A Case of Vineyard Poison Read Free Page B

How’s the music shaping up?”
    â€œIt’s well shaped.”
    We cleared the table and took the dishes into the kitchen. Then I found my hat—a baseball cap advertising CV 60, the USS Saratoga —and gave Mary a kiss on the cheek. “If Hazel can’t get through to Zee at the hospital, have her give me a ring at home. I’ll relay the message.”
    On my not-too-good truck radio, I got the classical music station in Chatham, and listened to the end of something by Bach on the way home. Bach often bores me, but this time he was okay. It’s too bad he had so many children and so much work to do. If he’d had more time, maybe he could have spent it on each piece of music and would have written fewer that sound so much alike. When the station was through with Bach, they played a Beethoven piano concerto performed by David Greenstein, the latest winner of the Tchaikovsky competition in Moscow, and Zee’s current musical passion. Better than Bach. Ludwig Van is the world’s heavyweight music champion, and David Greenstein could really pound the ivories. He was still at it when I got home.
    There, having had enough classical music, I switched to the C and W station that comes out of Rhode Island, and listened to Reba and Tanya and Garth and the other guys and gals sing their songs about love betrayed or gained. I like classical and C and W music, but you can have most of the other stuff, especially the current noise that kids listen to. Too hard on my ears, and too juvenile. C and W music may not be profound, but at least it’s written for grown-ups.
    I was fixing up a giant salad for supper when the phone rang. I thought maybe it would be Hazel, but it wasn’t. It was Quinn.
    â€œComing down this weekend,” said Quinn. “You got room?”
    â€œI’ve got room.”
    â€œBringing a guest.”
    â€œShe’s welcome.”
    â€œNot she, he.”
    â€œHe’s welcome. How long you staying?”
    â€œWeek?”
    â€œSounds good.”
    â€œHow are the fish running?”
    â€œSo many they’re standing on their tails so they’ll all fit in the ocean.”
    â€œDynamite! See you Friday night. We’re bringing the pizzas and beer. Tell that sweetheart of yours to cheer up because a real man is on his way!”
    â€œI’ll try to keep her calm.”
    Quinn hung up.
    Quinn was a reporter for the Globe. I had met him when I was a cop for the Boston P.D. and we had hit it off. After I’d taken the bullet that still nestled next to my spine, and had retired to the Vineyard in search of a more peaceful career, Quinn and I had kept in touch, the touch being mostly in the form of my going up to Boston once a year to catch the Sox in Fenway and have a few beers at the Commonwealth Brewery, makers of America’s best bitter, and Quinn’s coming to the island to have a go at the wily bluefish. Next to nailing a good story, Quinn liked nothing better than nailing the blues.
    It would be good to see Quinn, and I looked forward to having him down a couple weeks before the wedding. He would loosen things up in case they got tight. Quinn didn’t let things get tight. He disapproved of tight, except for occasionally being that way by dint of booze.
    I wondered who his friend was. Since his divorce, Quinn had taken up with a number of women, but had never remarried. Once or twice, he had brought women down to the island with him, and I had put them up in my spare bedroom, which is normally only occupied by my father’s hand-carved decoys. There were twin beds in there, so this time Quinn and his friend would alsohave that room. Someday, maybe, it would be a child’s room. But not yet.
    A half hour after Quinn had called, the phone rang again. I was making some pesto bread to go with the salad, and having a Sam Adams. This time it was Hazel Fine.
    â€œI called the hospital, but Zeolinda was busy with someone who had