Poison Ivy (27 page)

“To save your neck? So you can warn the practical jokester kidnapper? Come on, Bruce. The police will never believe I let even two minutes pass before notifying them.”

“What can I do to persuade you?” said Bruce.

“What?! You want to bribe me?” Roberta threw her napkin on top of her partly eaten hamburger and stood up, toppling the bench she'd been sitting on.

The waiter rushed over. “Is everything all right, Mr. Steinbicker?” He set the bench upright.

“It's fine,” said Bruce at the same moment Roberta said, “No, it's not all right. This guy stinks,” and she walked up the step into the main dining room and out of the restaurant.

Bruce tossed a hundred-dollar bill onto the table and strode after her. “Roberta!”

He caught up with her outside and grabbed her arm. “I'm taking you home.”

“No, you're not. I'm walking myself over to the police station.”

“You've got no car, no money. How are you going to get home?”

“The police will give me a ride.” She pulled away from him. “Mrs. Trumbull hitchhikes.”

He held his hands up, palms out. “Truce.”

“Not until you give me the name of your so called friend.”

“I'll go back in and get us doggy bags.”

“Forget it,” said Roberta, heading toward the police station. “I want the guy's name.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. You win. I doubt if you even know him.”

She stopped and turned, hands on her hips, her face flushed beneath the tan, her eyes glittering. “Well?”

“He's president of a software company. Name's Chris Wrentham.”

Roberta froze. Her face paled. She opened and shut her mouth as if she were gasping for air. “Christopher Wrentham?”

“You know him?” asked Bruce, concerned.

“I can't believe it.” She wrapped her arms around her waist as though she were cold.

“Are you okay?”

“Take me home,” she whispered.

 

C
HAPTER
31

As Bruce pulled up to Roberta's small house on the outskirts of Oak Bluffs, Mrs. Hamilton, always alert to the goings-on in their secluded neighborhood, bustled over.

“Miss Chadwick, I've been so worried about you.”

“I'm glad to be home, Mrs. Hamilton.” Roberta eased herself out of Bruce's Porsche. Bruce remained in the driver's seat.

“Where have you been? I was so worried I contacted the police.” Mrs. Hamilton planted a concerned look on her face and folded her arms under her ample bosom.

“Oh, no!” said Bruce.

Roberta said, “Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. Please, if you don't mind, I'd like to have some time to settle in.” She edged past Mrs. Hamilton and headed toward the front door.

Bruce got out of the car and shut the door carefully.

“I understand, dear,” said Mrs. Hamilton. “Of course you do. And who is this nice young man?”

“Please, Mrs. Hamilton. I'll talk to you later. Give you a call.”

“I've fed your poor little cat…”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. I'll explain everything later.”

“Why don't I bring you over a tuna noodle casserole? I know how much you like it.”

“I do, Mrs. Hamilton, but please, not now. I'll call you. I've got to get into my house.”

Bruce leaned against the car and checked his fingernails.

“Your house must be a mess after all this time. I'll be happy to help you clean, you've been gone so long. I hope you had a nice time.”

“No, no, no, Mrs. Hamilton. Thank you, but leave me alone for now.”

“Your gentleman friend…?” Mrs. Hamilton glanced at Bruce, then stared at him. “Aren't you Bruce Steinbicker? Oh, my word, how I love your show. I watch it all the time.”

Bruce smiled. “Thank you.”

“Mrs. Hamilton! Please!” said Roberta.

“Would you autograph my copy of
TV Week
for me?”

“I'd be glad to,” said Bruce.

“Not now, Mrs. Hamilton. I have to go to the bathroom. Right now. I'll call.”

“But, dear…?”

Roberta slipped past her and dodged into the house. After Bruce bestowed a charming smile on the smitten Mrs. Hamilton, he followed.

*   *   *

Roberta collapsed onto her couch and Bruce settled into the armchair at right angles.

She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “My God! That woman!”

“She means well,” said Bruce.

“Busybody.” Roberta leaned back against the soft cushions. “You said you're staying at Chris Wrentham's guesthouse. He's one of my student advisees. And you said he's taking care of your boat?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, a gesture his fans Twittered about. “I'm not sure I understand.”

“I know
I
don't understand,” said Roberta.

“Chris is a longtime friend of mine. Funny guy, real comedian.” Bruce smiled. “We were buddies in prep school. Never serious. A big practical joker. Now he owns a software development company and,” he looked modest, “I act.”

“You loaned him your boat,” said Roberta. “Someone held me captive on your boat. Someone planned the whole thing in great detail.”

“I didn't lend him my boat.” Bruce shook his head. “Couldn't have been Chris.”

“It took someone time to stock the boat with two weeks' supply of food, and remove the radio, life jackets, flares—every possible means of communication or escape.”

“Jee-zus. I didn't realize they'd stripped my boat.”

“Not exactly stripped, since it was stocked with two weeks' worth of food.”

“I didn't lend him my boat,” Bruce said again. “He loaned me his guesthouse.”

“In exchange for your boat?”

“No, of course not. He promised to keep an eye on it.”

“Well, he went back on his promise. No one came near your boat the entire time I was stuck on it. Unless,” she flung her arms out, “he was involved in kidnapping me.”

“He couldn't have been. According to his wife, he's been attending some weeklong conference off Island.”

“According to his wife?”

“Since I'm staying in his guesthouse I see her all the time. How in hell am I going to get my equipment back?”

“I'm more concerned with who did it,” said Roberta.

“Why would Chris want to kidnap you?”

“I can't imagine. He's a straight-A student, and I was about to publish a paper based on his work.”

“He doesn't need a graduate degree,” said Bruce. He's got a Ph.D. in computer science and taught at some prestigious university.”

“He's working on a master's in sociology.”

“What's the subject of his paper?”

“My paper, actually. It's based on his work. It was on the intermarriage of white settlers and Wampanoags on Martha's Vineyard.” Roberta took a deep breath. She'd heard a faint echo of Victoria Trumbull's voice, “
Plagiarism.
”

“Interesting subject,” said Bruce.

“Unfortunately, because I was imprisoned on your boat, the paper won't be published this year.”

“There's always next year,” said Bruce.

“Actually, there isn't. My tenure approval depended on that paper and two others I was working on.”

“What's so important about tenure?”

Roberta smiled. “That's something I thought about the entire time—the importance of tenure. And you're right. What
is
so important about tenure?”

*   *   *

Bruce's cell phone rang with the theme song from
Family Riot,
his show. He answered.

“Jonah who? How'd you get my number?” Pause. “Yeah. I was staying in his guesthouse.” Long pause. “What in hell are you talking about?” Long, long pause. Bruce's face turned red. “Thanks, I guess,” he said, and disconnected.

“What was that all about?”

“A woman named Jodi?”

“Oh my God!” gasped Roberta. “What is going on?”

“Chris is in the hospital. Some dog found him washed up on the beach.”

“Whaaat?!”

“I've got to go. Are you going to be okay?”

“Mrs. Hamilton will take care of me.”

“Heaven forbid,” said Bruce. “I'll come back later and explain.” He added, with a smile, “We have a lot to talk about. You still want to go to the police?”

*   *   *

When Victoria arrived home shortly after noon, Robert was stacking wood neatly on the woodpile. A truckload of wood had been dumped nearby.

“Good afternoon, Robert.”

“How're you doing, Miz Trumbull,” he greeted her. “You got a touch of sun.”

“I've been out on the water,” Victoria said.

He fished his cigarette makings out of various pockets and rolled, patted, licked, and lit one. That critical task finished, he said, “You must've got up pretty early.”

“You get up even earlier. Every day.”

He went back to wood stacking, the cigarette dangling from his lip.

Victoria continued out to the garden to see what she could find for lunch.

Late tomatoes were still ripening on her staked-up vines. She picked one and found a cucumber under the squash leaves. This had been a good year for her garden.

During lunch, she wrote a few notes for her column and checked her calendar. Another lecture was scheduled for tonight. So far, attending lectures hadn't helped her at all to identify either a killer or a potential victim.

After being out on the water all morning, she didn't really feel like going out again. The thought of a drink in front of the parlor fire with Elizabeth and with McCavity in her lap was much more appealing. But before Elizabeth came home, Victoria took a long, hot bath, dressed in her green plaid suit, and was ready to go.

After the storm of the day before, the evening was cool and dry and the sky was full of stars. While Elizabeth was bringing the car up to the west step, Victoria gathered up her sweater and her cloth bag.

The lecture was at the Chilmark Community Center, a twenty-minute ride. Victoria settled into her seat, pleased to have a long drive on a pleasant evening in the company of her granddaughter.

“What's tonight's lecture?” asked Elizabeth.

“Frank Hopkins is speaking on the Island's geology.”

“There'll be a crowd.”

Victoria nodded. “I was so sure a visiting professor would attend one of the lectures, and equally sure the killer would attend, hoping to identify a professor victim.”

“At least it's been informative,” said Elizabeth. “Is this too much air for you? I can close the window.”

“The breeze feels good.” Victoria settled into her seat and looked out at the passing lights of houses along the way. She knew the histories of most of them, when they were built and by whom, and who'd lived in them over the years.

Elizabeth interrupted her thoughts. “How many lectures does this make, Gram?”

“Too many. One more, and that will be all. It seemed a good idea when I thought of it. Now, I just don't know.”

“Maybe you'll get lucky tonight, Gram.”

*   *   *

Perhaps it was a lucky evening. The lecture was well attended. Victoria knew most of the fifty or so people. Mrs. Hamilton, Roberta Chadwick's neighbor was there. So was Robert, her part-time helper, dressed in clean jeans and a white dress shirt. He looked quite presentable, except for his usual two-day growth of beard.

Before they took their seats, Victoria said to him, “Getting up so early, you won't have much time to sleep.”

“I nap after I deliver the papers.” Robert's voice always sounded weary. “Good speaker.” He nodded at Frank, who was approaching the lectern.

The Island's geology was an interesting subject to Victoria, even though she felt Frank didn't know as much about the Island as she did. After all, she'd known him since he was in diapers.

After the talk there were the usual questions. When did the glacier create the Island? (Twenty thousand years ago.) Where did all the varicolored rocks come from? (The northeast, from Connecticut and New Hampshire and even Canada.) Why are Chilmark and Aquinnah so hilly while the center of the Island is so flat? (Up-Island is where the glacier bulldozed rocky moraine and West Tisbury is where sand that was washed out of the moraine was deposited.)

She could have answered those questions. But two men she didn't know asked questions she didn't even understand.

One identified himself as a visiting professor from India. He asked a question about Pleistocene ostracods.

For the enlightenment of a puzzled audience, including Victoria, Frank explained that ostracods are common tiny crablike creatures with shells that look like miniature clams. To the professor, he said, “See me later and I'll give you a reprint on the subject.”

The second man was a professor from MIT who was studying the movement of sand along coastal beaches.

After the lecture, Victoria made a point of talking to each of the two professors. Both were visiting the Island, neither had family with him, both planned to be away from home for an extended period. The professor from India was staying at a bed-and-breakfast, the MIT professor was staying at the Mansion House, both in Vineyard Haven.

On their way home, Victoria dozed, lulled by the pleasant drive. The lights of an approaching car flashed past. The dark road continued to unroll ahead of them.

She awoke as they were passing the Allen Sheep Farm. “Sorry, I didn't mean to drop off.”

“You've had a long day,” Elizabeth said. “Looks as though you identified two possible victims tonight, Gram.”

“Possibly,” said Victoria. “I'm afraid I've been on a wild-goose chase, hoping to find victims and killer attending a lecture. It's been a waste of time.”

“Mrs. Hamilton is relieved that Roberta is safe.”