Vineyard Blues by Philip R. Craig Page A

scoring. It has been argued by some of them that warring police agencies are the perps’ best friends. Could be.
    â€œWho decides that the fire marshals should be called in?” I asked.
    â€œThe fire chief. The state guys don’t consider him up to making an arson investigation, but they figure he’s at least sharp enough to suspect that it may have happened. Of course, if somebody dies in the fire, the marshals get an automatic call.”
    â€œSo the marshal is here already, because of the body?”
    He nodded. “But it’s not
marshal
in this case. It’s
marshals
. Two of them. Don’t ask me why. They should be up at the house any time now.”
    I thought about that and said, “Were they here after the other house burned a couple of nights ago?”
    He looked at me. “Not that I know of. When that house burned, everybody thought it was an accident. I imagine there are some doubts about that theory now, though, so I expect Mr. and Mrs. Dings may take a good look at that place, too.”
    â€œMr. and Mrs. Dings? Married arson investigators?”
    â€œJack and Sandy. Apparently they’re a team. Where he goes, she goes; where she goes, he goes. Maybe I should give my wife a badge.”
    â€œI don’t think she’d take it. She sees enough of you already. Where are they staying while they’re down here?”
    â€œNone of your business. You take my advice, you’ll stay out of the Dingses’ hair. They take their work seriously and they do not suffer fools gladly.”
    Another illiterate cyclist came down the street, and the chief stepped out and held up his hand. The cyclist, looking surprised, stopped.
    â€œYou can’t ride bikes on this street,” said the chief in a gentle voice.
    â€œOh.”
    â€œThere’s a sign right up there that tells you that. You have to turn left onto Church Street.”
    â€œOh.” The cyclist looked vaguely back up the street.
    â€œThere are bike racks at the end of Church Street on Pease’s Point Way. Or you can walk your bike on down Main.” The chief smiled a warm, small-town smile.
    â€œOh. Okay. Sorry.”
    â€œTell your friends about the sign and have a good day.”
    â€œThanks.”
    The chief stepped back and the cyclist, walking his bike, went down the street.
    â€œHow come you never smile at me like that?” I asked. “I never see that nice palsy-walsy face looking at me.”
    â€œI’ll make you a deal,” said the chief. “You move off island and only come back for a week each year and I’ll pretend to be friendly to you, too. It’d be worth a smile to be rid of you most of the year.”
    â€œWhat a thing to say to a man with his little baby daughter listening to every word.”
    The chief gave Diana the smile he wouldn’t give to me. “Now don’t you worry, sweetie, you can stay and your mom and your brother can stay; it’s just your old man that’s got to go.”
    A small hand tugged at my ear. “Pa, I want some ice cream.”
    â€œDiana the Huntress is always seeking food,” I explained. “I’ll see you later.”
    â€œI’m sure.” I was about four steps down the street when he added, “I think the Dingses are staying up at the Wesley, in OB.”
    I looked back, but he was already walking up the sidewalk.
    The chief was crusty but digestible. Diana and I went into the first ice cream shop we came to and laid down our money. Black raspberry for me, and chocolate chip for the kid. Because I didn’t want chocolate hair, we ate in the shop, which, fortunately, had a good stock of paper napkins, since Diana was not too fastidious about her food and tended to chocolatize her face pretty well whenever encountering her favorite dessert.
    When we were through and I had her scrubbed as clean as I was going to get her, I returned her to her backpack and headed for my