by Philip Craig
“Yeah?”
“You did what I asked you to do. It’s worse than I thought it could ever be, but I’m glad you did it and I’m glad you told me the truth, even though it’s awful. It’s important that Billy was finally trying to do the right thing.”
“I know. That’s why I told you.”
When she had gone, I went in and looked at the tide clock. The east tide had just started. High tide would be at one in the afternoon. I wondered if I could cast. The idea of fresh bluefish for supper appealed to me. Zee would be impressed. Annoyed, too, since I’d have gotten it while she was working. Not a bad prospect, all in all. I finished the dishes, straightened up the house, and got everything loaded into the Landcruiser. It was another hot day, so I wore shorts and sandals and a T-shirt that said ALL MY PARENTS BROUGHT BACK FROM TWO WEEKS ON MARTHA’S VINEYARD WAS THIS BLEEPING SHIRT. I put beer and sandwiches into the cooler and was on my way.
Edgartown was a traffic cop’s nightmare in front of the A&P, as usual, but once I got by all the people making left turns I was all right. I picked up two kids, a boy and a girl obviously of the working-on-the-island-between-semesters sort, and took them both to South Beach. They eyed my holey hide with curiosity but were too polite to ask what all the damage meant.
After I dropped them off, I drove east along the beach. The clammers were out on the flats in Katama Bay, kites were flying brightly against the pale blue sky, lifted by the gentle southwestern wind, and the beach was lined with Jeeps and sun bathers. I drove past them all, over the golden sand to Wasque Point. It was Tuesday, and there were a dozen pickups and wagons there before me. Nobody was fishing. They were between fish. I found a gap in the line of cars and pulled in.
I had a beer and looked out toward where Nantucket was supposed to be. Too much humidity to see Muskeget today. Instead, a hazy horizon with the sea blending into the sky. Now and then someone would walk down to the surf and make a few casts, but no one caught anything.
I wondered if Sylvia would come back. Why not? He might be a suspect, but nobody had any proof. He was a legitimate businessman, after all. Of course he wouldn’t know about the drugs found in his wife’s locker until he got back, and that might surprise him into making some sort of slip. Or maybe the cops could pressure Maria into talking about where she got her supply. I wondered. Life is an ambiguous proposition at times.
Out in the water, at about the end of my normal cast, I thought I saw a change in the surface. I squinted at it, then got out and took down my rod. I had on a three-ounce Roberts. I walked down and made my cast. It hurt, but the graphite cooperated. The plug arched out and down into the shimmering water. As the plug hit the water, the bluefish hit the plug in an explosion of spray. I set the hook and the rod arched. Instantly there were fishermen on both sides of me. Some things in life are dependable after all.
I had the fish ready for the oven when Zee drove in. She was somber.
“What’s happened?” I asked.
“I had George’s nitroglycerin tablets analyzed,” she said. “They’re placebos.”
Why wasn’t I surprised? Because patricide seemed no worse than fratricide? No less surprising or ominous? Maybe because Billy had seemed quite mad when last I’d seen him and his madness did not seem brand new? Who understood such dark purposes as those which moved Billy to act as he did? Freud? Dostoyevsky? Certainly not I. All I knew was that it was a secret probably best not revealed to the Martin family. Not ever.
I took Zee’s hand and we went into the kitchen and I showed her the supper I’d caught. Later, after we’d eaten and were sitting on the porch over coffee, we talked a long time and watched the moon rise over the Sound. The stars came out and the wind sighed through the trees. It was a lovely, soft summer night. Finally we went to bed and held one another until we slept.
The next day I shipped Jim’s ring to Oregon.
Special thanks to Toni Chute, giver of wise advice, and Ken Layman, who thought of the ring.
THE MARTHA’S VINEYARD MYSTERY SERIES BY PHILIP R. CRAIG
A Beautiful Place to Die
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #1)
Death in Vineyard Waters
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #2)
Vineyard Deceit
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #3)
Vineyard Fear
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #4)
Off Season
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #5)
A Case of Vineyard Poison
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #6)
Death on a Vineyard Beach
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #7)
A Deadly Vineyard Holiday
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #8)
A Shoot on Martha’s Vineyard
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #9)
A Fatal Vineyard Season
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #10)
Vineyard Blues
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #11)
Vineyard Shadows
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #12)
Vineyard Enigma
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #13)
A Vineyard Killing
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #14)
Murder at a Vineyard Mansion
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #15)
Vineyard Prey
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #16)
Dead in Vineyard Sand
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #17)
Vineyard Stalker
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #18)
Vineyard Chill
(Martha’s Vineyard Mystery #19)
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1989 by Philip R. Craig
Originally published in hardcover as A Beautiful Place to Die
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First Scribner ebook edition July 2016
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ISBN 978-1-5011-5353-2 (ebook)
