Death In Vineyard Waters, page 22
part #2 of Martha's Vineyard Series
“Peanut butter,” said Jill. “Who ever heard of cooking with peanut butter? You’re not supposed to cook with peanut butter, you’re supposed to eat it in sandwiches.”
“You ate your share,” said Jen. “I thought it was excellent.” She licked a finger and gave her sister a curt nod and me a nice smile.
“I always said you were a young woman of good taste, Jen,” I said. “Your sister has a long way to go to reach your level of maturity.”
“I’m Jill,” she said.
“No, you’re not,” said her mother. “Don’t give poor J.W. a hard time.”
I was shocked. “Good grief, do you mean I actually got them right for once?”
Mattie patted my arm. “We all knew you would do it, J.W. You’re not really as dumb as you act sometimes.”
Sleeping six people on an eighteen-foot catboat isn’t hard if it doesn’t rain. The twins got the vee births in the cabin and the grownups unrolled sleeping pads on the wide deck of the cockpit. All night long the Mattiemoved gently upon her anchor rope and the stars swung overhead. As I was drifting asleep, I felt a hand touch mine and turned and saw Zee’s face in the starlight. She was smiling. We slept hand in hand all night long, and on the long sail home the next day we were happy.
When we got back we learned that Tristan Cooper’s body had been found in the nets of a trawler about a mile off South Beach, not far from where Marjorie Summerharp’s body had been found. I decided that maybe there was a God after all. Zee was moody for a time, but then cheered up. She was a tender but tough woman. I asked her to marry me. She shook her head.
“No. But ask me again. As soon as I know that I can live without you, I might say yes.” “I’ll keep asking. I know I can live without you,” I lied, “but I don’t want to. Besides, you need somebody around who can cook.”
“I can cook.”
“I can cook better.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Can’t.”
“Can.”
“Not.”
“Too.”
The pale July people browned. There seemed to be more of them on the roads than ever before. The bluefish began to fade away and go north to entertain the Cape Ann and Maine fishermen. They would return in September, but until then I would have to hunt other fish and harvest the land. I did serious shellfishing, gathered blueberries, picked and preserved the bounty from my garden. One hot afternoon as I was sweating over many jars of pickles, Zee’s little Jeep came down my driveway and Zee and John and Mattie Skye got out. I gave them beer, finished the batch of pickled summer squash I was working on, and joined them on my balcony. Beyond the garden we could see the beach with its bright umbrellas, brighter surf sails and parked cars. The Sound beyond was dark blue under a pale blue sky, and there were white sails moving through a gentle wind. A thin cloud hung high over Cape Cod, and the Cape Pogue lighthouse stood clearly against the meeting of sea and sky.
“Here,” said John, handing me a small magazine. I opened it. It was full of fine gray print. “Just off the presses,” said John. “An examination copy. It won’t be officially released until after Labor Day.”
I looked at the table of contents. The lead article was about Shakespeare’s King Arthur, authored by Drs. Marjorie Summerharp and Ian McGregor. It was preceded by a brief tribute to Marjorie Summerharp by Ian McGregor.
I leafed through the magazine. “I don’t see anything about the two dissertations.”
“No, you don’t. We don’t yet know for sure that F. X. Eastford didn’t exist. I’m willing to cover all bets that he didn’t, but it will take time to prove it. Meanwhile, the Shakespeare article will come out on schedule, as it should, since it’s an important piece. In fact, this edition of the journal might even go into extra printings and make its publishers some money for a change.”
“Even though Marjorie and Ian probably both faked their thesis references.” “Even though. Nobody on the mainland knows anything about those dissertations. Besides, even if they fudged before it doesn’t mean they fudged this time. Nobody’s dishonest all of the time, not even in the ivory tower.” “Why did Marjorie want to look at those theses, anyway?”
“Knowing her, I’d guess that when she couldn’t find any fault with the play they’d found, she decided to snoop around in Ian’s background to see if she could find one in him. Maybe he said something about quoting her thesis in his own, but after forty years she couldn’t remember exactly what she’d faked herself. She had a nose for academic fraud, maybe because she was good at it herself. Besides, she loved to snoop.”
“And so do you,” said Mattie.
“Absolutely,” said Skye. “It’s fun. Helen Barstone, Bill Hooperman, and I are the snoopers. Three profs on the trail of fraud and murder in the groves of academe. Did the late, great Marjorie Summerharp create F. X. Eastford? Did Ian McGregor, handsome discoverer of a lost Shakespeare play, fake a quotation from the fictional F. X. Eastford? What drove the world-famous scholar Dr. Tristan Cooper to murder? What were the sex secrets of Sanctuary? It’s hot stuff, and my partners Helen and Bill have a terrific edge on everybody else because they just finished spending weeks working with Tristan.”
Mattie grinned. “It’s too bad they don’t have pulp magazines anymore. You could write for them instead of those dull academic rags.”
“Riches and fame shall be ours at last,” said Skye. “I can see it now: fifty weeks on the Timesbestseller list, movie contracts, interviews on the late show. I’ll get tenure and we’ll be able to buy a summer place on the Vineyard. Beautiful women will seek me out.”
“You already have tenure and we already have a place on the Vineyard and I’ve already sought you out,” said Mattie. He put his arm around her. “Well, whatever,” he said.
I put my arm around Zee, and the four of us drank our beer and looked out over my green garden to where the white-sailed boats, pushed by warm winds, moved across the innocent shark-filled sea. ” ” “
Enter the Wonderful World of Philip R. Craig’s Martha’s Vineyard Series
Martha’s Vineyard is home to ex-Boston cop J.W. Jackson and his much-adored family. Yet this idyllic vacation spot offers no escape from dangerand from the peaceful beaches to the quiet towns, murder sometimes rears its ugly head. Turn the page and get a glimpse into the world of J.W. Jackson, and see why “Spending time with Craig on Martha’s Vineyard is the next best thing to vacationing on the island itself.” Minneapolis Star-Tribune ” ” ” ” ” ” “
During his career as a cop on the back streets of Boston, J.W. Jackson saw enough evil to last a lifetime. So he retired to the serenity of Martha’s Vineyard to spend his days fishing for blues and wooing a sexy nurse named Zee. But in A Beautiful Place to Die,when a local’s boat mysteriously explodes off the coast, killing an amiable young drifter, Jackson is drawn reluctantly back into the investigative trade. ” ” “ Now the Nellie Greywas in sight, moving smoothly out with mild following waves, the wind at her back. She came past the lighthouse and we could see Jim and Billy. They waved and we waved back, and they went on out beyond the shallows that reach east from Cape Pogue. Beyond the Nellie Greythe long black boat altered her course to hold outside the Nellie’sturn as she swung south beyond the shallows to follow the beach toward Wasque.
“Come on,” said George, lowering his binoculars, “let’s go back to Wasque so we can watch them fish the rip. The east tide will be running and there may be something there.”
Susie, looking sad, nodded and turned to the Wagoneer.
“We’ll follow you down,” I said, “but then we’re going on into town. We want to sell these fish.”
“And I’ve got to get some sleep,” said Zee. “I’ve got duty again tonight, and right now I’m frazzled out.”
Just at that moment the Nellie Greyexploded. A great red and yellow flower opened from the sea and expanded into the air. Petals of flame and stalks of debris shot up and arched away as a ball of smoke billowed from the spot where the Nelliehad been. A moment later the boom of the explosion hit us, and the sea around the Nelliewas one of flame. I thought I saw a body arc into the burning water.
The black boat turned and I could see her white bow wave as she sped in toward the burning wreckage. I thought I could see a figure thrashing in the oily water. The black boat came in, dangerously close, and someone leaned over the side and dragged a man up over the rail.
Behind me I heard a cry and turned to see Susie with her father in her arms. His hand was groping toward his shirt pocket as his knees buckled. Then Zee was beside him, helping him with his nitroglycerin pills and I was on the CB radioing the Chappy beach patrol to alert the Emergency Center that we were coming in with a heart-attack patient and to tell the harbormaster and Coast Guard that the Nellie Greyhad just blown up off the Cape Pogue light.
” ” ” ” ” ” “
J.W. Jackson loves the crisp Vineyard autumn days and the beginning of Off Season.But this fall, the natives are getting seriously restless. Animal rights activists are squaring off against the deer slayers, and environmentalists are at odds with land developers. And when the verbal arrows become real ones, it is J.W. who must lead the hunt for a killer. ” ” “ When you live on the Vineyard all year round, it’s easy to understand why the tourists like it so much, but it’s also nice to know that they mostly come only in the summer. The rest of the time the island belongs to you.
And the year-rounders make both the worst and best of the off season. For some, it’s a time for malevolence. Old antagonisms, put on a back burner during the busy money-making season, reappear. Meannesses, both petty and grand, manifest themselves in and out of court. Tire slashers make their presence known. Anonymous telephone callers and letter writers harass their victims. Drink and drugs continue to mix with driving and the abuse of relatives and associates. Arguments break out over fences or in committee meetings, threats are exchanged, angry letters appear in the papers. For other islanders, the winter season is a time of special blessing when, no longer obliged to structure their lives around the activities of a hundred thousand visitors, they can pursue their private intellectual and aesthetic interests. Their enthusiasms for culture and the arts flourish, with concerns, benefits, dances and lectures being attended on a nightly basis. People go to theater, listen to speakers, plan charitable events, gossip and otherwise use the off season to good advantage.
The islanders also exchange buildings and businesses in a sort of giant, real life Monopoly game, and, in like fashion, also exchange spouses and lovers rather actively. A popular joke is that of the small boy who, when challenged by a rival about whose dad could win a fight, replied, “Your dad can’t either lick my dad. Your dad ismy dad!”
In these ways, the island is a microcosm of the world, with all the good and evil, mediocrity and extremism you can find anywhere else, and in about the same proportion.
” ” ” ” ” ” “
In A Case of Vineyard Poison,wedding bells are about to chime for ex-Boston cop turned island fisherman J.W. Jackson and his lady Zee. And Zee’s automatic teller machine tells them a rather substantial “present” has been deposited in the bride-to-be’s account: one hundred thousand unexplained dollars. But when authorities discover that the college student lying dead in J.W.‘s driveway recently withdrew a hundred grand from her own account, J.W. must match wits with a murderer who may be gearing up to kill again. ” ” “ “You’re looking at a wealthy woman.” She smiled and waved her two receipts. Nurses don’t normally get wealthy so fast. “I want you to know,” I said, “that it’s your dear, sweet heart that has drawn me to you, and that your millions mean nothing to me.”
“In that case,” said Zee, “I’ll just keep the hundred thousand to myself.”
“A hundred thousand? Dollars?”
“Look,” said Zee, handing me the receipts. “I have about fifteen hundred in my checking account, but look at these.”
I looked. Each receipt said that Zee had a hundred thousand more than that in her account.
“I got two receipts, just to make sure,” said Zee. “Both times it said the same thing. Maybe I should go right to the tackle shop and get myself a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of leaders and lures. What do you think?”
“I think Rio might be a better plan, because I have a feeling that banks, being banks, probably have laws that protect them when this happens and put people like you in jail if you run off with the hundred thousand.”
“Rio it is, then. They’ll never catch us.”
“We have to get rid of these fish before we go. And now that I think of it, I don’t have a passport. You’ll have to go alone, I’m afraid.”
“Rats. Well, in that case, let’s go get me some tackle instead.”
“Remember. Long leaders this time. No more of those eighteen-inchers.”
“I really hate it when people just can’t let something go. You know what I mean?”
I did. We nosed into the traffic jam and stayed in it until we got to Chase Road, then cut up to Coop’s, where Zee got herself two Roberts, two Missiles, and enough forty-five-pound test leader makings to keep her in business for a while.
“Tell you what,” she said, as we left. “I’m going to give your friend Hazel Fine a call on Monday and see what she says about this mistake in my account.”
Hazel Fine worked at the Vineyard Haven National Bank. I had met her the year before. She was the only banker I knew very well, for I had lived a sheltered life.
“Good idea,” I said. “Maybe we’ll find out it isn’t a mistake. Maybe we’ll find out that you have a secret admirer who has decided to slip a hundred thou into your account every now and then in a vain hope of winning you away from me.” Zee grasped my arm and fluttered her lashes at me. “If you get his name, pass it on to me, and I’ll make sure you get your grandma’s ring back before the guy and I head for Cannes.”
Zee’s hundred thou was the first unusual thing that happened that week. It wasn’t the last.
” ” ” ” ” ” “
When J.W. Jackson foils an attempt to terminate former mob boss Luciano Marcus on the steps of Boston’s Symphony Hall, it puts a definite damper on his newlywedded bliss. But Death on a Vineyard Beachpromises more than just off-island danger, for the mayhem follows J.W. and Zee back home to Martha’s Vineyard, and keeping the circling sharks from the kill may just be more than J.W. can handle. ” ” “ Later, in bed, I listened to the sounds of the night: the odd calls of nocturnal creatures, the swish of leaves, the groans of tree limbs rubbing together. Once or twice I thought I might be hearing unusual noises in the yard, but when I slipped out of bed for a look, there was no one there.
The next morning, when Zee was home from her graveyard shift and asleep in the bedroom, another car came down our driveway. I didn’t recognize this one, or the two guys who got out of it. They were young, bronze-skinned guys with dark eyes and muscular bodies.
“You Jeff Jackson?” the first asked.
I had the garden hose, and was watering the flowers in the boxes on the front fence.
“That’s me.”
“I have a message for you,” he said, coming up to me. “Stay out of Linda Vanderbeck’s hair!”
And so saying, he hit me in the jaw with his right hand and followed with his left.
” ” ” ” ” ” “
At first, the girl J.W. Jackson encounters strolling alone along South Beach seems like your typical teenager. But there’s nothing typical about young Cricket Callahan, the spirited only daughter of the vacationing President of the United States. What Jackson can’t figure out is why the feisty First Kid is so intent on eluding the Secret Service, or why the Chief Executive himself wants J.W. and Zee to watch over the errant sixteen-year-old. In A Deadly Vineyard Holiday,the answer unfortunately comes in the form of a dead body& ” ” “ The Wagoneer drove away, and Zee and I watched it go. “I feel like their mother,” said Zee. “Good grief!” She laughed, but her laugh sounded wistful.
“How does it feel?” “Not too bad. But I think I should get to be a mother of my own babies first, and then my own little kids, before I’m mother to teenagers.” She looked up at me with her great, dark eyes.
“We can work on that,” I said. “In the meantime, you want to come quahogging down at Eel Pond?” She sighed and nodded. “Sure, but I have to be home in time to go to work at four.” “A wife with a steady job is too valuable an asset for me to run risks with her,” I said. “I’ll have you back in plenty of time.”
I put another basket and rake into the Land Cruiser, and we drove out to the pavement and turned toward Edgartown. There was a car parked beside the bike path a hundred feet or so up the road in the direction of Vineyard Haven. I thought there was someone in the driver’s seat.
The car was still there when we came back with our quahogs an hour and a half later.
I pulled into the driveway and stopped and looked at the car.
“What is it?’ asked Zee.
“I’m not sure,” I said. As I got out of the Land Cruiser and crossed the highway, I thought I saw the driver taking my picture. Then, as I walked along the bike path toward the car, its driver started the motor, made a U-turn, and drove away.
I thought the car had a Massachusetts plate, but I couldn’t make out the number.
I walked back to the truck. “What was that all about?” asked Zee.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably nothing.” But I didn’t think it was nothing.
” ” ” ” ” ” “
In A Shoot on Martha’s Vineyard,J.W.‘s idyllic summer hits a snag when a movie scout from a land called “Hollywood” invades the beachesand takes a liking not only to the island locale, but to Jackson’s lovely lady Zee as well. And when a longtime nemesis turns up deadand J.W. is the prime suspectthe ex-Boston cop will have to cast his line to find the real killer. ” ” “ I liked having Zee’s hand in mine. I liked being married to her, and having Joshua making us three. I didn’t want to do anything to unbalance us.
