Vineyard Stalker by Philip R. Craig Page A

handed Melissa the photo of the vandal. “Before I go, I’d like to show you this picture I took last night. Do you recognize the man?”
    â€œOh, is this the man who shot you? How thrilling.” She frowned at the picture, turned it this way and that, sighed, and handed it back. “I’m afraid not. Is that how a killer looks?”
    â€œKillers mostly look like ordinary people,” I said. I stood up and glanced at Babs Carson, feeling a smile on my face. “It’s been grand. I may want to talk with you again. If you think of something that might help solve this vandalism issue, please let me know. My number’s in the book.”
    â€œI will,” said Babs.
    â€œAnd if you change your mind about me, I hope you won’t hesitate to call,” said Melissa.
    â€œI’ll be sure to do that,” I said.
    â€œI’ll be holding my breath,” she said, running her tongue over her lips and looking at me from beneath lowered lids.
    I heard her laughter answering mine as I left the house.
    Robert Chadwick’s home was surrounded by another of those high stone walls that were becoming all the rage. I thought of pictures I’d seen of cities on the Mediterranean and in South America where even higher walls surrounded the homes of the wealthy. It was an ancient practice for the rich and powerful to separate and defend themselves from the people in the streets. I didn’t think that Chadwick or the island’s other castle builders had to fortify themselves against assaults by the Vineyard’s peasantry, but maybe I was wrong.
    I parked in front of his large brick house and knocked on his door. Eventually the door opened and a large, ruddy-faced man peered out at me. He looked to be on the cusp between late middle and early old age, which, I’d read somewhere, was between sixty-five and eighty these days. He was wearing sandals, khaki shorts, and a T-shirt that had “Trust Your Professor” printed across its front. His thick legs and arms were hairy but his head was bald except for his ears, which sported tufts of hair growing out of them. Reading glasses hung from his neck.
    â€œMr. Chadwick?”
    â€œYes?” He gazed beyond me at my battered old Land Cruiser and then back to me.
    â€œMy name is Jackson. I’ve talked with your neighbor Mrs. Carson about vandalism that’s taken place on the land between yours and hers, and I’d like talk to you about it, too.”
    â€œYes. I just got a phone call from Babs. She said you might be stopping by. Come in.”
    I followed him into a library filled with books that looked like they’d actually been read and took a leather chair opposite his. At a desk was one of those captain’s chairs that colleges give to retiring professors.
    â€œBabs told me that vandals have been damaging Roland Nunes’s place,” he said, “and that you’ve been asked to look into it. What can I do for you, Mr. Jackson?”
    I handed him my photo. “You can tell me if you recognize this fellow.”
    He donned his specs and studied the photo, then gave it back to me. “No, I don’t recognize him. Is this the vandal?”
    â€œHe’s one of them. There’s at least one more, but I didn’t get his picture.”
    â€œHow did you happen to get the photo of this one?”
    Leaving out Carole Cohen’s name and relationship to Nunes, and what I’d been told about Nunes’s desertion from the army, I started from the beginning and told him how I’d gotten involved, what I’d been told, and what I’d experienced the previous night, concluding with my efforts to get an analysis of the cat food.
    He listened without saying a word. When I was done, he said, “It sounds like a matter for the police.”
    â€œI agree, but my principal doesn’t want them involved. She says Nunes is a very private person and she doesn’t want him to