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

police tape in sight, but the location of Maud’s pickup suggested that the barn also served as a garage. I walked to the barn and slid back one of the large doors.
    Inside was a blue, middle-aged Jeep Cherokee with underinflated tires. Those tires allowed it to drive over sand. My tires were like that, as were the tires of many a fisherman’s truck. I memorized the Jeep’s license plate number, and wondered if whoever had killed Harold had been hiding in here waiting for him to come home.
    Harold’s body, according to the newspaper account, had been found out in the driveway. Even if his attacker had waited for him here, he had apparently killed Harold outside the building.
    Unless he had dragged the body out there after the killing or Harold had managed to get that far before he died.
    Had Harold known and trusted his attacker enough to let his guard down, or had he not seen him or heard him until it was too late? I wondered if Harold had any defensive cuts or bruises on his arms or hands.
    Many people, police and others, had been in the barn since the killing, so I’d find nothing there that hadn’t already been found, but I walked through the building anyway, taking note of doors and windows and hiding spots for assassins. I went out through an unlocked back door and circumnavigated the building before returning to my truck. I saw no indication that Maud had noted my snooping. Perhaps if she had, she just didn’t care. I walked around the circular drive and looked at the ground. There were tracks of many cars, including police cars, no doubt. Too many for me to learn anything.
    Whoever had killed Harold had either walked into the farmyard or had driven there. If he’d walked in, he either lived nearby or he’d parked his car somewhere before taking his hike. If he’d parked his car somewhere, some eagle-eyed Chappy person might have seen it and remembered it.
    If he’d driven in, he’d have had to have parked his car somewhere. If he’d planned to ambush Harold, he’d probably have hidden it. The best place for that was behind the barn, but I’d seen no car tracks there. If he’d parked it in plain sight, Harold would have seen it when he came home.
    Maybe he didn’t care if Harold saw him.
    How had he known that Maud wouldn’t be there that evening?
    Would he have killed her, too, if she were?
    I thought about the island’s old families. A lot of people in this case seemed to be members of one or the other of them. Was there a tie-in, or was I just spinning webs for nonexistent bugs? After all, only the Mayhews and Ron Pierson were undeniably involved, and both were victims. The other families—the Bradfords and the Peases—were only in the mix because I’d put them there. Or were they?
    I was sailing on a sea of ignorance in a boat that was full of holes. I didn’t know where I was going and I had no real business leaving shore.
    I got into the Land Cruiser and drove back to the ferry landing. Not many Chappy people wanted to cross over to the other side, so I had only a short wait. When the captain of the ferry came by for my ticket, I asked him if Harold Hobbes drove a blue Cherokee. Yes, he did. Too bad about poor old Harold, he added. He hadn’t been a bad guy, really. A little strange, maybe, but not a bad guy.
    I looked somber and agreed. When I left the ferry I drove into town and found a parking place on School Street. I had an hour before the ever-vigilant meter maids and men would attach a ticket to my truck. I used it to go into the library of the Historical Society. Ed was there.
    â€œI thought you guys were supposed to be moving this operation to West Tisbury,” I said. “You don’t look like you’ve made much progress.”
    â€œWe’ll get there,” said Ed, who was the society’s expert on logbooks from whaling days. “When we do, we’ll need some guys with strong backs