Death on a Vineyard Beach by Philip R. Craig Page A

native oaks, beetlebung trees, swamp maples, wild cherries, and ancient-looking apple trees. Although the grounds gave the impression of being in an informal, almost natural state, they were in fact so carefully designed and maintained that a crew of well-paid men would be needed to tend them.Those same men, I thought, would preserve not only the beauty but the security of the estate. Luciano Marcus, for all his apparent openness, was a man who made no bones about liking his privacy.
    We crossed the driveway and paused again. Marcus looked at me. “You notice the mailbox when you came in?”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œI thought you might have. You see the name?”
    â€œGubatose.”
    â€œThat’s right. Gubatose, not Marcus. That’s so people will think somebody named Gubatose lives here, not somebody named Marcus. It works, too. Not many people have come up my driveway. When they do, they come to that gate. When they get there, they mostly turn around and go back. Sometimes somebody climbs over the gate and walks on up the driveway. You know who they meet?”
    â€œAn armed guard?”
    Marcus laughed. “No. They meet a pleasant guy who tells them he’s renting the Gubatose house for the summer, and then tells them that his Gubatose and their Gubatose are, too bad, different people, and who, gently but firmly, like they say, takes them back to their cars and watches them drive away. You know how we know to go down there and meet them?”
    â€œThe video camera in the tree?”
    â€œYou saw that, too. Good. Not many people notice it. I have others here and there around the place, so people won’t come wandering through without me knowing about them. And at night we got dogs. My glass has been empty too long. Let’s go back to the house for a refill.”
    â€œWe have gardens, too,” said Angela. “But we can look at them another day.”
    â€œAngie has the green thumb you hear so much about,” said her husband, proudly. “My thumb is black. Whatever plant I touch wilts and dies, so I stay out of Angie’s gardens, and let the men tend to the grounds.” He laughed.
    As we came up onto the great veranda, we found two men were standing on its west side, looking down the rolling meadow toward Squibnocket Pond. Vinnie the driverheld powerful field glasses, and the other man was bent over a telescope. Both the binoculars and the telescope were directed at the pond. Beside them, mounted on a tripod, was a camera with a long telephoto lens.
    â€œBirders,” said Vinnie, as we walked out behind them.
    The man with the telescope grunted. “Probably.” Hearing us, he turned. He was the bodyguard I’d seen in Boston.
    â€œThomas,” said Marcus. “Meet Mr. Jackson. Mr. Jackson, this is Thomas Decker. You met briefly in Boston, and Thomas spoke to you on the phone the other day.”
    Thomas, not Tom, Decker was a medium-sized man with red hair and freckles. I remembered his gun as well as his face. His face was hard and he had a firm grip. “How do you do? Let me add my thanks to you for what you did in Boston.”
    â€œThere’s no need for thanks.”
    â€œYou have them anyway.” He showed a thin smile. “If it hadn’t been for you, I’d be out of a job.”
    Marcus laughed, then gestured toward the veranda railing. “What are you looking at?”
    Decker hesitated, looking at Zee and me.
    â€œIt’s all right,” said Marcus. “As you know, Mr. Jackson saved my life. You can speak freely.”
    Decker nodded reluctantly. “There’s a man and a woman down at the pond, the other side of the blueberry bushes and cranberry bog. The guy’s got a floppy summer hat that makes his face hard to see, even with the binoculars. They have backpacks, and we’ve seen them take out books, water bottles, and sandwiches. They have field glasses and a camera with a telephoto lens