A Deadly Vineyard Holiday Read Online Free PDF Page A

Perhaps in his place, knowing what he knew, what he lived with every day, I’d act like he acted.
    Sitting between him and Joan Lonergan, the president’s daughter leaned across and opened a window.
    â€œThanks for everything!”
    â€œYou can fish with me anytime,” I said, stepping back.
    â€œAnd you can always have a job as cook,” called Zee, smiling.
    The car turned around and drove away, and Cricket Callahan waved good-bye. Ted and Joan did not.
    â€œWell,” said Zee, taking my arm. “The day has gotten off to an interesting start.”
    True. Of course, “May you have an interesting life” is an ancient curse, and though we couldn’t know it that morning, we were already involved with a murderer. On the other hand, maybe if I had been paying more attention to the survey of mythology that was currently one of our bathroom books, I might have guessed that the Moerae were still at work, even though ancient Greece had long since crumbled into dust.

— 3 —
    Two days later, we found out Cricket might actually accept our invitation when our breakfast was interrupted by a phone call from Walt Pomerlieu telling us that we’d soon have visitors. Soon was the word, since he was calling from a car that came down our driveway and unloaded several people in our yard before we even finished our coffee.
    One of the people was Joan Lonergan. She came up to our door with Pomerlieu, while the others spread out around the place, looking things over. With her was someone we already knew: Jake Spitz, of the FBI.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” I asked, shaking his hand.
    Spitz smiled at me, then at Zee. “We’re everywhere. I heard that you two got married. Congratulations.”
    â€œYou know each other,” Pomerlieu observed.
    â€œI was up here on a job a while back,” said Spitz. “We ran into each other then.”
    Pomerlieu thought that over, then put the thought aside. “We’d like to take a look inside,” he said. Joan Lonergan nodded agreement.
    Zee, coffee cup in hand, shrugged and waved the two of them in.
    â€œThat’s the spare bedroom,” I said.
    They went in and stayed awhile.
    Spitz looked after them. “What would we do withoutthe old-boy network?” he said. “The intelligence crowd is almost incestuous. Everybody knows everybody else, and half of them are related to each other.”
    â€œIncluding those two?”
    â€œIncluding Walt Pomerlieu, at least. I don’t know about Joan. She and Ted Harris only joined this outfit a year ago. But Walt is old New England blood with almost as old intelligence-security ties. I think his dad was OSS.”
    â€œHow about you? Are you an old boy?”
    He grinned. “There are exceptions.”
    We watched agents inspecting the grounds, peering here and there, looking in the shed out back, eyeballing the gear in my corral, and wandering into the surrounding woods.
    When Pomerlieu and Lonergan came out of the house, Pomerlieu was saying, “The agent will take the bed nearest the door.”
    â€œRight,” said Lonergan. She looked at me. “You have a gun case in there. You a hunter?”
    â€œSometimes. I don’t seem to do as much as I used to.”
    â€œWhat about those lock picks?”
    â€œI got those in a yard sale up-island. I can even open a lock or twp.”
    â€œYou interested in housebreaking, Mr. Jackson?”
    â€œDo you think there’s still time for me to have a successful vocation in that field?” I asked. “Or am I too old to begin a new career?”
    Zee rolled her eyes, and Pomerlieu shook his head, but Lonergan was not amused. “There’s a gun magazine in there with your picture on it, Mrs. Jackson. You’re a competitive pistol shooter?”
    â€œMy first competition,” said Zee, waving a finger at the magazine. “I came in fourth.”
    â€œYou keep a weapon here in