Free Vineyard Deceit by Philip Craig Page B

Poor Zee didn’t even have time to phone me herself. She may not get back until Monday.”
    The front door opened, and the first of the guests was announced. Amelia and I were looking at each other. Suddenly Emily Damon was at Amelia’s side, taking her arm, smiling vaguely at me. “Amelia, dear, do come and meet our very good friends the Leaches and the Alexanders. You’ll excuse us, I’m sure, young man . . .”
    I was distracted. “Of course,” my voice said.
    Amelia gave me a gentle look, briefly gripped my arm, and was gone.

8
    Zee in Boston for the whole weekend. And I had a date to take her home after the party, too. Rats! I leaned against the wall while black-uniformed waitresses carrying trays of exotic appetizers brushed by me on their way to the celebration. I snagged a crabmeat canapé as it passed. Not bad. I felt lonesome. Then I felt sorry for Zee. It was going to be quite a party from the looks of things, andshe was going to miss it. I decided to do my duty and enjoy myself too. It’s a nice combination when you can pull it off. I wandered around a bit, trying to look unobtrusive. I seemed to be good at it. Nobody paid any attention to me. They were all busy discussing and looking at More Important People, of whom there were apparently quite a few.
    By six-thirty, everyone was there awaiting the descent of the Padishah’s party down the great stairway. The liquor had begun to flow freely. The guests were gathered in knots in the entrance hall, on the veranda, and in the ballroom and library. Among them I recognized the grandfatherly figure of a famous retired television newsman, two famous once-married but now divorced pop singers from up island, an actor who had become a star after his film portrayal of a comic-book hero, and a famous but secretive painter who preferred the fishing at Wasque Point and Lobsterville to the New York gallery scene and with whom I had shared coffee a few times during Bass and Bluefish Derby time when the winds were raw. I heard talk and saw sidelong looks that indicated that other celebrated folk were among the crowd, but since I did not own a television set and did not like or listen to popular music, most of the names and faces were unknown to me.
    There were readily identifiable reporters and camera people circulating and recording the events of the evening while they liberally partook of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. All of them wore formal evening dress, I was glad to see. The reporters I know are not normally so properly attired. It was not hard to keep track of the hired security people: they were the only ones not drinking. The guests, like the reporters, were keeping the bartenders busy and were primarily there, I guessed, to see the famous emeralds. Until the emeralds appeared, they were still interested in seeing who else of importance was there and in having those important people see them. They took no heed of the dozen busy-eyed soda sippers who movedthrough and about the crowd trying to notice everything and hoping that no one was noticing them.
    Helga Johanson, of course, was watching them to make sure that they were on the job. She had emerged from the library and was a graceful and alert figure who captured the attention of more than one admiring man or envious woman, but who slipped charmingly away from invitations for drinks or extended conversations so that she could better do her double job of watching for the bad guys while checking on her own people. Her dress was form fitting. Where did she carry her trusty Colt .45?
    I went away into various rooms and looked for suspicious people. I found none. The most suspicious-looking people at the party, I thought, were those hanging closest to Edward C. Damon. They were a shifty-looking crowd. In a corner, apart from other guests, I saw Amelia Muleto talking with a tall, cadaverous man whom I recognized as Willard Sergeant Blunt. Was he really her wooer, as