A Deadly Vineyard Holiday (8 page)

On the other hand, if Debby's folks wanted to come, it would be all right with me. I'd just have to spend a little more time on the clam flats. I knew I couldn't dig enough to feed their entourage, though. Those minions would have to bring their own grub or eat downtown afterward.

I realized that Debby was talking to me. I looked up and met her inquiring eyes. Her hand was over the speaker on the phone.

“Sorry. What did you say?”

“I said is it all right if my mom and dad come for clams?”

Good grief; she'd been serious. My mouth moved and said, “Sure.”

“Sure,” she said into the phone. Then, to me: “What time?”

My mouth moved again. “Five-thirty.” My traditional hour for clambakes.

“Five-thirty. It'll be fun. Do try! And thanks! Bye.” She turned to me. “She says they'll try to come!” Then she looked at Karen. “And she says we could spend the night with Jill and Jen. If . . .”

She paused, and Karen looked at her with narrowed eyes. “If what?”

Debby came across to me. “If cousin Jeff says it's okay. Mom says it's okay if you say it's okay, cousin Jeff. So, say it's okay. Please!” She clasped her hands in a parody of prayer.

I had to smile.

“No,” said Karen, shaking her head. “I can't take the risk.”

“You're just my bodyguard,” cried Debby. “You're not my boss!”

I pointed a forefinger at Debby. “You stay here.” Then I hooked the same finger at Karen and said, “Let's go outside and have a chat.”

Out in the yard, we paused, and Karen said, “What's this all about?”

I looked at her dark form and could almost see the anger in her. Then I told her about Burt Phillips.

When I was through, she said, “And Walt Pomerlieu thinks it might have something to do with Cricket being here at this house?”

“He said he'd have to presume that.”

“Me, too,” said Karen, turning and looking out into the darkness. “We won't tell Debby about this. There's no point in alarming her.”

“That's up to you. In any case, I think it might be smart if you change your mind about spending the night at John and Mattie Skye's place. If you go right now, nobody will know where Debby is, and she should be perfectly safe. Tomorrow, when it's daylight again, we may be able to see things more clearly.”

She hesitated. “How well do you know the Skyes?”

“Well enough to send Debby to them, and then some.”

“I don't like any of this. I should call Walt.”

“He's calling here later tonight. I'll give him the news. Meanwhile, the fewer people who know about this, the better. The president and his wife know where she is.”

“The president and his wife don't know much about security.” She stared into the dark forest. “I gave up cigarettes a couple of years ago. I wish I had one right now.”

I was feeling jumpy and impatient. “Why don't you tell me what's going on.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Sure you do,” I said. “You and Walt Pomerlieu and Ted and Joan are all nervous as cats in a dog pound. It's probably normal for people in your line of work to be on the lookout for trouble, but you're all way beyond that stage. There's something specific that's bothering you, and since I've got Debby here, and since this Burt Phillips stuff has you all turned inside out, I think I should know what's got you spooked. What is it?”

She shook her head. “Nothing you need worry about. All you have to do here is be the good host. Leave the rest of it to us.” She sounded as chippy as I felt.

“I'll tell you what I think,” I said. “I think that there's a very particular threat against the president or his family, and I think it's tied to this island. I think you think that somebody right here on the Vineyard is plotting something bad, and I don't think you've got a handle on it yet.”

“You're imagining things,” said Karen.

“I'm not imagining that Burt's got himself murdered, and that the trees up where it happened are probably full of federal agents. What's going on?”

“I think you'd better talk to Walt about this.”

“You mean there is something to talk about?”

“You talk to Walt. If we're going to spend the night with the Skyes, we'd better get going.” When she stepped into the screened porch, Debby met her and got the good news.

“Oh, thank you, cousin Jeff!” said Debby, smiling.

“Thank Karen, not me.”

“Oh, thank you, dear sister, without whom I could not survive!” She gave Karen a kiss.

“Pack your bag,” Karen smiled, “and we'll hit the road.”

When they were both in the car, I leaned against the driver's door.

“Does the president really come to places like this for clambakes?”

Karen spread her hands. “He likes to eat, and he's impulsive about where and when he does it. It drives security crazy, but that's the way he is.”

“So he might really come?”

“He has a tight schedule, so he may not be able to make it. But then again, he's supposedly on vacation, so he might. He's the president of the United States, remember. He doesn't have to eat broccoli if he doesn't want to, and if he decides to accept your invitation to have clams here, I don't know who's going to tell him he can't, especially since he has to head back to Washington the next day.”

“He'll come,” said Debby. “When do we go clamming tomorrow?”

“Early afternoon. Low tide. Make sure you bring the twins. I need their muscle.”

I stepped back, and Karen drove away.

About a half hour past midnight, Zee came home. She was surprised to find me still up, and said so.

We sat on the porch and I told her about Burt Phillips and what had happened since his death.

“I'm glad Debby's up at John and Mattie's place,” said Zee. “But maybe we'd better send her back to her parents tomorrow. I don't like all this stuff. If somebody's after her, she'll be safer there than here.”

I'd been thinking about that very issue, and surely so had Walt Pomerlieu, Jake Spitz, and the rest of the security people. But Cricket was still here, supposedly, instead of at the compound. It was a curiosity.

“Besides,” said Zee, putting a hand on my thigh, “I don't like us being in the line of fire, if there is a line of fire. I don't want us to be two of those innocent civilians who get shot by mistake.”

“Maybe we're not in as much danger as we think we are,” I said.

“How could that be? There are dozens of agents there, and only Karen here.”

“Yeah, but how many people know that Debby's here and not there? I'll bet that only a handful of people know where she is, and that that's her security. If nobody knows where she is, she's safer than if they do.”

“And that's why you let her go stay with the twins. But who are they hiding her from? And what about Burt Phillips? He must have had some reason for watching our place. Did he know she was here? And if he knew, who else knows? And who killed him? And why? I don't like any of it. I really think she should probably go back to the compound. I don't want to be responsible for her safety.”

“I don't know who killed Burt Phillips or why, but I can think of one reason why Walt Pomerlieu might think Debby's safer here than at the compound.”

“You mean a traitor.”

“One person's traitor is another person's hero,” I said. “All I'm saying is that what with this Burt Phillips business and all, common sense says to send Debby back to the compound. But that hasn't happened, and the only reason I can think of for that decision is that Walt thinks there's somebody there who's a threat to her.”

“But who'd want to hurt Cricket?”

Zee, ever the healer, had a hard time imagining evil intent. I had less trouble.

“On the bright side of things,” I said, “the president
and his wife may be coming for clams on Sunday. Debby invited them, and I said it was okay.”

“You did! My gosh! I have to wash my hair!” Her hands flew up to her head, and she stared into space the way she does when she's thinking. “We'll have to clean the house, and mow the lawn, and do the flower beds so they don't look so scraggly. I should call Manny Fonseca and cancel tomorrow morning's shooting down at the club, so I'll have time to get this place looking good. And—”

I stopped her with a kiss.

“It's one o'clock in the morning,” I said. “You don't want to call Manny Fonseca now. In fact, you don't want to call him at all. You should go take your shooting lesson as scheduled. I'll do the lawn and the flower beds, and we'll have plenty of time to get the house in shape the next day. Relax.”

“Relax? Fat chance! I won't be able to sleep all night.”

But she seemed less somber than when we'd been talking about Burt Phillips, and while I stayed up, waiting for Walt Pomerlieu's call, she went to bed, where, in spite of her protests that it would not be possible, she quickly fell asleep.

The call came at two o'clock, and I swept up the receiver before the first ring was done.

“This is Pomerlieu. Hope I didn't wake up the house. Is everything all right?”

I told him that Karen and Debby were staying at John and Mattie Skye's house.

“What!”

“Mrs. Callahan okayed it. I guess the twins and Debby really hit it off.”

“I should have been told!”

“They'll be quite safe. John and Mattie are old friends.”

I heard a muttered curse. Then, “I'll have to post some people over there. I should have been notified.”

There was an odd quality to his voice. A sort of fury I'd not heard in him before. It made me glad once again that I wasn't a Secret Service agent.

Afterward, in bed, I lay listening to the night sounds of the forest: the sigh of the wind, the groans of branches rubbing on branches, and the noises of creatures who come forth when darkness falls over the earth.

In the morning, early, I took two pounds of frozen scallops out of the freezer and put them in a pan of warm water to thaw, then went out and followed my dew-beaded thread through the woods and around the yard. It was unbroken. A bit of good news I was glad to have.

Back in the house, I crushed Ritz crackers until I had two cups' worth, melted a cup of butter, and mixed the crushed crackers, the butter, and the scallops all together in a baking dish. Later the Ritz Scallops could be cooked for twenty-five minutes in a 375-degree oven and would be delish, to say nothing of fattening. Meanwhile I put the dish into the fridge.

Zee and I breakfasted on the porch, eating bagels, cream cheese, red onion, and smoked bluefish, preceded by juice and accompanied by coffee. A good way to start any day, but not the only good way.

“I think that when this is over, we won't invite any other guests for a while,” said Zee, licking her lips and eyeing me.

“My very thought.” We downed the last of our bagels with the last of our coffee and were rising and reaching for each other when Karen's car came down the driveway.

“Rats, and rats again!” hissed Zee, as we untangled.

“Good morning,” said Karen, as they got out of the car.

It was indeed a pretty morning, although it didn't seem quite as promising as it had a few moments before.

“You're up early,” I said.

“We came for breakfast,” said Debby. “Is there any left?”

“Plenty,” said Zee. “We're done, but you two are next in line.”

We cleared the table and laid out two new settings and more food and drink. Karen and Debby dug in.

“Yum,” said Debby.

“One of God's great breakfasts,” I agreed.

“How are things?” asked Karen casually.

I told them about my thread around the perimeter of the yard. Karen seemed pleased if not happy. I wondered if she'd ever be happy while she kept the job she had.

“When are you meeting Manny?” I asked Zee.

“Eight o'clock. We'll only be there a couple of hours at the most. That'll give him time to do some work afterward down at the shop.”

“Who's Manny?” asked Karen, swallowing some coffee.

“Manny Fonseca, my shooting instructor,” said Zee.

Shooting. Something else for Karen to worry about. She got up from the table, went into the living room, and came out again with our copy of
Pistoleer.
She looked at Zee's smiling face on the cover, then opened the magazine to the story inside. “This Manny Fonseca?” she asked, pointing at his name.

“That's him,” I said. “The Portagee gunslinger himself. Although nowadays he's more of a Wampanoag than a white eyes.”

Karen frowned some more. “What do you mean?”

I told her how Manny had always dreamed of himself as a frontier type taming the West until he discovered, to his surprise, that he had enough Wampanoag blood in him to officially qualify as a member of the tribe, and
how, thereafter, he identified with the losers in the Indian wars.

“How long have you known this guy?” she asked, apparently wondering if Manny was psychologically stable.

“Longer than I've known you,” I said, suddenly a bit tired of her ingrained suspicion of everyone and everything.

And as I felt that impatience, it occurred to me that I'd often been a bit testy of late, that small things that usually wouldn't bother me did so now. One reason I'd left the Boston PD was because that same sort of irascibility had started to become the norm for me, and I'd decided I didn't want it to be. Now it was here again. Not good, Kemosabe. I wondered if the tension or worry plucking at my nerves was only the result of Debby being here or had to do with something else.

Zee cocked her head to one side and looked at Karen's frowning face. She put a hand on her arm. “You can trust Manny with your life,” she said. “So can Debby. He's a gun hawk, but he's a good man.” She glanced at her watch. “I'd better get ready.” She went inside and came out with the nylon bag that contained her shooting gear. “Anybody want to come and watch?”