Dead in Vineyard Sand Read Online Free PDF Page B

to me out of aprimeval fear of authority figures. Lies are commonly told to protect loved ones. There was never a murderer who didn’t have friends and relatives who would extol his virtues and swear that he was home with them helping a sweet little child with her prayers when in fact he was two miles away cutting someone’s throat.
    Of course, one of the reasons I understood lies so well is that I lie myself for the same reasons other people do. I ration mine and try to tell them carefully, but I do tell them. My own favorite ploys are to use ambiguity and half-truths as camouflage.
    Zee, I knew, was good at recognizing a fib when she heard it.
    â€œYou’re sure,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
    â€œYes.”
    Hmmmmm. I stirred the olive oil, vinegar, and spices together, then capped and shook the bottle. The dressing sloshed and swirled. I uncapped it and sniffed. Delish.
    I thought of the world’s accepted liars: golfers, fishermen, politicians. Why not bicyclists? I posed this notion to Zee.
    â€œAll I can swear to is that nurses never lie,” she lied. “We’re the good people.”
    â€œWhen you take off the white uniform and pick up a rod, your fish stories have raised a skeptical eyebrow or two.”
    She sampled the dressing and found it satisfactory. “I don’t have a white uniform, and fish stories are supposed to raise skeptical eyebrows.”
    True on both counts. Zee wore civvies to work, and fish were expected to grow longer and heavier as they starred in stories.
    â€œWell,” I said, “maybe the truth about the Highsmith bicycle wreck will one day be told. Meanwhile, though,I believe I’ll concentrate my energies on my upcoming golf match.”
    She put the salad in the fridge and checked on the marinating bass fillet that I’d soon be grilling. “Carry your own clubs and walk all eighteen holes. That’s all I ask. I’ll believe whatever you tell me about your score.”
    I hadn’t told her that when I’d played with Glen the Sunday before, we’d shared a golf cart. “History suggests that it will be 108,” I replied.
    â€œThat’s a good number,” said Zee, patting me on the shoulder. “I can’t think of any reason why you shouldn’t stick to it.”
    I looked at my watch. Sure enough, somewhere the sun was over the yardarm. “How about a little something up on the balcony while we wait for the kids to come home?”
    â€œYou have good ideas, Cornelius. When I’m queen, you may have my bonnet.”
    I got the drinks and she got the nibblies and we went up.
    â€œNice,” she said, looking out over our favorite view.
    â€œIndeed.” Part of me admired the water, the distant boats, and the afternoon sky. At the same time another part of me was thinking it something of a coincidence that Professors Henry and Abigail Highsmith had both experienced violent incidents within a week and that neither had seemed quite rational in his or her reaction.
    Maybe the anti-intellectuals of the world were right to maintain that pointy-headed college professors were in fact wackier and dumber than their less erudite critics, and to sneer at them for using hundred-dollar words for ten-cent ideas.
    Could be.
    After supper, on the kids’ last day of school, Zee went off to work the eight-to-four shift, but the rest of us sat down together and celebrated by watching Tarzan and the Leopard Woman. It was a smash. The summer was off to a grand start.

5
    â€œI hear you punched out that damned Henry Highsmith!” said Jasper Jernigan, giving me a firm handshake and a manly grin. “Good for you! I’ll punch him myself if he ever crosses me in person! Damned do-gooders like him ruin the world for the rest of us! Damn ’em all, I say!”
    I wondered if Henry Highsmith had ever before been thrice damned in a single paragraph.
    â€œRumors of that encounter have