Free Vineyard Stalker by Philip R. Craig

league with the mansions that were now going up all over the island, and I wondered if Mrs. Carson wanted Nunes’s land so she could build her own castle and not have to tear down this house to do it. Maybe she was the sentimental type, who cherished the past while moving into the future.
    I parked in front of the breezeway, put on my most honest-looking smile, and tapped on the front door of the house, using the handsome bronze scallop-shell knocker that was centered there. After a bit, the door opened and a white-haired woman looked at me, then swept her gaze down to my feet and back up again.
    â€œYes?”
    She was wiping her hands on a towel and was wearing a stained, full-length apron. Under it were old rich-lady clothes that were informal and comfortable but had originally been pricey, so I knew she wasn’t the cleaning woman.
    â€œMy name is Jackson,” I said. “I’d like to speak with Mrs. Carson about a matter that may interest her. It has to do with the property that adjoins hers.” I waved a finger toward Roland Nunes’s land.
    â€œI’m Babs Carson,” said the woman. “I’m in the middle of something. Will this take long?”
    â€œI won’t take up much of your time.”
    She thought about it for only a moment, then smiled and said, “Well, a short meeting is usually a good meeting.” She opened the door and stepped back. “Come in, Mr. Jackson, and sit down in there. I’ll get rid of this apron and be right with you.”
    I did as she asked and found myself in a sitting room, facing a lovely antique coffee table. It was a medium-sized room with windows looking out at a rose garden and, on the opposite wall, a fireplace and bookcases alternately holding books and small objects d’art. Over the fireplace was a painting of a much younger Mrs. Carson. She had been a beauty then and she still was. I suspected that she’d been Babs since her boarding school days. I’d never known a poor girl called Babs.
    A few moments later she came in and sat down opposite me.
    â€œNow, Mr. Jackson, please take the podium.”
    â€œI gather that you’re a potter.”
    â€œYou gather correctly. My studio is in back of the house. I was working there when you arrived.”
    â€œWheel or slab?”
    â€œBoth.”
    â€œDo you make your own glazes?”
    â€œSometimes. Are you an artist yourself?”
    â€œNot at all, although I’m pretty vain about some of the fishing lures I’ve made.”
    She smiled and I immediately liked her. “You’re a fisherman, then. So was my husband Chris. So am I.”
    â€œI’m a surfcaster.”
    â€œBlues or bass or both?”
    â€œBoth, but mostly blues. I don’t like to catch and release and you have to do a lot of that when you’re bass fishing because of the size limit for keepers.”
    She nodded. “I totally agree.” Then she leaned forward a bit and said, “The fact is, though, that when I catch a bass and nobody’s looking I usually keep it whatever its size because I like to eat what I catch!”
    A woman after my own heart. We looked at one another with satisfaction.
    â€œOne more question before we get down to business,” I said. “Out of curiosity, was your husband related in any way to Kit Carson, the famous scout?”
    She seemed pleased. “As a matter of fact, he was a descendant of the same family. It’s my understanding that his great-grandfather was so happy to be related to old Kit that he named his first son Christopher and that the name has been passed down to first sons ever since. My Chris was number three and our son, if we’d had one, would have been number four. If my husband was alive, he’d be very happy that you asked.” She leaned back in her chair. “But that’s not what you came here to discuss.”
    â€œNo it isn’t. I’m here because your neighbor,