A Deadly Vineyard Holiday by Philip R. Craig Page B

between the two fillets, put the whole thing in a roasting pan, and slapped it into the oven. An army marches on its stomach, they say, and the Secret Service apparently believed we were in a war. I wasn’t quite so sure, but in case we were, I wanted us to be able to move if need be.
    The phone rang just about then. The masculine voice on the other end had a familiar foreign ring to it. It was an angry voice.
    â€œWhat the hell was my wife doing at your house this afternoon, eh? What business did she have with you? Why did you call her to you? You tell me right now!”
    â€œBig Mike? Is that you?”
    â€œYes! What are you doing, calling my wife to your house? You tell me!”
    â€œShe was just here on business, Mike.”
    But Mike’s voice only got hotter. “Business, eh? What business is there between you and her, you seducer of women!”
    Seducer of women? “Calm down, Mike. Ask Dora, if you don’t believe me.”
    â€œShe will tell me nothing! If not for Helen, I would never have learned of this . . . this seduction!”
    Helen. So that’s who had first taken my call at the salon. Dora might be tight-lipped, but Helen obviously wasn’t.
    â€œNobody seduced anybody, Mike. My wife was here all the time.”
    â€œDon’t call me Mike! And don’t tell me about your wife! And don’t see my wife again!”
    He slammed his phone down and I looked at mine. Good grief, just what I needed: a mad Mike Qasim. And until Monday, which was five days away, neither I nor Dora could tell him why she had really been here, because Mike couldn’t keep a secret in a bushel basket.
    Mad Mike and his Persian dagger.
    What next, O Lord?

— 5 —
    Debby J. wiped her lips and looked appreciatively at the scant remains of supper left on her plate. “Good,” she said. Then she looked less appreciatively at Karen Lea. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to go to the movies with Jill and Jen. I want to go.”
    She seemed a little petulant.
    â€œBecause,” said Karen patiently, “there’s a man out there watching this place and we don’t know who he is.”
    â€œMr. Jackson says he’s a writer for the National Planet. Besides, he couldn’t have seen me in the car when we went out because I was sitting on the far side, and there wasn’t even anybody in his car when we came back.”
    Karen ate the last of her bluefish. “The point is that we don’t know who he is. He might be some guy just pretending to be a writer.”
    â€œHe’s not even out there anymore,” said Debby, with just a touch of the little whine that teenagers get in their voices when they feel unduly constrained. “So there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be able to go. No one will recognize me. I was with the twins all afternoon, and even when I took my glasses off to go swimming, they didn’t know who I was. You saw that yourself.”
    Karen finished her glass of wine. “You’ve already had supper, so you won’t be having pizza, in any case. Besides, we don’t even know if the twins’ parents will let them have the car. As a matter of fact, I’m sure that ifthey’d gotten it, they would have called by now. They’re still probably trying to talk their parents into it.”
    â€œWe don’t need their car,” said Debby. “We can use your car, Karen. Nobody was watching when we drove it in, so even if that guy is out there again, he won’t know who’s in the car if we keep the windows up. We can drive over and pick up the twins and all go to the movies together. Come on, Karen, say we can go!”
    I decided I was on both sides of the issue. “Look,” I said. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll go up and see if Burt Phillips is there. If he is, we’ll have to think some more, but if he’s gone, you two can go to the