Poison Ivy (10 page)

Victoria nodded to each and made brief notes to herself so she could remember their names.

The Reverend Bob White was a short, plump man with a small beaky nose. He looked so much like the quail whose name he bore, that Victoria wondered if he was aware of his image. He had bushy white eyebrows and white chin whiskers worn in a modified Van Dyke that looked like bird feathers. He wore a speckled brown-and-rust tweed suit with vest buttoned tightly over his round belly.

“For Mrs. Trumbull's information, we're meeting to appoint yet another new member”—Bigelow nodded at Bob White—“to replace our late colleague Professor Journeyman Cash.”

“Bless him,” said Cosimo Perrini.

“Thank you,” said Bigelow.

Cosimo was wearing the same blue-and-white seersucker suit he'd worn before, again with a white T-shirt underneath. Victoria tried to put an image to his name. Cosmos? A flower on a tall stalk, sometimes pink, sometimes white. That seemed to fit.

Hammermill Jones, the former football player, shifted his weight and the rickety chair groaned. “Two IGCOC members dead. Killed. We'll have a problem finding a willing volunteer.”

“Not volunteer,” said Bob White. “Appointee. I had no choice in the matter. The provost appointed me after you people nominated me.”

Dedie Wieler raised a hand. “I nominate Professor Petrinia Paulinia Kralich, mathematics. We discussed her at our last meeting.”

“Trying to get her killed off, eh?” said Hammermill. “We didn't nominate her, if you'll recall, my dear.”

“I second the nomination,” said Noah Sutterfield, African-American studies. “Professor Kralich and Professor Chatterjee, my nominee, were tied for the position. This time, I'm backing Professor Kralich.”

Dedie glanced at him and mouthed her thanks.

Bigelow's tongue flicked out. He looked around the group. “Since we've been through this nomination procedure only a short time ago, shall we agree on Dr. Kralich as our seventh member?”

“Gentlemen and lady. And you, Professor Trumbull,” said Reverend Bob White.

Victoria smiled.

“As your new member,” Reverend White continued, “I wasn't privileged to go through the selection process. May I make a suggestion?”

Bigelow scowled. “I hardly think that would be appropriate, Bob, since you're new to the group and haven't attended any prior meetings.”

“Let's hear what he has to say,” said Hammermill.

“If I may say a word?” said Cosimo.

Victoria, making notes, had listed the Reverend Bob White, Dr. Dedie Wieler, and Hammermill Jones. She added Cosimo's name to her list. She studied him. He was a pallid man, someone who could easily be forgotten. She determined not to forget him. Cosimo, pale pink cosmos flowers.

The group turned to their usually silent member.

“Certainly,” said Bigelow. “Let's hear what you have to say.”

“We have a qualified nominee in Professor Kralich. We discussed her fully at our last meeting. In the interests of time, I think we should nominate her.”

Dedie started to say something, looked over at Victoria, then at Noah, who shook his head ever so slightly, and she stopped.

Bigelow turned to her. “Did you have something to say, Dedie?”

“No. That's okay.”

“All agreed?” He looked around. “I'll take the vote, then. Dedie?”

“Yes.”

“Hammermill?”

“No.”

“Cosimo?”

“Yes.”

“Noah?”

“Yes.”

“Bob?”

“I'll have to abstain, since I'm apparently not permitted to speak.”

“I vote no,” said Bigelow, ignoring the Reverend White's comment. “Three yes votes, two no votes, and an abstention. Professor Kralich will be our new member replacing the late Professor Journeyman Cash. Dedie, would you please ask Dr. Wilson to step in?”

“Me?” said Dedie, crossing her hands over her chest.

Victoria stood up. “I believe he's just outside. I'll get him.”

*   *   *

After Thackery presented his college progress report, he mentioned that Dr. Wellborn Price had agreed to enroll in Principles and Practices of Education, 101.

“Didn't he win the Nobel Prize in Economics a couple of years back?” asked Reverend Bob White.

Silence. Dedie smiled.

Reverend White looked around the group, most of whom avoided his eyes. “Why a freshman course in education?”

“He's required to be fully qualified to teach,” said Bigelow, staring him down.

“Wellborn Price?” asked Bob White. “You expect him to take an introductory course in order to be qualified to teach? Surely you're joking.”

Bigelow stood and looked at his watch. “I believe we can catch the three-forty-five boat if we hurry.”

“You know, Bigelow, you're asking for a lawsuit.” Bob White leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach.

“Hardly,” said Bigelow. “No grounds whatsoever.” He turned back to the others. “The next IGCOC meeting will be back on schedule, second Tuesday in October.”

“I could come up with a half-dozen grounds,” said Bob White, “starting with defamation of character.”

“I guess you know about lawsuits,” said Dedie. “Aren't you suing the university over that statue?”

“Inappropriate. Offensive piece of so-called art.”

Bigelow ignored them.

Thackery said, “One other matter.”

“What is it?” Bigelow glanced at his watch again.

“I'm sure you've heard by now that a skeleton was unearthed on campus this past week.”

“It was in the news.” Bigelow sat down again. “Do you have any further information? One hopes the skeleton is, perhaps, an Indian artifact?”

“It's a relatively recent burial,” said Thackery. “Within the past year.”

The eyes of all the committee members were on Thackery.

“That wasn't mentioned in the news,” said Bigelow. “Has the body been identified?”

“There isn't enough left to identify readily. The state forensics team is working on his ID as we speak.”

“His?” snapped Bigelow.

“A belt buckle, size twelve shoes.”

“At least it's not another member of BIG…” Dedie stopped. “Of IGCOC,” she finished.

*   *   *

The four regulars gathered on Alley's porch after work that same afternoon. Donald Schwartz, the boat builder, was sitting next to Sarah on the bench.

“Who's the seedy character working for Mrs. Trumbull?” asked Donald.

“No idea,” said Joe. “Didn't think she hired anyone to help her.” As usual, Joe was leaning against the post near the step where he could spit his tobacco juice off into a tuft of dried grass.

“You're killing that grass,” said Sarah.

“Shouldn't be growing there,” said Joe.

Lincoln stood in the doorway, scratching his back on the door frame. “If it's who I think it is, he delivers the morning papers. Picks them up from the paper boat.”

“Okay, I know who he is,” said Donald. “Name's Robert. Has a drinking problem.”

“I hear they found another corpse up to the college.” Joe cut off a fresh chunk of Red Man and stuffed it into his mouth. “Number three.”

“That's old news,” said Sarah. “Almost a week ago.”

“Mrs. Trumbull find the body?” asked Lincoln.

“Caretaker's mutt dug it up,” said Joe. “Must've thought it was a bone he buried.”

Donald laughed.

“It's not funny, you guys,” said Sarah. “Three dead people?”

“You heard of corpse-sniffing dogs?” said Lincoln. “Like drug-sniffing dogs at airports, only different.”

“I heard they use gerbils to sniff drugs these days,” said Donald. “Less threatening.”

“Stop it!” said Sarah, putting her hands over her ears. “This is awful. Do they know who it is?”

“Was,” said Joe. “Nothing but bones.”

“They ID'd the second corpse yet?” asked Lincoln.

“Yup. Another college professor. Somebody hates college professors,” said Joe.

“Killer's probably a college professor himself who didn't get tenure,” said Donald.

“What do you know about tenure?” said Joe.

“Never did get tenure,” said Donald.

“Figures,” said Joe.

 

C
HAPTER
11

“I'm sure it's not personal, Thackery,” said Victoria.

The IGCOC group had walked to the ferry without a word of thanks to him. He was obviously still smarting from Victoria's having attended the first part of the meeting from which he'd been excluded.

“They didn't even have the decency to say good bye.” Thackery was standing by the cracked window, his back to Victoria, hands clasped behind him.

“I suspect each of them was thinking about his own self interest,” said Victoria. “I don't know why they bothered to come over to the Island. They could have nominated a new member on the mainland.”

Thackery still said nothing.

Victoria said, “They may have felt that Reverend Bob White, the new member, needed to see the campus.”

“They might have asked me to show him around,” said Thackery without turning. “Only common courtesy. It is my campus, after all. I put the whole thing together with no help from anyone.”

“What you've achieved is remarkable, Thackery. No one else could have done what you have.” Victoria was seated in the chair next to Thackery's desk, still speaking to his back. “The committee members seem to be letting some form of personal animosity get in the way of helping the college.”

Thackery said, “After the last meeting, that female member, Dr. Wieler, took me aside and shed some light on the personal animosities.” Thackery returned to his seat.

“What did she have to say?”

“She explained why Bigelow is making it so difficult for us to appoint Dr. Wellborn Price.”

“Cape Cod University ought to be delighted to have Dr. Price listed among adjunct professors who teach at Ivy Green.” Victoria smoothed her hair. “They didn't seem to have a problem approving me.”

“Of course not,” said Thackery.

“Even I, who know nothing about economics, am familiar with the name Wellborn Price. Wasn't he a consultant to the White House economics policy group?”

“He was on Bigelow's tenure committee,” said Thackery.

“Oh?”

“He was responsible for denying Bigelow tenure.”

“Was there justification?” asked Victoria.

“The only justification was personal vindictiveness,” said Thackery. “Years before, Bigelow's father had served on Wellborn's tenure committee and blackballed Wellborn.”

“Why?”

Thackery shrugged. “For personal reasons.”

“And that's the reason Wellborn blackballed his son, our Professor Bigelow? That's as archaic as the Hatfield and McCoy feud,” said Victoria. “Did our Professor Bigelow, appeal?”

“He did. But lost the appeal.”

“And ended up teaching at Cape Cod University instead of at Stanford.”

“Exactly. Tenure denial is a kiss of death for an academician with aspirations for teaching at a major university.”

“It must be discouraging to put in five or more years at the beginning of one's career only to be fired. That's what it amounts to, doesn't it?”

*   *   *

Joel Killdeer, the forensics boss, was standing near the lush poison ivy vine that hid the shingles of Woodbine Hall when Walter let Brownie off his clothesline leash.

Brownie turned around in a circle, squatted down, scratched his ear with a hind leg, and yawned.

Killdeer nodded at the vine. “Stuff's pretty.”

“Go on, Brownie,” said Walter, nudging his dog with his toe. “Sic'um!”

Brownie turned his head to look at his master with sad eyes, and lay all the way down. He dropped his head on his front paws.

Killdeer was chewing gum. His sunglasses covered his eyes, his arms were folded over his chest. He leaned back against the side of the building. “Pretty lively mutt, you got there, Walter.”

Walter bent down and lifted Brownie to his feet. “Go on, sic'um!”

At that point, Thackery and Victoria emerged from the building.

“That's poison ivy, Dr. Killdeer,” said Victoria. “I hope you're not sensitive to it.”

“Oh, shit!” Killdeer straightened up and stared at the vine. “Last case I got damned near killed me.”

“Woodbine Hall has an upstairs shower,” said Thackery.

“Cool water,” said Victoria. “Be careful not to touch your clothes where they've come in contact with the vine.”

Killdeer left to clean up. Brownie staggered to his feet and looked reproachfully at Walter. He then put his nose to the ground and started circling, making wider and wider circles, moving away from the administration building. He stopped suddenly and began to dig, almost tripping up Walter, who'd been following closely behind his dog. Thackery and Victoria gathered around.

“Smart dog,” said Walter, preening himself.

Thackery scowled.

“I hope he hasn't found yet another body,” said Victoria.

Brownie dug furiously with his front paws. Dirt shot out between his hind legs. After a few minutes he stopped, looked up at Walter, and yelped.

Walter bent down to look into the foot-deep hole. “Can't see nothin'.”

Thackery turned his head away.

Brownie yelped again. Walter reattached the clothesline leash and held him back.

Victoria leaned over the dark hole. “Something is moving down there.” She could just make out a wad of some cottony stuff with seven or eight, or maybe nine, wriggling pink creatures the size of the last joint on her little finger.

“Mice?” asked Walter.

“I don't believe mice would nest underground. These are probably voles.” Victoria stood up and patted Brownie. “Good boy,” she said. “That was clever of you.”