A Case of Vineyard Poison by Philip R. Craig Page A

them lolled under beach umbrellas or were busy getting sunburned as they heated their grills, flew their kites, and tossed their footballs.
    â€œThe movable feast, also known as the portable parking lot,” Zee explained to David Greenstein. “One of the ironies of being an islander is that you never have time to enjoy the place the way the tourists do. All week, while the tourists are touristing, the islanders are working. So on weekends they make it up, and come down here to party.”
    We passed onto the Wasque reservation, going along the narrow road through the dunes, past Swan Lake, where once or twice we’ve seen otters swimming among the ducks, geese, and swans, and out onto Wasque Point. There, the four-by-fours were parked side by side while beyond them the fishing rods were bending.
    â€œFish!” cried Zee, pointing. “They’re getting fish, Jeff!”
    Indeed they were. A lot of people were on, and others were up at the Jeeps, taking fish off their lures.
    I swung over and drove along behind the parked trucks. I didn’t see many that I recognized. Most of the regulars had moved out. The dozens of fishermen standing shoulder to shoulder, making their casts, were almost all amateurs. Crossed lines seemed to be the order of the day. A lot of fish were being caught, but a lot of gear was being lost, too. I looked at Zee and raised a brow.
    She shook her head. “Zoo city. You’d take your life in your hands trying to fish in that crowd. Let’s keep going.”
    Quinn said, “How about trying the yellow shovel?”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œThe yellow shovel?” asked David Greenstein.
    Zee explained. “The yellow shovel is a spot on the beach. Years ago, we knew a guy named Al Prada who got a kick out of picking up toys he found lying on the beach. I guess he had boxes of the stuff in his garage. Anyway, one day we spotted him fishing just up East Beach a way, in a place we don’t normally fish. He had a fish on, so we stopped and got a couple ourselves. It turned out that he’d stopped because he’d spotted a kid’s yellow plastic shovel lying on the sand, and while he was there, had decided to make a few casts. Ever since then, that spot’s been the yellow shovel.”
    â€œOf course, the yellow shovel itself is long gone,” I said. “In Al Prada’s box of junk, probably.”
    â€œBut the spot’s still there,” said Zee, “and we get fish there now and then. We’re going to give it another shot now. The chances are there won’t be a crowd, and we can introduce you to the joys of surf casting without running the risk of having some greenhorn hook us instead of a fish.”
    â€œI’m a greenhorn myself,” said David Greenstein.
    â€œNo, you’re a Greenstein,” said Quinn.
    â€œNot down here,” said Zee. “Down here he’s my cousin Dave from New Bedford. Right, Dave?”
    â€œSounds good.”
    â€œYou speak any Portuguese, cousin Dave?”
    â€œSorry. No Portuguese. Does that mean I can’t be your cousin any longer?”
    â€œNot a bit. My own brothers can’t speak Portuguese, and I’m getting worse at it every year. No, you’ll pass, with or without the language.”
    â€œI know French and some German and a little Yiddish. Will that help?”
    â€œA Yiddish-speaking Portagee, eh? Well . . .”
    â€œOkay,” said Dave. “No Yiddish.”
    We arrived at the yellow shovel and got out.
    Dave looked around. “How do you know where you are?”
    â€œYou just drive along until you’re there,” I said. “You’ve read the sign: There ain’t no other place that looks like this place, so this must be the place.”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œYou do this a couple of times, and you’ll know,” said Quinn.
    We got the rods off the roof. My rod and Zee’s are