A Deadly Vineyard Holiday (5 page)

“I've been thinking about that,” said Cricket. “How about Deborah? That's a good name.”

“Debby for short?”

“Okay, Debby for short. Debby Jackson.”

“Fine. I'm cousin Jeff, and this is your sister, Karen.”

“Two daughters of friends of ours are on their way over,” said Zee. “Jill and Jen Skye. After they've been here about ten minutes, you'll know more about island social life for kids your age than we could tell you in a thousand years. They're good kids.”

“Do they know who we are?” asked Karen sharply.

“No. But you can trust them, so it might be a good idea to tell them the truth. They'll go along with the story we've agreed to, and if they substantiate it, their friends will believe it, too.”

“Their friends?” asked Karen. “Cricket is going to meet their friends?”

Zee's chin seemed to firm up a bit. “Cricket isn't, but Debby should, I think. She needs to be a normal girl for a while, and that doesn't mean sitting around here with the old folks.”

Karen had a look on her face that I'd seen earlier on Joan Lonergan's.

“What are you guys going to be doing?” asked Debby Jackson.

“I am bound quahogging,” I said. “I have in mind a clambake about Sunday afternoon, if that sounds good to everybody. Naturally, you're all invited.”

“It sounds good to me,” said Debby. “Quahogs are those hard-shelled clams, aren't they? The kind they eat raw?”

I gave an introductory clam lecture: “The littlest ones are called littlenecks, and about half the people in the world like them raw on the half shell, while the other half wouldn't eat one on a bet. The next size up are called cherrystones, and they usually get cooked, one way or another. We like them broiled on the half shell with some garlic butter, a few bread crumbs, and a bit of bacon. They call those clams Casino, and a lot of people
who wouldn't eat a raw littleneck will scarf down Casinos by the peck. Then you get up to bigger quahogs that you chop up for chowders or stuff and bake in the half shell. It just so happens, by the way, that Zee and I make the best stuffed quahogs on Martha's Vineyard, so you have a treat in store.”

“His modesty is one of his most appealing characteristics,” said Zee.

“Can I help you catch them?” asked Debby J., smiling.

“Sure,” I said. “But you don't have to if you don't want to. Maybe you shouldn't decide till the twins get here. They may have something better in mind.”

Dora did some final snipping and shaping, then pulled a large pair of glasses out of her bag of stuff.

“These have clear glass, so you can wear them whenever you're in public. And I have these clip-on dark glasses that you can fit right over them. And there's this floppy hat, too.”

She put the glasses on Cricket's face and the hat on her head, then held up a mirror in front of her.

Cricket stared. “Is that really me?”

I would have asked the same question. Cricket no longer looked like Cricket. “You're Debby Jackson now, for sure,” I said.

“I think that will do the job,” said Dora, gathering up her gear. “Well, I've got to get back to the shop.”

“You're a genius,” said Zee admiringly.

“I'll send you the bill,” Dora said to me. She patted Cricket on the head. “You have a good time, sweetie.” Then she looked at me. “Like I said, I don't think we should tell Mike about this job. If we tell him what I did up here, he'll spread it all over the island. If I don't tell him what I did up here, he'll think I came up for a little
hanky-pank with you, J.W. So we won't tell him anything.”

“Hanky-pank?” asked Zee, a hint of ice in her voice.

“Mike gets jealous before he thinks,” said Dora, arching a brow at her. “A lot of people do that. You know what I mean?”

Zee actually pinked a bit.

“We go back to Washington on Monday,” said Karen. “You can tell him then, and it won't make a bit of difference.”

Dora left and Debby Jackson admired herself in her own mirror. “Nobody will recognize me!”

“We'll soon know,” said Zee, having recovered from her blush.

And not too much later we heard a car coming down our driveway. John Skye's Jeep Wagoneer pulled into the yard and stopped, and out jumped the twins.

“Hi, Zee. Hi, J.W.,” said the first one.

“Hi, Jill,” I said. “How are you and your evil twin?”

“I'm glad you've finally learned which one of us is which,” she replied. “But Jen is the good twin, not the evil one.”

“She's only saying that because she's Jen, not Jill,” said the other twin. “I'm Jill, and I'm the good twin.”

“I knew that all the time,” I said. “I was just pretending to be confused. Jill and Jen, these are my long-lost cousins from Virginia, Karen and Deborah, better known as Karen and Debby.”

There was a chorus of
hi
's, and an exchange of smiles and quick examinations.

I said, “Since Karen and Debby are new on the island, and you two are old hands, I thought maybe we should put you together, so you Yankees can show these rebs what there is to do. Of course, if you all decide you
can't stand one another, you can go your separate ways, and no hard feelings.”

“We don't know each other well enough yet to hate each other,” said a twin. “You look familiar,” she said to Debby J.

“I have one of those faces that always reminds people of somebody else,” said Debby. “Sometimes it's really annoying. Now, which twin are you? It doesn't make any difference, but I'm not like cousin Jeff. I can tell you apart. I just have to have a different name for each face.”

“Can you really tell us apart?” The twin grinned. “That's great! Usually, only Mom and Dad can do that. Okay, I'm Jill and she's Jen. She's the evil one.”

“Congratulations on getting your driver's licenses,” said Zee. “Wheels are power.”

“Yes!” The twins shot fists into the air. Their smiles were bright.

“Dad's let us have the Jeep for the afternoon,” said Jill or Jen, “and we're headed for East Beach, over on Chappy, where there aren't so many people. It'll be great!” She looked at Karen and Debby. “You want to come?”

“A moral dilemma,” I said to Debby. “Shall it be the beach or the quahog flats?” She hesitated. “I vote that you head for the beach,” I said. “You can come clamming tomorrow, when I go after steamers.”

“You can take the bedspread we use for a beach blanket out of the Land Cruiser,” said Zee. “I'll put some colas in a cooler and get you a couple of towels. Put your bathing suit on, Debby. You, too, Karen. Hurry up, now!”

Debby hurried, but Karen hesitated before going after her. Soon they came out, wearing beach robes and
carrying bags full of whatever it is that women always seem to need, whether they're going to the beach or to a royal ball.

“I don't know about this,” whispered Karen Lea as she passed by.

“You'll be fine,” I said, giving her a cousinish pat on the shoulder. “See you later.”

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.

“Maybe it was just a car,” said Zee when we got to the house.

I felt a frown on my face. “Maybe, but maybe not. It was parked there when we came out, and it was still there when we came back. It didn't leave till I went toward it.”

“I didn't notice it when we went out,” she said. “But why would somebody be out there, watching our driveway?”

I could think of four possibilities about the car and driver. The one I liked best was that the car had nothing to do with us at all. It was just happenstance that it was there when it was there and left when it left. I could also live with the idea that the car contained a watchful backup Secret Service agent in addition to Karen Lea, but one who, for some reason, didn't want to be identified as such.

The third possibility was that the car contained a writer, or a photographer, or some such real or would-be media type who had gotten on to the fact that Debby J. was or might be staying at our place. If that story ever got out, Debby's privacy would disappear, along with the security that went with it.

And finally, the notion I liked least, it could be that the car might have contained one of the bad guys I'd heard mentioned, who, like the hypothetical media type, had learned, somehow, that Debby was with us.

In case either of the last two possibilities proved true, Pomerlieu's people should be alerted.

I offered these thoughts to Zee, who nodded, frowning. “You're right. We should call Walt Pomerlieu. But how could anyone have learned that Cricket—”

“Debby.”

“Sorry. How could anyone know that Debby is here, and not out at the compound with her folks?”

I said, “I'm not a spook or a spy or anything like that, but I imagine there are several ways. I can think of a couple.”

“Like what?”

“Well, they say that there's a place at the end of the president's driveway for media types. A tent or a portable office or something like that. Maybe one of those sharp-eyed characters stationed there writes down the license plate numbers of all the cars that go in or out, then puts tracers on them to find out who they belong to. Or maybe he sees Karen and Cricket—I mean Debby—drive out and just follows them. Maybe it's as simple as that. He sees them drive into our place and decides to check things out by parking outside and keeping track of who comes and goes.”

“Do people really do things like that?”

“So I understand. There's big money in scoops about celebrities. And there's another possibility.”

“What?”

“Somebody on the inside, who knows Debby is here, told somebody on the outside.”

“Who would do that? Isn't that a violation of ethics, or illegal, or something?”

“People do unethical and illegal things all the time.”

“But you're saying that somebody right there in the compound, somebody they trust, might deliberately
give out information that could put Cricket—sorry,
Debby
—in danger!” She then thought the next thought. “And Karen and us, too!”

“I never said the person did it deliberately. Maybe, if he did it at all, it was just one of those mistakes we make with our mouths. We let something slip accidentally, and the slip gets passed on till it gets to the very ears we don't want to hear it.”

Zee pointed to the telephone. “Slip or no slip, you'd better call Walt Pomerlieu right now.” She bit her lip. “I wish the girls were home.”

“The girls are all right, unless there really is somebody after Debby, and that somebody not only noticed that Debby and Karen were in John Skye's Jeep when it left here, but just happened to have an ORV and followed them clear out to East Beach. Pretty unlikely, I think.” But I wished they were home, too. I curled my fingers around the back of Zee's neck and ran them through her hair. “We're getting parental.”

“Yeah. And we aren't even parents yet.” She put her hand on mine and sighed. She had been getting broody even before we were married, and the condition hadn't gone away. She patted my hand. “Make that call.”

Pomerlieu wasn't there. Even he was off duty sometimes, apparently. I got Joan Lonergan instead. I told her about the car, and said, “That wouldn't have been one of yours, would it? Because if you've got somebody else out there keeping an eye on things, I'd like to know about it.”

“It's not one of us,” she said, thinly disguised concern in her voice. “Let me talk with Karen.”

I told her where Karen and Cricket were, and who they were with. I also told her that Cricket was now Debby, and that she and Karen were cousins of mine.

“You mean you let them go off to the beach by themselves? Jesus Christ!”

“They'll be fine,” I said. “Nobody knows they're there. Debby will have a good time, and there won't be a single newshound or security agent to spoil it, providing Karen keeps her pistol and her radio transmitter in her purse and doesn't get too uptight.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” said Joan Lonergan angrily. “Nobody was supposed to know the girl was at your house, but apparently somebody does. So they may know where she is now, too! I'm going to contact Karen. I'll talk to you later. We may have to end this business right away!”