A Deadly Vineyard Holiday (3 page)

“I don't want to go home,” said Cricket. “I like it here, where there aren't any people watching everything I do.”

Zee put a hand on her arm. “You can come back anytime you want to.”

Cricket looked at me as I got up. “Maybe we can go fishing again?”

“Why not?” I said. “You seem to have the makings of an island girl: You can land a bluefish and cook up a damned good pancake. That's more than a lot of people can manage.”

I went outside as the chief's cruiser and a second car pulled into the yard and stopped. Out of the backseat popped Ted and the woman I'd seen on the beach that morning. Out of the front seat, more slowly, climbed Pomerlieu and the chief.

Ted and the woman flashed their eyes all around them, taking in the house, the shed, the yard, and the gardens with sweeping glances. Then they looked at me. They were not smiling.

“I think you all know each other,” said the chief.

I gestured toward the woman. “I've met Ted, but not his pal, there.”

“Agent Joan Lonergan,” said the woman, ignoring my sass. “Is Cricket here?”

“Inside, polishing off the last pancake. Go on in. You'll find my wife there, too. Her name's Zee.”

Pomerlieu nodded and Joan Lonergan went into the house. Then Pomerlieu came closer to me and said, “I know you told the chief, but now tell me. How did she end up here? You said she walked away down the beach.”

“And no lies this time,” said Ted.

I looked at Ted, then back at Pomerlieu. “We have a leash law in Edgartown,” I said. “Dogs aren't supposed to run loose. Curb yours.”

Ted made a noise that actually did sound like one a dog might make.

“Back off, Ted,” said Pomerlieu. “And you, Mr. Jackson, I suggest that you try not to make enemies if you don't have to. Ted, here, had the duty when the girl slipped out. He takes his job seriously, and he has a suspicious mind, which goes with his work. He's a little tense right now.”

“He can relax,” I said. “The girl's fine. Nobody lured her away. She just has a case of cabin fever.” I told him the story I'd told the chief. “I think she just wants to be able to live like an ordinary girl,” I said, “instead of like a piece of public property.”

“I don't blame her for that,” said Pomerlieu, “but the fact is that she's not just an ordinary girl. She's the daughter of the president of the United States, and there are people loose out there who would like nothing better than to get their hands on her.”

The driver of the second car got out and looked at Pomerlieu. Pomerlieu nodded and two women got out of the car. I had never seen the younger woman, but I
recognized the older one. It was Cricket's mother, Myra Callahan. Both of them were dressed in their Vineyard vacation clothes, and both looked simultaneously worried and relieved. As well they might, I thought, anticipating how I might someday feel if my teenage daughter took off during the night and was found the next day with two strangers in an old hunting camp in the woods.

Followed by the younger woman, Myra Callahan came to us. She had a firm stride. “You must be Mr. Jackson. I'm Myra Callahan.” She put out her hand and smiled a smile I imagined she must have smiled thousands of times during her husband's political career. The smile didn't reach her sharp lawyer's eyes.

I shook the hand. It was the first White House hand that had ever taken mine. “Your daughter's inside having breakfast with my wife,” I said.

But when I turned, I saw that I was wrong. Joan Lonergan, Cricket, and Zee had come out onto the porch. Myra Callahan's hard eyes grew softer. She went past me.

“Cricket, you had us all worried.” Then, “You must be Mrs. Jackson. I'm Myra Callahan. I'm afraid my daughter has taken advantage of your hospitality.”

“Not a bit,” said Zee, holding her robe together with one hand and shaking hands with the other. “Cricket's earned her keep by catching fish and cooking breakfast.”

I thought of what Pomerlieu had just said, and felt sorry for all of the Callahans. Fame alone can make you someone's target. Fortunately, most criminals, including would-be assassins and kidnappers, aren't too bright. If a lot of the wacky people out there were as smart as they are venomous and mad, more well-known people would be damaged or dead.

“Sorry, Mom,” said Cricket. “I shouldn't have let you worry. I just wasn't thinking.”

Her mother sighed. “I know it's hard for you, dear. Well, no damage done.”

“Where's Dad?”

“Your father decided to make his morning run as usual, so all of the reporters would be watching him instead of me when I came here. We weren't sure Mr. and Mrs. Jackson would want the media on their doorstep.”

“You can be sure we don't,” said Zee. “Thanks.”

Myra Callahan was looking around. At the old hunting camp that was our house; at the balcony on top of the screened porch; at the flowers along the fences, in the window boxes and hanging pots, in the half barrels, and in front of the house; at the vegetable garden; at the shed out back and the corral, which housed my wheel-barrow, trash cans, and other gear too bulky to be put inside; and at Sengekontacket Pond and Nantucket Sound out to the east, beyond the garden.

“This is nice,” she said unexpectedly. “My dad used to take us up to a lake when we were kids. We stayed in a place like this. We didn't have electricity or running water. There was a hand pump in the kitchen and kerosene lamps and an outhouse in back. It was wonderful.”

“This place was like that when my dad bought it,” I said. “He put in electricity and running water. We even have two showers, one inside for wintertime, and one outside for the rest of the year. Come in, if you'd like.”

“I'd love to.”

Zee stepped aside, and Myra Callahan went into the house. Cricket had a surprised look on her face. “Gosh, Mom, you never fold me about that cabin.”

“I think I should have. This brings it all back.”

In the living room, Myra Callahan looked at the fishing rods hanging from the ceiling, at the Norwegian wood-burning stove I'd installed beside the fireplace, at
the lock and lock picks on the coffee table, at the gun cabinet, at the two best decoys my father had carved, and at the pictures amid the books and maps and charts and other mementos that lined the walls.

“My gosh, it really is an old hunting camp.”

She picked up the copy of
Pistoleer
and looked at Zee's picture, then at Zee herself.

“You shoot?”

Zee waved an airy hand. “It was my first competition. I came in fourth.”

“First in the eyes of the cameraman, though. And I can see why.”

“Thank you,” said Zee, who had come to accept that people believed her to be beautiful, but who could never understand why. I sometimes wondered who she saw in her mirror.

We went into the kitchen, and Myra Callahan looked at the pots hanging from the ceiling and at the magnet-held cartoons and messages on the refrigerator. A couple of the cartoons were about her husband. She grinned when she saw them.

“I'm afraid the dishes aren't done yet,” said Zee. “We just finished breakfast. Cricket made the pancakes. She can cook for us anytime.”

“The stove uses bottled gas,” I said. “We like gas for cooking, and if the electricity goes off during a storm, we still have the stove. We've got a portable generator, too, to run the water pump and the freezer and the refrigerators, if need be.”

“Refrigerators
plural? There's only one in here.”

“There's another one out on the porch beside the freezer. A little one just for beer.”

“Just for beer?”

“And soft drinks.”

We showed her the spare bedroom, where we kept the rest of the decoys my father had carved.

“For guests,” said Zee, gesturing at the twin beds.

“Or children,” said Myra Callahan.

Zee gave her a quick glance, and we went up onto the balcony and looked out over the garden and Sengekontacket Pond to Nantucket Sound. It was too early in the day for the August people to be over there on the barrier beach between the pond and the sound, but there were already some sailboats moving across the far water in front of the soft morning wind, heading who knew where.

“Isn't it beautiful?” said Cricket. “It's so quiet. I wish we were in a place like this.”

Her mother nodded almost dreamily. “I know what you mean. I'd forgotten how wonderful it was to be at the cabin. I think I had more fun there than . . .” She came back to the present. “But I'm afraid it's not possible, dear. Besides, in only a few days you have to be back in Washington to start school.”

I looked at Zee and saw in her face a sympathy for the girl that I felt myself. I looked at Cricket. “As a matter of fact, you're welcome here anytime,” I said. “Of course, you'd have to earn your keep. Go fishing, wash your share of the dishes, help weed the garden, and stuff like that. We even know some kids your age you could hang out with in your spare time.”

Cricket's eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really,” said Zee, nodding.

“Mom?” Cricket clutched her mother's arm.

“Well, I don't think . . .” Myra Callahan paused and looked at Zee and me and I thought I saw both love and fear in her eyes. Love of her daughter, fear of what? Of the crazies who stalk the famous?

“No one would even know she was here,” I said. “We could say . . . we could say she's a relative from out west. I have a sister out there, near Santa Fe, in case anybody bothered to check up.”

It didn't take much to convince Cricket. “Come on, Mom! Say yes! It'd be great! I won't have to have Walter Pomerlieu and Ted and Joan and Karen and all the rest of them hanging around all the time. I can go do what other kids do!”

“Well . . .”

“It'll only be for a few days, Mom!”

“Isn't that the tone they call a teenager's favorite whine?” I asked her mother, but looked at Cricket, who immediately studied me to see if she could read my face.

She could, and rolled her eyes. “All right, I'm sorry. No more whining. But, please, Mom. Let me stay here!”

“I'll have to talk with your father. And Walt Pomerlieu isn't going to like it.”

“Walter Pomerlieu doesn't like me to do anything. He'd like me to live in a gilded cage!”

“It's his job to take care of you.”

“I know. But if I was here, he wouldn't have to!”

“Cricket,” I said. “This decision isn't going to be made here or now. Your parents and Walt Pomerlieu don't know anything about Zee or me. They aren't going to let you come here or go anywhere else until they're sure that it's safe.”

“But you're not dangerous, Mr. Jackson.”

“What makes you so sure? Besides, your parents and the Secret Service people don't know that. They need time to check us out. It's their job. You have to let them do it. Afterward, if things work out, we'd love to have you stay here for a while if you still want to.”

“I'll still want to!”

Walt Pomerlieu came up onto the balcony. “We should probably be going, Mrs. Callahan. The president will be finishing his run about now, and he'll be anxious to see you two.”

At the cars, Myra Callahan again shook hands with Zee and me. “I can't thank you enough for your kindness to Cricket. I'll be in touch soon.”

As she and the others climbed into the cars, the chief spoke quietly in my ear. “Something else maybe you should know. They tell me that at least one of the wackos who threaten the president is right here on the island. Maybe more than one.” He got into the driver's seat.

I looked at Ted. Perhaps in his place, knowing what he knew, what he lived with every day, I'd act like he acted.

Sitting between him and Joan Lonergan, the president's daughter leaned across and opened a window.

“Thanks for everything!”

“You can fish with me anytime,” I said, stepping back.

“And you can always have a job as cook,” called Zee, smiling.

The car turned around and drove away, and Cricket Callahan waved good-bye. Ted and Joan did not.

“Well,” said Zee, taking my arm. “The day has gotten off to an interesting start.”

True. Of course, “May you have an interesting life” is an ancient curse, and though we couldn't know it that morning, we were already involved with a murderer. On the other hand, maybe if I had been paying more attention to the survey of mythology that was currently one of our bathroom books, I might have guessed that the Moerae were still at work, even though ancient Greece had long since crumbled into dust.

Two days later, we found out Cricket might actually accept our invitation when our breakfast was interrupted by a phone call from Walt Pomerlieu telling us that we'd soon have visitors.
Soon
was the word, since he was calling from a car that came down our driveway and unloaded several people in our yard before we even finished our coffee.

One of the people was Joan Lonergan. She came up to our door with Pomerlieu, while the others spread out around the place, looking things over. With her was someone we already knew: Jake Spitz, of the FBI.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, shaking his hand.

Spitz smiled at me, then at Zee. “We're everywhere. I heard that you two got married. Congratulations.”

“You know each other,” Pomerlieu observed.

“I was up here on a job a while back,” said Spitz. “We ran into each other then.”

Pomerlieu thought that over, then put the thought aside. “We'd like to take a look inside,” he said. Joan Lonergan nodded agreement.

Zee, coffee cup in hand, shrugged and waved the two of them in.

“That's the spare bedroom,” I said.

They went in and stayed awhile.

Spitz looked after them. “What would we do without
the old-boy network?” he said. “The intelligence crowd is almost incestuous. Everybody knows everybody else, and half of them are related to each other.”