Dead in Vineyard Sand by Philip R. Craig Page B

then just kept right on going! I’d have followed him and turned him in, but I stopped to help her. Say, that wasn’t you, was it? You aren’t up here to try to talk me out of what I saw, are you? You’re wasting your time if you are!”
    I held up a hand to stop the fire in her eyes from burning mine. “It wasn’t me, but the description you gave the police and the picture of the truck you identified made them think it might have been me. I came here to find out if they got the story straight.”
    Her voice was hard as cast iron. “They got it straight, all right. It was a rusty old SUV just the shape and color of your machine right there. I doubt if there are many of them still on the road.”
    â€œThis is the only one that I know of on the island. How long did you follow it before the accident?”
    She knew exactly. “From the time I came out of Old County Road onto North Road. I had to stop so the truck could go by, headed for Vineyard Haven. I followed it until it ran Mrs. Highsmith off the road.”
    â€œSo you got a good look at it.”
    â€œYes, I did!”
    â€œGood. You saw the front of the vehicle as it approached the intersection with Old County Road, and the side as it passed in front of you, then the back as you followed it toward Vineyard Haven. Is that right?”
    She nodded, her eyes watchful now. “Yes, it is.”
    â€œDid you notice the driver as the SUV approached you and then passed the intersection in front of you?”
    For the first time, she hesitated. Then she said, “No, I didn’t, and I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention because then I’d know him when I see him again.”
    â€œThe driver was a man, not a woman?”
    She frowned. “Well, now that you mention it, I’m not really sure. But that was my impression, for some reason. I didn’t pay much attention to the driver or to the SUV either, until just before the accident.”
    â€œWhy then?”
    â€œBecause I could see Mrs. Highsmith on the bicycle up ahead of us and instead of slowing down—you know how twisty and narrow that road is—he speeded up. Damn fool! I thought, and I looked hard at the truck because I thought the driver should have his license taken away from him for reckless driving! And I was right too, because just as he was passing her, he swerved toward her and drove her off the road! She could have been killed!” She shook her head. “And now her husband’s been murdered, they say. What more can happen to that family? And what about the rest of us, with a killer walking loose?”
    It was pretty clear that she hadn’t heard about Abigail Highsmith being shot, and I thought she should know. First, though, I said, “Will you walk out behind my truck and take a good look at it and tell me if it’s like the one you saw?”
    I glanced to my right and saw my children coming out of the barn, bearing neither arrows nor bayonets.
    Joanne Homlish and I walked out and stood twenty feet behind the Land Cruiser. She studied the truck and nodded her head. “Yes. Same shape, same rust, same color. No doubt about it. Either this is the truck or it’s got a twin.”
    I walked with her back to the house. “Do you remember the make of the SUV, or the license plate number?”
    She shook her head. “I saw your license plate clear enough just now, but like I told the police, the licenseplate on the truck I followed looked as though it was splashed with mud, like the truck had gone through a mud puddle or something. And as far as the make of the truck goes, I have to admit I don’t know one make from another these days. When I was growing up, I knew which ones were which because they all looked different; but nowadays they all look the same.”
    â€œI have the same problem.” Joshua and Diana were walking toward us, so I lowered my voice and said, “The day before