She went up through the screen door onto the porch, and I did some fast thinking.
When she came back with the ice, I dumped it into the fishbox and looked at my watch. “Breakfast time. You hungry?”
She looked hungry but wary. “I’d better be going. Which way is town?”
“Up the driveway and take a left. I’m J. W. Jackson. What do people call you?”
She lied. “I’m Mary Jones.”
“No, you’re not,” I said. “You’re Cricket Callahan, but if you want me to call you Mary Jones, it’s okay with me. Whatever I call you, let me tell you something: If you plan on going into town and having nobody recognize you, especially this time of the morning, and more especially with God only knows how many Secret Service agents and cops in a panic to find you, you’d better plan again.”
She looked angry, but not surprised by my comment. “That’s the trouble,” she said. “I can never get away from them. It’s like being in a zoo!”
I remembered the one interesting article I’d read about her family’s first visit to the island. It was a compilation of remarks from island kids her age who’d been asked what they thought about her vacationing here. Every one of the kids had felt sorry for her because she could never be free from prying cameras and security.
“You’re away from them now,” I said. “But you can’t just run off like this. Your parents will be worried sick.” To say nothing of Walt Pomerlieu, Ted, and company. I could imagine the thoughts, fears, and actions that must already be ruining their day.
“My parents aren’t even awake yet,” said the girl, still angry but wavering.
“Don’t bet on that,” I said. “How old are you?”
“I’m sixteen. What difference does it make?”
“It means you’re old enough to understand the situation we’re in. I’ll give you the bad part first: You’re the daughter of the president of the United States, and as far as everybody up at that house where you’re staying is concerned, you’ve disappeared. Since you’ve been gone quite awhile, I’m pretty sure somebody’s screwed his courage to the sticking point and told your folks by now. And because you’re missing, a lot of people there are going to suspect the worst. And at least four of those people are probably thinking that I have something to do with your disappearance. And they’re right, thanks to this ride you just took in my truck. So I imagine I’ll be having visitors before long, and when they get here, they’re going to be relieved to find out you haven’t been kidnapped or killed by some loony or loonies, but they’re also going to be pretty pissed off, and some of them will be sure that somehow or other I was involved with your taking off in the first place. You have not done me any favors by coming home with me this way.”
She brushed her hair away from her brow. “I never thought of that. I’m sorry. I’ll wait, and when they get here, I’ll tell them what happened. I’m really sorry.” She pushed some remaining bit of her childhood away from her, and its loss bothered me.
“On the bright side,” I said, “they aren’t here yet. You have a little time to yourself, and I plan on mixing up some blueberry pancakes for breakfast. You a pancake eater?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You ever make pancakes?”
“No.”
“It’s time you learned. You can help in the kitchen. Come on in. The smell of breakfast cooking will wake Zee up, and she’ll eat with us.”
“Who’s Zee?”
“Zee is my wife. Last night she worked until midnight, so she missed this morning’s fishing expedition. But she’ll get up for your blueberry pancakes.”
We went inside, and she paused in the living room and looked around. Her eyes fell on the coffee table.
“What’s this?”
“That’s a padlock in a vise, and those things are lock picks. I’m still trying to learn how to use them. I play around with them sometimes when I’m sitting on the couch. It beats watching TV.”
“Are you a locksmith?”
“No, but I’ve always wanted to know how to pick locks. I can pick some now, but I still don’t have the magic touch,”
She picked up our copy of Pistoleer and looked at the cover. Zee, 380 Beretta in her hand, smiled back at her. Zee, who had come in fourth in the women’s division of a pistol competition she and Manny Fonseca, her instructor, had attended, had come in first in the looks department and had made the cover. Sexism at its best.
The girl put down the magazine, and we went into the kitchen, where I got out the pancake makings.
“I don’t know,” said the girl. “I’ve never done this before.”
“You never landed a bluefish before this morning, either, but you managed that. You can do this, too. It’s good to know how to cook. It makes you more self-sufficient. Besides, you can cook the stuff you really like to eat whenever you want to.”
I gave her the mixing bowl, and she went to work while I got the coffee started and set the table for three. Before I was through, Zee came out of the bedroom, wrapping her robe around herself, looking like Aurora. She smiled brightly at me and then a little less brightly at the girl.
“Good morning. I smell breakfast.”
She came to me and gave me a first-of-the-day kiss. Then she looked again at the girl. Then she looked yet again, then lifted her eyes to mine. Hers were wide.
“She tells me her name is Mary Jones,” I said. “We met on the beach, and she followed me home. Now she’s trying her hand at pancakes. You can join us as a member of the experimental eating group.”
The girl took a breath. “I’m not really Mary Jones,” she said. “I’m somebody else.”
“You’re Cricket,” said Zee. “I’ve seen your picture.”
Cricket Callahan nodded. “I’m Cricket.”
“She stepped out of her house for some fresh air,” I said. “Before she goes home, we decided we’d eat. Cricket, this is my wife, Zee.”
Cricket gave Zee a good look. “Oh,” she said. “You’re the model. You’re on the cover of that magazine in there. Or are you a movie star or something?”
“I’m not a model or a movie star,” said Zee. “I’m a nurse up at the Vineyard hospital.”
“She just looks like a movie star,” I said to Cricket. “Now, while you two tend to the vittles, I’m going to make a phone call to let your folks know where you are and that you’re okay. By that time, we’ll be ready to put on the feed bag.”
“Okay,” said the girl with a sigh. “I guess that’s what you have to do. But I wish you didn’t.”
I went into the living room and phoned the chief of the Edgartown police at his home. His wife, Annie, answered and told me he’d gotten a call early and was at the station.
Terrific. I could imagine what the call was about. I phoned the station. The chief was busy. I told the officer to interrupt him, especially if he was talking with some Secret Service people.
She said, “Wait a minute,” and went away. Not much later, the chief was on the phone.
“What?”
“Cricket Callahan is cooking blueberry pancakes at my place with Zee and me.” I told him how it had come about. “She’s fine, and in no danger whatsoever,” I said. “Tell whoever comes to get her to be quiet about it. I don’t want a Normandy invasion down here. Get in touch with an agent named Walter Pomerlieu. He seems to have his head screwed on straighter than some other feds I’ve met.”
“He’s right here,” said the chief. “I’ll give him your message. Don’t let the girl leave.”
“I don’t keep prisoners or slaves,” I said. “I won’t tie her to a tree, but I think she’ll still be here when her keepers show up. Tell Pomerlieu we plan to finish breakfast before he takes her home.”
I rang off and got back to the kitchen in time for my first stack of pancakes. I smeared them with butter and maple syrup and took a bite. Cricket, the breakfast chef, watched, her head slightly tipped to one side. Zee looked at both of us.
I chewed, swallowed,
took a sip of coffee, and nodded. “Good.”
Cricket smiled. Then she looked at Zee. “You want some?”
“Does a wolf bay at the moon?” Zee sat down and slipped two pancakes from the tray onto her plate.
Cricket poured batter into the frying pan and added more cakes to the tray as they came out of the pan. Then, while she ate, I cooked. Between her and Zee, the pancakes disappeared rapidly. When the last cake was on the tray, I heard a car coming down the driveway. I put the cake on Cricket’s plate. “Eat it up. That’ll be your father’s people, come to take you home to your folks.”
“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 r
un 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.”
A Deadly Vineyard Holiday Page 2
