Vineyard Enigma by Philip R. Craig Read Free Book Online Page A

started.”
    “You’ll be a rich man by Labor Day.”
    “You can contribute to my retirement plan by giving me an order.”
    “I’m too poor to be able to afford you, Miguel.”
    He laughed. “Too cheap, you mean!”
    “That, too.”
    He laughed again and drove on.
    The new houses beside the road were gigantic. Like most such houses on the island, they were simply summer “cottages” whose owners presumably had winter mansions somewhere else. There is a lot of money in this world, and a good hunk of it was being spent on Martha’s Vineyard, changing the place forever and, many said, for the worse.
    The changes that had affected me the most during my island years were not the big new houses but the closing of access to the hunting and fishing spots my father and I and other fishermen and hunters had used when I was a kid. Those locked gates and NO TRESPASSING signs had begun to appear years before the current money boom.
    Frost was right about walls, but the people who had come and were still coming to the island, buying up whatever land was available with their endless money, didn’t read Frost, or, if they did, didn’t believe him, or, if they believed him, didn’t care. I did believe him, so I had no NO TRESPASSING or PRIVATE PROPERTY signs or fences on my fifteen acres.
    The Butters house was finished with weathered-gray cedar shingles and circled with a roofed porch. There was a combined garage and barn off to one side and a green lawn tying everything together. Cow Bay had been a quiet place for many years, but was now less so as the new neighboring palaces filled with their summer inhabitants.
    I parked and knocked on the door. Barbara Butters opened it.
    “Well, J.W. What brings you to these parts? Come in.”
    Barbara was a sleek sixty-five or so, very neat and slim. She waved me into the front hall as Jake came up wagging his tail to say hello. He sniffed the scents of Oliver Underfoot and Velcro on my hand but let me in anyway. Jake was a proper dog: big and friendly. If you were going to have a dog, Jake was the kind to have.
    “There’s no wind at all,” I said to Barbara, “and I figured that not even Al would go sailing in a dead calm, so I came to see him before it breezes up.”
    “Smart move. He’s in his den, reading about whaling ships in the old days. Go on in.”
    I did that, passing wall hangings, and shelves holding wood and stone carvings and finely woven baskets, most of which, I knew from past visits, had been brought from southern Africa.
    Al Butters’s den was a comfortable room, revealing its owner’s interests and personality. Its walls were lined with books, more fine African crafts and artwork, and paintings and photos of boats and ships. A chessboard holding a partially played game sat on a small carved table against one wall. Al’s desk was in a corner, and an old, worn leather chair sat beneath a reading light. Al climbed out of the chair as I came in and set aside a battered book.
    “J.W. Come in.”
    His hand was leathery but his grip was gentle. He was a hearty-looking seventy or so, weathered by days of sailing. His eyes were sharp and his face was that of a happy man.
    “I need some information,” I said, “and I thought you might be able to supply it or at least get me pointed in the right direction.”
    “If I can, I will. What do you need to know?”
    “How to find two stone eagles taken from Great Zimbabwe a hundred years ago.”
    He whistled and his bushy brows lifted. “Is that all?” He waved me toward his desk chair. “It sounds like there’s a story here, and I’d like to hear it.”
    “Me, too,” said Barbara, seating herself beside the chess table. “We visited those ruins more than once while we lived in Johannesburg, J.W. They’re magnificent.”
    “I’ve only seen pictures.”
    “Someday you’ll get there,” said Al. “I thought those eagles were all in museums. In fact, we’ve seen some of them there.
    “The floor is