Vineyard Stalker by Philip R. Craig Page A

Milt.”
    â€œI will.” I told him I’d be back in touch if I thought of something he might know and asked him to call me if he remembered anything that had slipped his mind.
    â€œI’ll do that,” he said, putting out a beefy hand. “Roland saved my life and I owe him. Besides, he’s a friend.”
    I got back into the truck, wondering if I had learned anything new. If, perhaps, someone from long ago in the Monk’s past was now reemerging to take revenge for a slight or crime forgotten by everyone else. I thought of the folklore that said Italians preferred their vengeance cold, and of the cask of amontillado.
    At home I prepared a cream of fridge soup for supper, which is a meal that is always good but never quite the same, depending as it does on what you have in the way of leftovers in your refrigerator. I put the soup in the freezer to chill and had a Sam Adams while the cats and I socialized, agreeing that the place was empty without Zee and the children. When the soup was cold, I ate two bowls of it, each sprinkled with a few Herbes de Provence. Delish! Then I drove to West Tisbury, parked, and walked down the ancient way to the Monk’s house.
    He was seated on a mat on the western side of his house, taking in the rays of the setting sun. Mr. Mephistopheles was lying beside him, looking very comfortable and wise the way cats do.
    I sat on my heels and told him most of what I’d done that day, who I’d seen, and what they’d said. When I was done, he smiled that gentle, amused smile of his and said, “I can think of no one I’ve offended at work. But ask Milt, if you wish; maybe he knows something I don’t know.”
    â€œYou haven’t exactly made a friend of Melissa Carson.”
    The smile became broader and gentler. “So you found out about Melissa. She’s charming, but I don’t think she’s interested in my kind of life. I really have nothing to offer a wife.” He waved a hand at his house. “What woman would choose this house when she could choose another?”
    â€œA nun?”
    He smiled. “Melissa is hardly a nun!”
    â€œTrue. She’s had a couple of husbands already and she’s sporting a diamond from a guy named Alfred Cabot, but she isn’t sure she wants to marry him, either. She seems to like you, though.”
    He shook his head, and I heard tension in his voice. “I want that to be true. Your ring says you’re married. When I think of Melissa, I think of marriage. But she keeps me at an emotional distance and I think she’ll shortly give me up and go after better game.”
    I thought he might be wrong about that, but only said, “I haven’t decided whether or not to park myself out yonder again tonight. I doubt if those guys will be back so soon, after what happened last night. I think they’ll want to talk to their boss and decide whether they even want to keep on hassling you. If one of the people I talked to today is the boss, they know I have those photos because I told everyone that I did. In any case, what happened last night should cause them pause for a day or two at least. Maybe for good, especially if the experts can clear away the camouflage from that one guy’s face.”
    â€œThat makes sense to me,” said Nunes. “I think we can both get a night’s sleep, and I’ll keep Mr. Mephistopheles inside. We can talk again tomorrow if you wish, but I believe it’s all over.”
    â€œI hope so.”
    I walked back to the Land Cruiser and drove home. Later that night, when I put out a hand and Zee wasn’t beside me, I recalled the old agnostic saying that sleeping alone in a double bed is evidence that there is no God.
    The next morning as I was weeding in the garden I heard the telephone ringing and for once actually got to it before it stopped. It was Carole Cohen.
    â€œDid you hear?” she asked, her voice sharp and