Murder at a Vineyard Mansion by Philip R. Craig Page A

heartened, not for the first time, by the innocence of the earth and its people: even as war, pestilence, and plague slew thousands, normal life for most people continued. Farmers toiled in their fields, children played, artists painted, and women continued that work that is never done. The carpenters and fishermen who were going to Chappy that morning had not stopped their lives because two men had been murdered there. I, on the other hand, was going there because of the murders.
    There is a single Z-shaped paved road on Chappy. It leads from the ferry to the sandy entrance of Dyke Road, then zigs to the right, where it becomes Chappaquiddick Road before zagging to the left, where it becomes Pocha Road The pavement ends rather arbitrarily before Pocha Road does, and first-time Chappy bicyclists are often unpleasantly surprised to discover that they have to pedal a long way on sand and dirt before they get to Wasque Beach on the south shore.
    Dyke Bridge, still the Vineyard’s most popular tourist sight half a lifetime after the accident that made it famous, is at the end of Dyke Road, and is usually an objective of my Chappy trips since it provides the only access to the far beaches that constitute my favorite part of Martha’s Vineyard. Today, however, I wasn’t going fishing, I was going to visit Maud Mayhew. So I followed the paved road until I got to the postal box that marked the end of her driveway. The sign on the mailbox announced that I had come to Black Duck Farm.
    Black Duck Farm lay between Chappaquiddick Road and Pocha Pond. It had been there a long time and had once provided a livelihood for its owners. Now, however, it was like most farms on the Vineyard, large acreage still under partial cultivation, but one supported by its owners rather than the other way around. Poor people didn’t own farms on Martha’s Vineyard anymore; they had been replaced, mostly by gentlemen farmers. Or, in this case, a gentlewoman farmer. Not that Maud Mayhew could be considered gentle in any sense other than her pedigree.
    Her long driveway took me past fields and through trees until it formed a loop in front of the spacious farmhouse that was her home. Barns, corrals, and outbuildings were across the loop from the house. They, like the house, were old but well maintained. A John Deere tractor and an ancient truck were parked beside the barn, and Maud’s pickup was parked in front of its wide sliding front doors. Beyond the barn I could see cattle sharing a pasture with horses.
    I parked in front of the house and knocked on Maud’s front door. Nothing happened, so I walked around to the kitchen door and knocked again. This time Maud answered. Her eyes were red, and she looked older than when I’d seen her at my house, and when she spoke her voice was dull.
    â€œWhat brings you here, J.W.?”
    â€œI’m here because I’m sorry about Harold. You asked me to look after him but now it’s too late. I feel to blame, somehow. I wish things were different.”
    She studied me then shook her head. “You had nothing to do with Harold’s death.”
    â€œYou may be right, but I’m going to try to find out who did it and why. I know it’s too late to help him, but I want to do this, at least.”
    â€œThe police say they’ll find out who and why.” Her voice was without emotion, and sounded like it came from a tomb.
    â€œProbably. But I’m going to try, too. I wanted you to know, and I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry about your son.”
    â€œYou have nothing to be sorry about,” she said. “Thanks for coming. Now go home to your family.” She stepped back and shut the door.
    I listened to her slow footsteps as she moved away into the house. I had questions to ask her but couldn’t bring myself to knock on her door again.
    I went back to the Land Cruiser and looked around the yard, wondering where Harold had fallen. There was no