Death in Vineyard Waters (31 page)

“I always said you were a young woman of good taste, Jen,” I said. “Your sister has a long way to go to reach your level of maturity.”

“I'm Jill,” she said.

“No, you're not,” said her mother. “Don't give poor J. W. a hard time.”

I was shocked. “Good grief, do you mean I actually got them right for once?”

Mattie patted my arm. “We all knew you would do it, J. W. You're not really as dumb as you act sometimes.”

Sleeping six people on an eighteen-foot catboat isn't hard if it doesn't rain. The twins got the vee births in the cabin and the grownups unrolled sleeping pads on the wide deck of the cockpit. All night long the
Mattie
moved gently upon her anchor rope and the stars swung overhead. As I was drifting asleep, I felt a hand touch mine and turned and saw Zee's face in the starlight. She was smiling. We slept hand in hand all night long, and on the long sail home the next day we were happy.

When we got back we learned that Tristan Cooper's body had been found in the nets of a trawler about a mile off
South Beach, not far from where Marjorie Summerharp's body had been found. I decided that maybe there was a God after all. Zee was moody for a time, but then cheered up. She was a tender but tough woman. I asked her to marry me. She shook her head.

“No. But ask me again. As soon as I know that I can live without you, I might say yes.”

“I'll keep asking. I know I can live without you,” I lied, “but I don't want to. Besides, you need somebody around who can cook.”

“I can cook.”

“I can cook better.”

“No, you can't.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Can't.”

“Can.”

“Not.”

“Too.”

The pale July people browned. There seemed to be more of them on the roads than ever before. The bluefish began to fade away and go north to entertain the Cape Ann and Maine fishermen. They would return in September, but until then I would have to hunt other fish and harvest the land. I did serious shellfishing, gathered blueberries, picked and preserved the bounty from my garden.

One hot afternoon as I was sweating over many jars of pickles, Zee's little Jeep came down my driveway and Zee and John and Mattie Skye got out. I gave them beer, finished the batch of pickled summer squash I was working on, and joined them on my balcony.

Beyond the garden we could see the beach with its bright umbrellas, brighter surf sails and parked cars. The Sound beyond was dark blue under a pale blue sky, and there were white sails moving through a gentle wind. A thin cloud hung high over Cape Cod, and the Cape Pogue lighthouse stood clearly against the meeting of sea and sky.

“Here,” said John, handing me a small magazine. I opened it. It was full of fine gray print. “Just off the presses,” said John. “An examination copy. It won't be officially released until after Labor Day.”

I looked at the table of contents. The lead article was about Shakespeare's
King Arthur,
authored by Drs. Marjorie Summerharp and Ian McGregor. It was preceded by a brief tribute to Marjorie Summerharp by Ian McGregor.

I leafed through the magazine. “I don't see anything about the two dissertations.”

“No, you don't. We don't yet know for sure that F. X. Eastford didn't exist. I'm willing to cover all bets that he didn't, but it will take time to prove it. Meanwhile, the Shakespeare article will come out on schedule, as it should, since it's an important piece. In fact, this edition of the journal might even go into extra printings and make its publishers some money for a change.”

“Even though Marjorie and Ian probably both faked their thesis references.”

“Even though. Nobody on the mainland knows anything about those dissertations. Besides, even if they fudged before it doesn't mean they fudged this time. Nobody's dishonest all of the time, not even in the ivory tower.”

“Why did Marjorie want to look at those theses, anyway?”

“Knowing her, I'd guess that when she couldn't find any fault with the play they'd found, she decided to snoop around in Ian's background to see if she could find one in him. Maybe he said something about quoting her thesis in his own, but after forty years she couldn't remember exactly what she'd faked herself. She had a nose for academic fraud, maybe because she was good at it herself. Besides, she loved to snoop.”

“And so do you,” said Mattie.

“Absolutely,” said Skye. “It's fun. Helen Barstone, Bill Hooperman, and I are the snoopers. Three profs on the trail of fraud and murder in the groves of academe. Did the late,
great Marjorie Summerharp create F. X. Eastford? Did Ian McGregor, handsome discoverer of a lost Shakespeare play, fake a quotation from the fictional F. X. Eastford? What drove the world-famous scholar Dr. Tristan Cooper to murder? What were the sex secrets of Sanctuary? It's hot stuff, and my partners Helen and Bill have a terrific edge on everybody else because they just finished spending weeks working with Tristan.”

Mattie grinned. “It's too bad they don't have pulp magazines anymore. You could write for them instead of those dull academic rags.”

“Riches and fame shall be ours at last,” said Skye. “I can see it now: fifty weeks on the
Times
bestseller list, movie contracts, interviews on the late show. I'll get tenure and we'll be able to buy a summer place on the Vineyard. Beautiful women will seek me out.”

“You already have tenure and we already have a place on the Vineyard and I've already sought you out,” said Mattie.

He put his arm around her. “Well, whatever,” he said.

I put my arm around Zee, and the four of us drank our beer and looked out over my green garden to where the white-sailed boats, pushed by warm winds, moved across the innocent shark-filled sea.

THE MARTHA'S VINEYARD MYSTERY SERIES BY PHILIP R. CRAIG

A Beautiful Place to Die

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #1)

Death in Vineyard Waters

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #2)

Vineyard Deceit

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #3)

Vineyard Fear

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #4)

Off Season

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #5)

A Case of Vineyard Poison

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #6)

Death on a Vineyard Beach

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #7)

A Deadly Vineyard Holiday

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #8)

A Shoot on Martha's Vineyard

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #9)

A Fatal Vineyard Season

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #10)

Vineyard Blues

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #11)

Vineyard Shadows

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #12)

Vineyard Enigma

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #13)

A Vineyard Killing

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #14)

Murder at a Vineyard Mansion

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #15)

Vineyard Prey

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #16)

Dead in Vineyard Sand

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #17)

Vineyard Stalker

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #18)

Vineyard Chill

(Martha's Vineyard Mystery #19)

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1991 by Philip R. Craig

Originally published in hardcover as
The Woman Who Walked Into the Sea

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ISBN 978-1-5011-5354-9 (ebook)