Death in Vineyard Waters by Philip Craig Page B

bluefish. I get top dollar in cash and my client gets the Vineyard’s best smoked bluefish. The Health Board, which would stop this free enterprise if it knew of it, on grounds that my fish preparation facilities do not meet government standards, has not been informed. Nor has the IRS.
    Cars rarely come down my driveway, so each one that does is of interest. A few are cars driven by people who just like to know where roads go. I like to do that myself sometimes.I have not put up No Trespassing or Private Property signs, since I don’t like them, so nobody has any reason to think they can’t come down my driveway if they want to. The explorers, seeing that they’ve arrived at a private house, sometimes with a naked man sunbathing on the lawn, beer near at hand, all turn around and leave.
    This car stopped in front of the house and two doors opened and closed. I shook some more hickory chips into the skillet on the hot plate at the base of the smoker and shut the door. I heard a voice hallo and recognized it and went toward the house just as Zee and Ian McGregor came walking around it toward the back yard.
    â€œHi,” said McGregor, putting out a hand. I took it. Our grips were firm as ever. He squeezed. I squeezed. He noticed Zee watching and released his grip. “I hope we’re not interrupting,” he said. “I wanted to see you, but didn’t know where you lived, so I prevailed on Zee, here, to show me the way. I phoned a couple times first, but nobody answered.”
    â€œI was probably out back.” I looked at Zee.
    â€œHi,” she said. “My nose tells me you’re smoking fish.”
    â€œYes.” She looked wonderful in tan shorts and a greenish shirt tied in a knot at her waist. She wore sandals, and her thick dark hair was pulled back by a bright ribbon. Her skin was smooth and browned by the summer sun, some of that browning having been accomplished right here in this yard. “I’m about to have a beer,” I said. “Would you care to join me?”
    McGregor cast a quick eye at the sky. “Somewhere the sun is over the yardarm,” he said. “Sure. A beer would be good.”
    â€œYou two go out to the front yard,” I said. “I’ll bring out the beer.”
    They did and I did and we sat in the fast-warming sunlight and looked across the garden at the distant sea. The beer felt cool and slick as I drank it down.
    McGregor was in shorts, sandals, and an animal-on-the-pocket knit shirt. He looked very fit. He caught my glance and lifted his beer. “Cheers. Thanks for the beer. You havea terrific view. Zee told me it was great and it is. I like your place, too. It’s just the right size and just the right age and it has a good feel about it.”
    â€œIt’s good enough for me,” I said.
    â€œMaybe you can show Ian your dad’s decoys before we leave,” said Zee, looking a bit ill at ease. “Ian does some woodcarving himself, and I think he’d like to see your dad’s work.”
    â€œI do some hunting,” he said, “and I do like hand-carved decoys. Zee says your father carved quite a few and that they’re excellent. That was another reason for asking her to bring me down here.” He put a smile on his face. I looked at him.
    â€œWhat was the first reason?”
    He and Zee exchanged looks. Then he took a sip of beer. “Yesterday the chief of the Edgartown police came out to the place and asked me whether I was absolutely sure that I’d been with Marjorie at six A.M. the day she drowned. I said that indeed I was sure because I’d looked at my watch just before starting my run home. I run the bike paths every day about then, because there aren’t many bikers up yet and I don’t have to worry about being run over by some moped.” He paused and we both drank some beer. “I asked him why he wanted to double-check that time and he said it was because