A Deadly Vineyard Holiday (2 page)

Everyone looked east. There was no one in sight.

The woman wore a worried, angry face. “If she didn't go until she saw our Jeep, that means she was here just a few minutes ago. If she went that way, where is she?” She turned to me. “If you're lying . . .”

“What? Will my pants catch on fire? She started that way, and the next time I looked, she was out of sight.”

The woman came close. “If you know anything you haven't told us, you'd better tell us now.”

“I know one thing,” I said. “I don't care for you or your friend Ted very much, and I'm beginning to understand why the girl decided to take off. Living with either one of you two all the time would drive anybody away!”

“All of you! Stop it!” said Pomerlieu. “East, you say.”

“That's what I said.”

“Come on,” he said to the others. “We'll go east.”

Ted hesitated, then got into the Jeep. He waved a finger at me. “I'll find you again, if I need to.”

“I'm in the book. I'm not hard to find.”

The woman was looking at me as they drove away.

The fish were probably gone, but my nerves needed to settle. I wondered why it was that some people rubbed each other wrong from day one. The woman, Ted, and I seemed to be like flint and steel. Sparks just naturally flew when we were together.

I went down to the water and made a couple of dozen casts. No fish took my lure, but the tension went out of me, and I felt better. I don't like to be angry.

I put the rod on the roof rack and drove east into the
rising sun, following the tracks of Pomerlieu's Jeep. When I got to the Herring Creek parking lot, I shifted into two-wheel drive and headed north, past the airport. I didn't see the girl or the Jeep, and wasn't sure I wanted to.

The market wasn't open yet, so I drove through the almost empty streets of Edgartown and on north to Ocean Heights, where I turned down our long, sandy driveway and followed it into our yard.

When I opened the back of the truck to get at the fish, the tarp in front of the fishbox moved. As I reached for the tarp, I knew what I'd find: trouble, in the shape of a teenage girl.

I pulled the tarp away and looked at her. She brushed at her eyes and hair. Then the president's daughter smiled at me, and climbed out of the truck.

The first time the president of the United States vacationed on Martha's Vineyard, the island sank six inches into the sea from the combined weight of Secret Service agents and media people.

The
Vineyard Gazette,
normally fairly disinterested in the rich and famous who abound on the island, brought out a special edition, the Boston and Cape Cod papers were full of presidential stories, and both local and national television news programs were replete with scenes from the Vineyard. Hotel rooms on the island and even over on Cape Cod became unavailable to ordinary folk, as they filled with reporters, photographers, and government agents. The presidential car, a dull-colored, bulletproof Suburban, arrived, along with the dozens of other vehicles that were needed to form the caravan that went wherever the great man went, and to ferry security and other political personnel back and forth.

Groupies of both political parties gathered at the airport to greet the airplane that brought the president and his family to Edgartown, and later worked hard to be where he and his wife or their daughter might show up, in public or private places. Among the social elite, much maneuvering took place as dinners, cocktail parties, and other such functions were arranged.

All in all, if you listened to the news, or watched it, or
read the newspapers and magazines, you would have thought that the Vineyard had been turned quite upside down by the president's two weeks on the island, and that most island lives had been altered dramatically by his presence.

In fact, had it not been for the media coverage, most people on the Vineyard wouldn't have been aware that the president was even there. He and his family stayed in a house down a long drive that was well protected by Secret Service agents, and his appearances in public places were generally unannounced, so that even if some people wished to see him, touch him, talk to him, they wouldn't have been in the right spot to do it.

And most people, at least the people I knew, didn't want to do that anyway. Their general attitude was that the guy and his family needed a vacation, and that the best thing to do was let them have one by staying out of their lives.

That was again our plan when the First Family made a second vacation visit to the Vineyard. But life is what happens when you plan something else, and now chance had intervened, and I had a problem.

“Hi,” said the girl, dusting herself off and looking around. “Is this your house?”

“It is. What were you doing in my truck? I thought you were walking to Edgartown.”

“Well,” she said, “I saw how close the Jeep was, and I knew they'd probably catch up with me if I went on down the beach, so I ducked up behind a sand dune till they were gone. Then while you were fishing, I snuck into the truck. I figured since they'd looked there once, they wouldn't look there again. How far is it to Edgartown from here?”

“About as far as the last time you asked me,” I said,
putting my mouth in gear while I tried to get my brain started. “Since you're here, you want to give me a hand? There's a freezer on the porch there, and I need more ice to keep these fish cool till I can get them to the market. There's a bucket by the freezer. Bring a bucket of ice and we'll put it over the fish.”

“Sure.”

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.”