A Deadly Vineyard Holiday by Philip R. Craig Page A

stringer for a popular rag.
    Some better news arrived a bit later in the form of John Skye’s Wagoneer and its four occupants.
    The three younger ones were happy and salty. Karen Lea pretended to be, but was not, so I knew Lonergan had gotten through to her.
    Debby and the twins were considering plans for the evening, apparently. The idea leading the race seemed to be pizza at Giordano’s, followed by a funky film at the theater across the street.
    Debby suddenly remembered she was my cousin as well as my guest, and looked at me and Karen, then back at the twins.
    â€œI’ll call you guys later. Okay? Maybe cousin Jeff has some other plans.”
    â€œJ.W., you should let her come with us,” said Jill or Jen. “You really should.”
    â€œYou don’t even know if you have wheels tonight,” Isaid. “Go home and find out if John will loan you his car again before you decide what you’re going to do. We’ll have Debby call you after she washes off some of the sand and salt she’s collected.”
    â€œRats,” said one twin to her sister. “I never thought of not having the car tonight. Daddy said we could go to the beach, but he never said anything about tonight.”
    â€œWe’ll have to butter him up,” said the other twin.
    â€œWe can probably butter up Dad,” said the first twin, “but Mom might not want us driving at night, and it’s a lot harder to butter her.”
    They looked at Debby and Karen. “We have to work on our parents. You work on J.W. We’ll talk later. Today was fun!”
    They drove away.
    I showed Debby and Karen where the outdoor shower was, and Debby and her towel went in. Karen and I walked off a few yards.
    â€œJoan Lonergan called me,” she said. “She doesn’t like this car business, and neither do I. The car is back, by the way. I saw it when we came in, although I didn’t see the driver. I don’t like this situation at all.”
    I told her about my adventures with the car and driver. “It could be worse,” I said. “Burt Phillips isn’t a hired gun or some wacko; he’s a two-bit stringer for a scandal sheet.”
    â€œYeah? Well, what’s he doing out there, watching who comes and goes here?”
    I gave her the theories I’d given Zee earlier.
    She stared around the yard and looked into the trees. The sound of the shower could be heard clearly.
    â€œSave some hot water for the rest of us,” I yelled.
    â€œI will!” came Debby’s shout.
    â€œAnd what makes you so damned sure that this Phillipsguy is what he seems to be?” asked Karen. “What makes you think it’s not just a cover, in case he gets questioned by the cops? It would be a pretty good one, wouldn’t it? Old Burt Phillips isn’t a hit man. Oh, no. He’s just a seedy, middle-aged stringer trying to make a buck by breaking a story for the National Planet. Car full of crap, including, conveniently, a paper that IDs him as just what he wants you to think he is. You don’t think you got suckered, do you? Is that just slightly possible?”
    It did seem just slightly possible, now that she mentioned it.
    Debby appeared, wrapped in her towel.
    â€œI love your shower,” she said, grinning as she trotted into the house.
    â€œEverybody loves my shower,” I called after her. I turned to Karen. “Your turn. You’ll love it, too.”
    She looked around again, as if trying to see right through the surrounding forest, as if wishing it were glass, so nothing would be hidden from her. Then, a frown on her face, she walked to the shower.
    I went into the house and started supper: The bluefish that either Debby or I had hauled in on Monday would now be transformed into stuffed bluefish, always delish. I got the fish fillets out of the fridge and mixed up some store-bought stuffing laced with some extra peppers and hot sauce. I put the stuffing