Vineyard Deceit (34 page)

“You did very well. I'm proud of you. You know where the bathroom is. I notice that you've been getting squirmy. Tea will do that to you.”

I got up without a further invitation.

29

The day after Labor Day begins a new season for Martha's Vineyard. Most of the tourists are gone, the water is still warm, the air is clear and clean, and the bluefish are beginning to come back. What could be better?
I had my new Martha's Vineyard Striped Bass and Bluefish Derby pin on my hat and was with Zee off Makoniky Head on the north shore. We were anchored just off the rocks and were casting northeast with the wind. We had three nice blues in the fish box and we were both on again.

The fish were jumpers and were out of the water as much as they were in it. About forty feet off the boat, mine went high into the air, gyrated, and tossed the plug even higher.

“Wow! Way to go, fish!”

Zee hauled hers in close, and I scooped it up in the net. A nice eight-pounder.

“Way to go, Zee!”

We added her fish to the box, and I glanced at the sun. The tide was running west against the wind, but the wind was dying. Time to get going if we wanted to fetch Menemsha by dark. I put up the big gaff-rigged main, hauled in the anchor, and began the beat westward along the shore.

“So this is what they mean by boat fishing,” said Zee.

“Yes indeed. It's a different game.”

“You can get to all those places you used to get locked out of.”

“Yep. I figure we can fish the whole damned island in the
Shirley J.
No more worrying about whether the Gay Head town fathers and mothers block off their roads to down-island fisherman. We'll sail right up to the beach and nail the fish whenever we want to. Same goes for every place else too. The world is ours.”

“It's great having a boat. No doubt about it. I love it.”

“We'll be in Menemsha Pond just in time for cocktails.”

And we were. I dropped the hook and furled the sail, and we lay at ease in the lee of the Gay Head hills. I filleted the fish and threw the carcasses overboard. Food for smaller fishes. I put the fillets back in the ice chest,
then mixed up a sauce of mustard, dill, and mayo and set it in with the fillets. By the time I'd done that, Zee had the martinis ready. We sat in deck chairs and watched the evening come in on us.

“Good old Jasper Cabot,” I said. “Here's to you and your checks, Jasper.”

We sipped our drinks.

“What was the
Shirley J's
name before she was the
Shirley
J?”

“Jeremy called her
Wanderer.
He said he didn't care if I changed her name, because he was done with her. Here's to you, Jeremy.”

We sipped. To the north, the little village of Menemsha, Walt Disney's idea of what a fishing village should look like, lay in the last of the evening sunlight.

“So Jasper paid pretty well, eh? Down payment on the
Shirley J,
anyway. Not bad, J.W.”

“He seemed satisfied.”

“Did you see the
Globe
this morning?”

“No.”

“The necklace has showed up in Paris. The Sarofim Democratic League had a news conference. Showed the emeralds. Hung them around some beautiful woman revolutionary's neck. She gave a speech. The police arrested several people. Up in Weststock, Hamdi Safwat gave another speech. Exciting times.”

“The latest revolution is gaining momentum, eh?”

“Seems that way. You know, this isn't a bad way to live. Let's circumnavigate the island. We can anchor tomorrow in the lee of Nomans and do a little fishing, then sail down along South Beach and fish some more at Wasque, about three casts offshore. We can sneer at the poor slobs on the beach who can't reach the fish we'll be pulling in and then go up to the Jetties and maybe pick up Iowa and take him out for a ride. Then we can duck in and spend the night in Cape Pogue Pond.”

“You can't anchor overnight in Cape Pogue Pond anymore. New rules. Not smart rules, but new ones.”

“Edgartown is getting as bad as Gay Head, what with all its damned regulations! What we'll have to do is put up our black sail and sneak in at night, like pirates.”

“Good idea. Where'll we get a black sail?”

“Your girlfriend, Helga Johanson, can make it as a thank-you gift for your hospitality to her.”

“Helga Johanson is home with her husband over in America. Besides, Helga is not the seamstress type. She's in the detecting business.”

“Well, you're not.”

“Not anymore. I'm a sailor, a mariner. I go down to the sea in ships. My detecting days are over. I'm a captain. Forget Helga Johanson.”

Later, we lay in our bunks looking out of the hatch at the stars in the September sky. I was thinking of how many sides there are to people, how complex even the simplest seeming of them are, and how contradictory they can be in both their thoughts and acts. Zakkut, both doctor and murderer; Nagy, both protector and killer; the Padishah, both despot and hopeless movie fan; Amelia Muleto, gardener and jewel thief; Willard Blunt, at once vengeful, gentle, suicidal, and pacifistic; none of them only what they seemed. Probably even Bonzo was more than I might guess.

A northeast wind slowly swung the stern of the boat around until we could see the dark mass of the Gay Head hills blocking out the lower western stars. The sight reminded me of the latest tale about Manny Fonseca, and I laughed.

“What is it?” asked Zee's voice from the other bunk.

“Did you hear about Manny Fonseca?”

“No. What?”

“I saw his wife, Helen, downtown a couple of days ago. She had a hard time keeping a straight face. Seems that Manny got hold of some old family records and found out
that one of his grandmas was a Vanderhoop from Gay Head. Manny's an official Wampanoag Indian! All these years he's been insulting himself! His wife thinks it's really funny, but Manny is fit to be tied. Who's he going to light into now?”

Zee laughed. “Poor Manny. He's had a tough end-of-the-summer. Amazing.”

Amazing, indeed. Manny Fonseca was another of those people who were more complex than they perhaps wanted to be. I was still alive thanks to his fanaticism about pistols, which I had seen as a comic minor vice. And now he was a Wampanoag, the last thing in the world he wanted to be. Could Amy Lowell find a pattern in all this?

“Speaking of amazing,” said Zee. “We are not being amazingly bright. Here we are, lying inside on these bunks that are so narrow only one person can get in one, and outside the stars are shining. We should be out there sleeping together on the deck and save these bunks for a time when it's cold or raining or something.”

The wind came around more to the north, and the stars swung across the open hatch. The water lapped the
Shirley J.

“When you're right, you're right,” I said, and threw back my blanket.

Zee was ahead of me. We put our foam mattresses on the deck and arranged our blankets and crawled in. Zee snuggled up against me.

“This is better.”

It certainly was.

“And another thing,” said Zee. “Now I really do think you should plant a little garden without a fence, just for the bunnies. Because if it hadn't been for them, I wouldn't have been off in the woods, and . . .”

“Another good idea,” I said.

“I have lots of good ideas,” she said sleepily. “Aren't the stars beautiful?”

“Yes.”

We held one another there between the dark waters and the glittering sky, afloat on Middle Earth, halfway between heaven and hell, until, at last, we slept.

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 © 1992 by Philip R. Craig

Originally published in hardcover as
The Doubleminded Men

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