Poison Ivy (5 page)

*   *   *

“Thackery,” said Professor Bigelow after the committee invited him back to the meeting. “The police have not yet arrived, and we're running out of time.” He looked at his watch. “We have a major issue we are concerned about, and that is your choice of Dr. Wellborn Price as adjunct professor of economics.”

“What conceivably can be wrong with him?” asked Thackery, still upset at his dismissal a couple of hours earlier. “Dr. Price is a Nobel Prize–winning economist.”

“True, but we question his teaching skills.”

“What?!” sputtered Thackery.

“We care about
teaching
at Cape Cod University,” said Bigelow, licking his lips.

“He taught at Stanford, Harvard, and Princeton. His Ph.D. is from Yale. He has honorary doctorates from Berkeley, University of Washington, Wellesley, Oxford, and Trent University. How can you possibly question his credentials?”

“He hasn't taught for five years.”

“He retired to the Vineyard five years ago, for God's sake.” Thackery was quite worked up. “During that time he's published two books on economic theory and more than a dozen papers in peer-reviewed journals.”

“Dr. Wilson, we are simply doing our duty.” Professor Bigelow pushed his chair away from the table and stood. Cosimo Perrini righted the table as it started to topple over. “Cape Cod University has its standards for faculty appointments. If you wish to have your courses accredited by the university, you abide by the rules and standards that have been set up. High standards, I am happy to say.” Professor Bigelow sat again.

Thackery took a deep breath and pulled up another chair to the card table. “What must we do in order to have his courses approved by Cape Cod University?”

“Dr. Price hasn't taught during those five years of retirement,” said Professor Bigelow.

Thackery stood again. “He's been teaching a regular elementary economics course at the high school every year of those five years and…”

“High school.” Bigelow looked down at the papers on the table.

“It's not merely high school,” said Thackery. “He's been teaching a series of adult ed courses on macroeconomics theory.”

“You don't seem to understand, Dr. Wilson. Adult ed courses are not good enough for the university.”

“What do you require, then?” Thackery, with effort, kept his voice under control.

“Cape Cod University offers a course in principles and practices of education for those planning to go into the teaching field. We believe it would be helpful for him to take that course as a refresher…”

“An introductory-level course?” Thackery couldn't help showing his astonishment. “Dr. Price could teach that course.”

Dedie Wieler smiled.

“We're not hearing impaired, Dr. Wilson,” said Bigelow. “If he's had as much experience as you claim”—he held up a hand as Thackery was about to say more—“then it will be a simple requirement for him to fulfill.”

Thackery, defeated, sat again.

*   *   *

After the IGCOC meeting broke up, Dedie Wieler beckoned Thackery aside. “A word with you, Dr. Wilson.”

Thackery, not sure where the next blow was coming from, remained standing next to his desk. He placed the fingertips of his right hand on the desktop and leaned on them. He scowled at Professor Wieler and said nothing.

“Is the kitchen fairly private?” she asked.

“I doubt if Professor Bigelow will interrupt us there,” said Thackery, lifting his nose in the air.

They moved from Thackery's living room office through Linda's dining room office, through a pocket door into the kitchen, which was a standard 1950s remodeled kitchen with pink refrigerator and stove.

“What do you want of me?” asked Thackery, leaning back against the refrigerator.

“I thought you might be interested in knowing the history of Professor Bigelow and your Dr. Price.”

A dog barked. There was a noisy scuffling in dry leaves. Dedie went to the high window over the maroon sink. “Can't see from here what that's all about.”

Thackery adjusted his glasses, which kept slipping down his nose. “I suspect Walter's mongrel got loose again. I've lost patience with him and his dog.” He folded his arms across his chest.

Dedie turned from the window and set her papers on the chrome-legged table. The tabletop was pink vinyl with yellow boomerangs. She was wearing jeans, a blue-and-white-striped man's shirt, and sandals. At six foot one, Dedie was almost as tall as Thackery, and he found it disconcerting to speak eye-to-eye with a woman. “Dr. Price was on Professor Bigelow's tenure committee at Stanford.”

“Oh?” said Thackery, beginning to understand. “Wellborn Price voted against him for tenure?”

The dog whined.

“That's right,” said Dedie. “Dr. Price, as you so rightly pointed out, was and is a powerful, influential economist. Even at the time Professor Bigelow came up for tenure review, Wellborn Price had influence. He convinced the other members of the committee to turn down Professor Bigelow's tenure application.”

“And why, if I may ask?”

“From what I understand, ten years earlier, when Dr. Price was up for tenure, Professor Bigelow's father was on the tenure committee. He blackballed Wellborn.”

Leaves rustled, a scratching sound as though the dog was digging.

Despite his intent to remain aloof from gossip, Thackery was drawn in. “Blackballed him?”

Dedie nodded. “Price was an associate professor or whatever they called it at the time. He seduced and impregnated papa Bigelow's daughter, our Professor Bigelow's sister.”

“Seduced her,” repeated Thackery.

“Thaaat's right,” said Dedie. “His kid sister Laurel, who was eighteen at the time. She kept the baby who's now in his thirties. The baby was named Price Bigelow. When the sister married, the new hubby adopted him.”

“Let me understand this. Dr. Wellborn Price, the Nobel Prize winner, as a graduate student impregnated his tenure professor's daughter.”

“Not a smart thing for a supposedly bright man to do,” said Dedie. “He wanted to marry the girl, but papa put his foot down. She eventually married someone else, but that's another story.”

“Wellborn was refused tenure?”

“Yup. He appealed and overturned the decision. An unusual thing to happen, but,” Dedie shrugged, “Wellborn Price was a star.” She ran her hand down the front of the pink refrigerator. “This was some color scheme. Pink, maroon, and gray. This kitchen is a real antique.”

“Hardly antique,” said Thackery, slightly offended. His fifties childhood didn't seem to warrant the term.

“To finish the story, papa Bigelow's son Phillip came up for tenure a decade later. Dr. Wellborn Price was on the tenure committee.” She held out her hands. “There you have it. You can't fight academic politics.”

“The indignity, the humiliation of Dr. Wellborn Price being told he must take a freshman-level course from a lowly Cape Cod institution.”

“Ah!” said Dedie, holding up a finger. “This is why I wanted to talk to you. A colleague of mine teaches that freshman ed course. I guarantee, if you'll get Dr. Price to agree to give a lecture to the class on whatever he wants to talk about, she'll give him an A-plus and a certificate of completion of the course.”

“I understand you're up for tenure,” said Thackery.

She shrugged. “I face the committee next year. The pressure is building and I'm ready to quit. To hell with it all. I wanted to teach. I don't want to fight all this adolescent-boy bullshit, if you'll pardon the expression.”

“Bigelow's revenge,” murmured Thackery.

“You could say that.” Dedie smiled. “Took him a quarter century.”

“What happened to our Bigelow's nephew? Wellborn's son?”

“Price Bigelow? Our IGCOC leader, spelled with a capital
B,
has never had anything to do with his sister's son.” She looked at her watch. “Gotta run if I'm going to catch that three-forty-five ferry.”

A dog barked.

Thackery walked her to the front door. “I'm calling the police about Walter's loose mutt.”

*   *   *

On their way home from the college that afternoon in Jodi's Jeep, Victoria tried to maintain her dignity. After all, she was an adjunct professor.

Her student chatted amiably. “That's really something, Mrs. T, about that body you found turning out to be a professor at CCU. Did you know him?”

“That was before my time,” said Professor Trumbull.

“That first day of class, you were really cool, Mrs. T. We were all wondering what the cops were doing here. And about the stink.”

Victoria allowed herself a smile. She was cool.

Jodi was driving the back way, on the road that went past the old waterworks. Through the trees, Lake Tashmoo sparkled below them in the afternoon light.

After a respectful silence, Jodi said, “You know, Mrs. T, I've been interviewing the families you suggested, and I've got awesome material. All original. They have the most amazing stories. No one ever interviewed them before.”

“We never considered Chilmarkers handicapped,” said Victoria. “They were like people with different hair or eye colors. Chilmark was five miles from my house. A great distance in those days. How's your thesis coming along?”

“Great. Original material no one's ever written about. Dr. Wilson knows a couple of scholarly book publishers who might be interested in looking at my finished work.”

“Professor Chadwick must be delighted.”

“She is. Definitely. She wants me to prepare a short paper based on my thesis, and she'll help me get it published.” Jodi looked away from the road briefly. “You can't imagine how much this means to me.”

“Yes, I can. I'm proud of you, Jodi.”

*   *   *

Victoria heard her phone ringing as she got out of the car. She waved thanks to Jodi, hurried inside, and lifted the receiver before the answering machine kicked in.

“Hello?” she said, out of breath.

“Good afternoon, Victoria,” said Casey, “although I'm not sure how good it is.”

“Oh?”

“I hate to tell you this, but they've found another body at Ivy Green.”

“Who is it this time?”

“No identification as yet.”

Victoria took a deep breath. “Where was it found?”

“Behind the administration building.”

“I'll need to get back to the college, right away,” said Victoria. “In my teaching capacity, not as your deputy. Will you give me a ride?”

“I'll be right there,” said Casey. “No need to ask.”

 

C
HAPTER
6

When they arrived at the college, two state police cars, a Tisbury Police cruiser, and the hearse from the funeral parlor were parked in the space reserved for faculty. Casey slipped the police Bronco between the hearse and a Harley-Davidson and they got out.

As she sidled around the motorcycle, Victoria patted the leather seat. She'd never ridden on a motorcycle. This, she knew, belonged to Doc Jeffers, who must be this week's medical examiner.

Sergeant Smalley greeted them. “Not pleasant, Mrs. Trumbull, Chief. The victim's been dead a while. Doc Jeffers is at the site.”

“Who found the body?” Victoria asked.

“Walter's dog, Brownie, unearthed him.”

“Is the victim another man?” asked Casey.

“We're assuming male because of his clothing and hair. Doc Jeffers can tell for sure.”

“Murder,” said Casey.

“Again, we're assuming so. We won't know for certain until they do the autopsy.”

“Is Thackery here?” asked Victoria.

“He's in his office. He'd called us to complain about the dog being loose.”

“He called the state police?” Casey laughed and hitched up her belt with its assortment of tools. “Mind if we take a look?”

“Not much crime scene to disturb after all this time,” said Smalley. “But I've called forensics. They'll do what they can. The body is on the far side of the building.”

They walked from where the vehicles were parked, stepping over stones that delineated the parking area, past tall, sweeping forsythia bushes showing a touch of autumn gold, under an arbor draped with vines heavy with ripening grapes, to the back of the house, now known as Woodbine Hall. They crossed a stretch of grass to the far side of the building, an area Victoria hadn't been to before.

A small crowd had gathered to watch Doc Jeffers work. The crowd included Toby the undertaker and his assistant, Tisbury police officers, two state troopers, and a few passersby that the Tisbury police were asking politely to keep their distance.

Victoria was so intent on watching Doc Jeffers she didn't even notice the magnificent vine that covered the side of the building.

Casey looked up at it. “Guess that's why Thackery calls the place Woodbine Hall.”

Doc Jeffers was crouched over the remains the troopers had finished unearthing after Brownie's discovery. The body had been covered with less than a foot of sandy soil, and the soil had then been topped with dead leaves from around the base of the vine, the accumulation of many years.

“Can't tell much from this,” Doc Jeffers said, waving a latex-gloved hand at the pile of clothes in the shallow trench. “It's a man, that's about it. At a guess, he was between forty and sixty.” The doctor stood up and snapped off his gloves. He was wearing leather trousers and motorcycle boots festooned with chains. A green scrub shirt exposed a V of white chest hair. “We'll know more after the autopsy.” He looked around and spotted Smalley who was standing off to one side. “Toby can take him away now.”

Toby, the undertaker, would transport the corpse off Island on the ferry for autopsy. There was not much left of the person to identify, except by dental records.