A Case of Vineyard Poison by Philip R. Craig Read Free Book Online Page A

fishing and quahogging is just what he needs.” Quinn nodded. “No piano, no photographs, no audience.”
    â€œI think we can manage that. It’s a perfect description of the way we live.” I looked at Zee. “We can make himyour cousin Dave from New Bedford. What do you think?”
    â€œSounds good. He’ll be the first cousin I ever had who won the Tchaikovsky competition.”
    â€œI guess I wouldn’t mention that part to anyone,” said Quinn. He poured himself a bit more cognac. “Well, now that that’s settled, when do we go after the blues?”
    â€œIf I thought you two would get out of bed, we could leave at four tomorrow morning. But I doubt if Dave will be ready to roll out of the sack by then, so why don’t both of you sleep in, and we’ll get out to Wasque about ten. The fish have been around all day, sometimes, so we may have a shot at them, even though we won’t get there early. I thought maybe I’d bake up a couple tomorrow night.”
    â€œAn excellent plan.”
    â€œOf course, you have to catch ’em before I can cook ’em.”
    â€œNo problem.” Quinn yawned.
    â€œI think the Sleepies have got you, too,” said Zee.
    Quinn finished his drink and climbed to his feet. “Right you are. Until the morrow, then.” He looked at the trees. “The night above the dingle starry,” he said, and walked into the house.
    After a while, Zee said, “David Greenstein right here in your house. Imagine that!”
    â€œI’m here too,” I said.
    â€œYes, but you don’t play the piano.”
    â€œI play the guitar.”
    â€œYou play it with your thumb.”
    â€œOf course I play it with my thumb. That’s the way you play a guitar. You thumb it.”
    â€œDavid Greenstein won the Tchaikovsky competition.”
    â€œHe won the Tchaikovsky piano competition. I won the Tchaikovsky guitar-thumbing competition, but I just never got around to telling you before.”
    â€œYou are the soul of modesty, Jefferson. It’s one of the characteristics that makes you so lovable.”
    â€œHow true, how true.”
    Across the pond we could see the lights of cars moving between Edgartown and Oak Bluffs. Beyond them, off to the right, was the flash of the Cape Pogue lighthouse, and on the far side of Nantucket Sound the lights on Cape Cod glimmered. Arched above them all were the bright stars and the silver Milky Way. It was a warm and starry, starry night.
    â€œLet’s go to bed,” said Zee, suddenly, taking my hand.
    â€œOkay.”
    I started to pick things up to take them into the house, but Zee said, “No. Leave everything. We’ll get it in the morning. I want you to come and hug me. And I want to hug you. Come on.”
    I thought that she had been thinking about David Greenstein.
    She took my hand and led me into the house.

— 6 —
    The only trouble with fishing on Saturday in the summertime is that all the people who work during the week fish on Saturday. The Jeeps start piling up at Wasque before sunrise, and they keep coming until afternoon. Fishermen wander in their four-by-fours from site to site, looking for blues. They cast their lines at all the Chappy fishing spots—Metcalf’s Hole, Wasque, East Beach, the Cedars, Bernie’s Point, the Jetties, under the Cape Pogue cliffs, and down at the Cape Pogue Gut.
    In the more accessible places, Wasque, for example, the amateurs mix with the regulars and sometimes it gets to be a circus, with men and women standing shoulder to shoulder in the surf, crossing each other’s lines and causing a lot of tackle, tempers, and fish to be lost.
    And if it’s a nice day, like this one was, the sunbathers and picnickers also pour out onto the weekend beaches. They park their four-by-fours in clusters, break out the grills, chairs, kites, Frisbees, footballs, and umbrellas, and eat and play until late