A Deadly Vineyard Holiday by Philip R. Craig

tapped again.
    â€œWhat do you want?” he asked.
    â€œYou know you have a flat tire?”
    There was a pause. “Flat tire?”
    â€œYou’ve got a flat tire,” I said, raising my voice and gesturing toward the back of his car. “You must have run over a bottle or something.”
    There was another pause. Then the driver-side door opened and a slightly overweight middle-aged man got out. He had thinning hair with a bit of gray in it and looked rumpled. He closed his door so it wouldn’t get taken off by passing traffic and walked around the back of the car. He looked at the tire.
    â€œWhat the hell? Will you look at that! Gawd damn!”
    â€œFlatter than a punctured state zoologist,” I agreed.
    â€œGawd damn!” He scratched his head. “Now what am I supposed to do?”
    â€œChange it,” I said. “Put on the spare.”
    He looked at me and frowned slightly, as if trying to place me. Then he seemed to recognize me, and stepped back. “You ever changed a tire? I haven’t. I don’t even know if I’ve got one. Gawd damn!” He took another step back and eyed me warily.
    I looked at the flat tire. It stayed flat.
    I gestured toward my driveway. “My house is down there. You could call a garage.”
    He looked at the driveway. “Naw, I don’t want to godown there.” He looked up the road toward Vineyard Haven and saw the driveway, fronted by a stone-carved sign, for the wildlife sanctuary.
    â€œWhat’s that place?”
    â€œThat’s the Felix Neck wildlife sanctuary.”
    â€œThey’ll have a phone. I’ll try there.” He looked at the tire. “Gawd damn!”
    â€œWell, good luck,” I said, and walked toward my own drive. I turned and waved and saw him lock his car. He waved disconsolately back and started off the other way. When he disappeared into the driveway to Felix Neck, I threw a U and went back.
    I am a poor picker of locks, but the driveway into the Felix Neck sanctuary is a long one, so I knew I had plenty of time. I needed it, too, what with interruptions from passing cars and cyclists, but finally I got the passenger-side door open. Inside, I shut the door and had a look at things.
    According to the registration in the glove compartment, where it lived amid a collection of unused film, the owner of the car was Burt Phillips. Burt’s car contained photographic gear along with empty styrofoam coffee cups, pizza packaging, sandwich wrappings, and a half-empty pint bottle of bourbon. There was also a rumpled copy of the National Planet, an incredibly popular paper that specializes in outlandish stories, doctored photographs, and inflamed headlines. In it I found a tale of a deceased celebrity who had returned as a ghost and fathered the child of a woman who now hoped to get a portion of the celebrity’s estate. The byline was Burt’s.
    Burt didn’t seem to have a cellular phone, which indicated that he wasn’t quite up-to-date as far as modern technology goes, but his camera was tucked downunder the front seat. There were some pictures of me and of Zee’s Jeep and maybe of John Skye’s Wagoneer, too, on that film, and I had no intention of photos of me or mine appearing in the National Planet, so I rewound the film and took it out, then reloaded the camera from Burt’s glove compartment supply. Then I got out of the car, locked the door, and went home. Maybe between the missing film and the flat tire, Burt would decide snooping on me wasn’t worth it.
    At the house, I called Zee and told her about Burt Phillips so she wouldn’t worry. Then I made another phone call to Walt Pomerlieu. Walt was still not available, according to the voice on the far end of the line. I left a message telling what I’d learned about the car and driver.
    It wasn’t good news, but it could have been worse. It could have been a killer out there, instead of a