He held up his hands. “Some at the university feel we’re offering mere training courses. But our students need college credit in such utilitarian fields as education, criminal justice, and social services.”

  “Jodi’s goal of getting a master’s in sociology is certainly academically worthy.”

  “Her work will be a significant milestone for us. Perhaps the most important since our alliance with the university. That is, if she’s able to carry through.”

  “Do you have any doubts?” asked Victoria. “She’s a determined young woman.”

  “Let’s hope she’s as strong as she seems. The academic world is not easy.”

  “When does the oversight committee next meet? I should think they would be interested in Jodi’s progress.”

  “Sometime in the next two weeks.” Thackery sighed. “I must tell you, Mrs. Trumbull, I dread their visit.”

  “Why so? Look how much you’ve accomplished in ten short years with very little in the way of resources.” Victoria indicated the faded wallpaper, the mismatched chairs, the scuffed wooden floor.

  Thackery sat back, his hands folded over his flat stomach. “A slim majority of the committee supports what we’re doing, namely providing higher education for everyone. The minority believes only a select few should be offered higher education.” He sighed again. “With the discovery of a long-dead body in the cellar of our lecture hall, I’m afraid we’ll lose what lukewarm support we have.”

  “How ridiculous.”

  He nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “You’re providing a new life for some of your students. Jodi could never hope to go to college off Island with her four boys to worry about.”

  Thackery stood and walked toward the cracked window that looked out over the campus. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared out. “Fortunately, I have a strong champion on the committee, Harlan Bliss, a philosophy professor. He was instrumental in setting up our criminal justice program.”

  “His name is familiar.”

  “He’s not only a well-respected academic, he’s also a Beacon Hill Bliss, heir to a sizable fortune.”

  “Ah,” said Victoria.

  “With his support, we may be able to swing the minority three members to his way of thinking.”

  “What motive would anyone have to oppose the college?”

  “Academic politics. Power, egos, small-mindedness, envy.” He turned to Victoria, hands still clasped behind his back. “I thought a small college would never have to deal with academic politics. It seems we haven’t escaped.” Thackery shrugged and returned to his seat. “I’ve never been able to sort out the underlying politics of the oversight committee members.” He looked over at her, his eyes magnified by the thick lenses.

  Victoria nodded.

  Thackery continued. “The disagreement over our curriculum has nothing to do with the college. Yet, we’re likely to be a victim. Pointless.”

  “Who are your advocates, besides Professor Bliss?”

  Thackery shuffled through the papers he’d straightened and drew one out and read from it. “There’s an engineering professor, Dedie Wieler; a geology professor, Journeyman Cash; and a professor of African-American studies, Noah Sutterfield.”

  “With the advocacy of those three and Professor Bliss, it sounds as though you needn’t worry,” said Victoria.

  He forced a smile. “Professor Cash, the geologist, misses numerous oversight committee meetings because of fieldwork. He missed the August meeting, for example.” He leaned back in his chair. “I can’t imagine where his work took him. His field courses are in Death Valley, usually scheduled in winter when the temperatures are bearable.”

  “And Professor Sutterfield?”

  “A quiet man. Doesn’t speak up often.” Thackery swiveled the chair. “It’s critical to have the committee’s support. They go over every faculty appointment, course offering, student application, the facilities, our grading.” He pushed back from his desk and faced Victoria. “Professor Bliss has indicated that he might help us financially, once he’s sure we’re firmly established.”

  “Surely ten years is enough to convince the most skeptical.”

  “I wish that were so.”

  “What about Professor Wieler?”

  “She’s up for tenure next year, and therefore has to be cautious about what she says and who she offends by voicing her opinions.”

  “I thought universities prided themselves on their respect for academic freedom.”

  “There is no academic freedom before tenure,” he said.

  * * *

  Early the next morning, Victoria called Casey. The line was busy, so she hiked the quarter mile to the police station on this perfect day. Jodi was scheduled to meet with her later, but she needed to talk to the police chief. When she reached New Lane she saw Jodi’s four children at the bus stop, stiff in their new school clothes.

  “Good morning, boys.”

  “Morning, ma’am,” they chorused.

  “You must be proud of your mother and her schoolwork. I’m meeting with her later this morning.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Caleb, the eldest, a lanky boy with flaming red hair.

  The yellow bus approached. The boys picked up their backpacks. The bus stopped. The red lights flashed. The boys, who’d been silent during the brief exchange, waved at Victoria and scrambled aboard.

  After the bus left, Victoria crossed the road and continued on, swinging the lilac wood stick Elizabeth had cut for her. She didn’t really need the stick, but it pleased Elizabeth to see her use it. Along with the stick, she carried a paper bag of stale bread for the ducks and geese that hung around the police station.

  As she walked she breathed in the scent of wild grapes and sun-warmed pine and the ever-present salt-sea smell. Earlier this morning, while the dew was still sparkling on the grass and spiderwebs were spread out like linen dr
ying, she’d picked a bouquet of goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace for an arrangement on the dining room table.

  When she reached the station’s oyster shell parking area, she shook the stale bread from her paper bag. Resting fowl rose to their feet, shimmied their tails, and waddled toward her, quacking and hissing. She tucked the folded-up bag into her pocket and climbed the outside steps to Casey’s office.

  The office door was open and fine weather poured into the one-room station house. Casey was on the phone. She finished the call and greeted Victoria. Her coppery hair shone in the sunlight. Casey was in her forties, a single mother with a nine-year-old son named Patrick. She’d wanted Patrick to grow up with a sense of community she hadn’t felt in Brockton. She found it in West Tisbury.

  “You’re up early.”

  “This is a quick visit,” said Victoria. “I’ve got a full day ahead of me.”

  “You should have called.”

  “The line was busy. Is there any news of the body at Ivy Green College?”

  Casey nodded at the phone. “That was Sergeant Smalley. They’ve identified the victim.”

  Victoria sat in the wooden armchair in front of Casey’s desk. Through the windows on the west side she could see a pair of swans sailing regally on the Mill Pond.

  Casey glanced at her notes. “The victim was a tenured professor at Cape Cod University named Harlan Bliss.”

  Victoria half rose. “Oh, no!”

  “Did you know him?”

  “He was on the oversight committee for the college. A strong supporter of Thackery’s.”

  “What was he doing here?” asked Casey.

  “Probably attending the August committee meeting. You’d think his family would have missed him.”

  “He’s divorced, no children,” said Casey. “Smalley is trying to locate next of kin.”

  “I suppose his colleagues assumed he was on vacation after the meeting. Has the cause of death been determined?”

  “Strangulation. The forensics scientists found fibers.”

  Victoria shook her head in dismay.

  “He wasn’t killed in the cellar where the body was found,” Casey said. “The killer apparently wrapped him in a sheet and carried him through that small opening in the closet floor. Not easy.”