Vineyard Blues by Philip R. Craig

up farm animals that are loose on the roads, and they tote people to the emergency room of the hospital. Most of the violence they encounter is in the form of accidents: drunks and teens driving their cars into trees at high rates of speed, moped riders spilling themselves onto the pavement, or people chopping off their toes while mowing the lawn.
    From time to time, of course, they meet with criminal violence. The wife beater, the pedophile, the knifer, the robber, the man with a gun.
    The arsonist.
    I’d left the Boston PD to get away from all that, but of course there is no away and no man is an island even on an island, so here I was, nosing around in the very business I’d once forsworn.
    The chief looked at Diana, who was riding on my back in her canvas kid-holder. He put out a hand to her. “Hello.”
    From the corner of my eye, I saw her little hand meet his. “How do you do?” said her small voice.
    â€œYou look like your mother,” said the chief. Then he looked at me. “Fortunately.”
    The chief had grandchildren older than Diana.
    â€œShe has her mother’s looks, but my brains and ready wit,” I said.
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that, kid,” said the chief, looking back at her. “Maybe things will work out for you anyway.”
    â€œWe’re going to get ice cream,” said Diana.
    â€œIn a little while,” I said. “First I have to talk to the chief, here.”
    â€œI knew the day was going too well,” said the chief.“What do you want?”
    I told him about the job I’d just taken with Ben Krane. He didn’t change expression, but something altered in his eyes.
    â€œI guess Ben doesn’t trust the fire marshal,” he said.
    â€œHe didn’t seem to when I talked to him. He thinks I have local knowledge that will make the difference.”
    â€œI didn’t know you were an arson investigator, J.W. I thought you were just a fisherman living up there in the woods.”
    â€œI was at a couple of fire scenes when I worked in Boston,” I said, “but all I did was glance in the rooms, then stand outside and look official while the arson squad did the real work.”
    â€œBut Ben Krane wants you to work for him anyway. Doesn’t make much sense to me. I always thought Ben was a bright guy. Maybe I was wrong.”
    â€œMaybe you can help me be as smart as Ben wants me to be. What can you tell me about arson investigations?”
    â€œWhat do you want to know?”
    â€œWell, for a start you can tell me who does the investigating.”
    â€œNot us local hicks, for sure. We’re not smart enough to do complicated stuff like handle fires that aren’t your ordinary accidental kind. No, it’s the state boys who handle the arson cases. The fire marshals are part of the state police. Whenever there’s a suspicious fire or a death, they come in to investigate.”
    â€œAh. Just like with homicides or suspicious deaths of any kind. You local guys step aside and the state cops take over.”
    â€œYou got it, Sherlock,” said the chief. “Us country bumpkins are good enough for the stupid stuff, but we’re too dim for the work that takes brains.”
    The chief made this familiar comment without any particular tone of annoyance in his voice, almost as though he were talking about the weather.
    And why should he do otherwise? Conflict between law enforcement agencies is pretty commonplace, after all. The state cops are uncooperative with the local cops; both the state and local cops resent the federal cops; the federal cops are uncooperative with everybody, including the international cops; and so forth. The consequences of these rivalries are always bad for law enforcement, but the conflicts continue anyway, to the frustration of all involved, especially those civilians and police officers who are more interested in crime solving than in power, prestige, and point