Death on a Vineyard Beach by Philip R. Craig

Romans were really something.”
    These classical works were not the only decorative arts in the house. Interspersed with them were maps, globes, and bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes that reflected Marcus’s interest in geography and political history.
    â€œI always liked maps,” said Marcus, touching an atlas. “Even when I was a little kid. And I like to read about why things happen. History. It’s interesting to me. Now that I got the time, I read. It’s good. Everybody should read. I wish I could get Vinnie to do it.” He shrugged.
    Paintings of nineteenth- and twentieth-century masters hung on the walls, and a Calder mobile floated in a corner of the living room that looked out upon the veranda and pool. The furniture of the house was modern, clean-lined, and comfortable. The rooms were large and uncluttered, yet never cold or impersonal since wherever my eyes roamed they found some object of interest or beauty to occupy them.
    The kitchen was huge, filled with work counters, ovens, freezers, and cabinets that held every sort of pot, pan, and appliance. It was capable of producing food for large parties at short notice, and was, at the moment, rich with the fragrances of cooking foods. The cook, however, was not in sight.
    â€œJonas, that’s Priscilla’s husband, is our cook,” said Angela Marcus. “He must be up in the gardens, looking for some herb he needs. He runs this kitchen with an iron hand. When we were young, before we had much money, I used to do all the cooking, but Jonas is better than I ever was. He caters to Luciano and me and no one else. Mediterranean and American food, like we like.
    â€œWhen he can’t find what he wants in our gardens, he shops at island markets. He’s very picky. Only the freshest vegetables and meat and fish will do. If something he wants isn’t available on the island, he has it flown in from New York or Boston. He keeps a big account book where he lists all of his expenditures, and he gives Luciano a report every month. I don’t think Luciano even looks at it. He just pays the bills.” She laughed.
    In the garage were four cars: the black Cadillac sedan I’d seen in Boston and three identical green, four-door Jeep Grand Cherokees, like the one that had picked us up that evening. All four vehicles had darkened windows.
    â€œLike I told you,” said Marcus. “I believe in buying American whenever I can, except for Greek and Italian wines.”
    â€œAnd Greek and Italian olive oils,” amended his wife.
    He put his arm around her. “Yeah, except for that, sweetheart.”
    Zee, who approved of signs of affection between married folks, smiled up at me.
    â€œPrivacy is hard to get,” explained Marcus. “We like ours, and I’m lucky that I have the money to buy it. Other people have to put up with a lot of long noses.”
    We walked out along a flower-lined pathway. Luciano Marcus had his wife’s hand in one of his. With his other hand, he gestured while he spoke.
    â€œWe got about three hundred acres here, and men to take care of it. Angie and I like to walk, so we have these paths winding around. You almost can’t see them, but they’re there. It’s nice to walk on an evening like this.”
    Around us were rolling meadows and carefully tended trees and shrubs. The flowers lining the path smelled sweet. We paused at a small overlook, and Marcus pointed down the long hill below us.
    â€œWe have blueberries down there. A lot of them. See the bushes? And beyond the bushes, bending out of sight beyond that rise in the ground, is my cranberry bog.” A hard note was suddenly in his voice. “That bog has produced cranberries for as long as anybody remembers. It’s a damned fine bog, and I plan to keep it.”
    I glanced at him, and saw Angela pat his arm and gently steer him on along the path.
    In various places on the property, there were