Free Vineyard Stalker by Philip R. Craig Page A

Roland Nunes, has been the victim of several attacks of vandalism recently. I’m wondering if you’ve experienced any here at your place.”
    She frowned and shook her head. “None. My husband’s stone wall would make it difficult for a vandal to get in here even if he wanted to, and at night our gate is shut. You no doubt think that Chris had a fortress mentality and in a sense that’s true. He was a great fancier of medieval culture—castles and armor and knights and ladies and that sort of thing—and he always liked the idea of a walled house, so the first thing he did when we got this place was to build that wall you see. What sort of vandalism are you talking about, and why are you involved?”
    I answered her second question first. “His sister asked me to find out who was intruding and why. Last night I stayed near the house with an infrared camera and I got some pictures of the prowler before he ran away. Here’s one of them. Do you recognize him? Try to look through the camouflage on his face.” I handed her the best of my photographs.
    I studied her as she studied the photo, shook her head, and returned the picture. “I don’t recognize the face. Who is he?”
    Her expression had revealed nothing devious to me. “I don’t know yet, but I’ve given my photos to an expert who may be able to get rid of that camouflage and reveal the face underneath. After that I may be able to ID him. If I can do that and if he’s still on the island I may be able to find him, and if I can find him I may be able to get him to tell me who hired him.”
    â€œThere are a lot of mays in your plans, Mr. Jackson. Just what has this vandal done?”
    I told her, including the part where I’d gotten myself shot and had heard the prowlers talking and my suspicions about the cat food.
    â€œGood heavens,” she said, “that’s pretty extreme stuff, don’t you think? You should go to the police.”
    â€œI gave my client that same advice, but she doesn’t want the authorities involved because her brother leads a very private life. I believe she sees him as a sort of saint.”
    She gave a short, almost bitter, laugh. “My horny daughter might not agree with you. She spotted him as soon as she got here and is making a mighty effort to add him to her list of conquests. With some success, too, or so she says. Melissa has the ethics of an alley cat, but she’s rarely thrown out of bed.”
    â€œWhy, Mother,” said a silky voice from the door. “How sweet of you to speak of me so nicely.”
    I turned my head and saw a woman coming into the room. I’d seen her before, at Roland Nunes’s house. She was wearing white tennis shoes and socks, white shorts, and one of those pastel green and pink Lilly Pulitzer shirts. She had a large diamond on her left ring finger and a tennis racket in her hand. I guessed she was about my age, which is past the flower of youth, but she was very pretty. She put her racket on a chair and extended a tanned hand.
    â€œHi! I’m Melissa Carson, the alley cat. Who are you? One of Babs’s lovers?”
    â€œI’m afraid not. My name is Jackson.”
    She took my left hand and looked at my wedding ring. “Is this real, or do you just wear it to frustrate us girls?”
    â€œIt’s real.” I looked at the giant diamond on her ring finger. “Is that?”
    â€œI certainly hope so. My fiancé is in serious trouble if it isn’t. Do you like it?”
    â€œI like mine better.”
    â€œHow sad for me.”
    Her mother, who had listened to this exchange with a faint smile, now said, “Mr. Jackson is here to ask about vandals, dear. We’ve just met, and I lack your swiftness of attack on new potential prey.” She looked at me. “I actually don’t have or want any lovers, but Melissa is like a cheetah stalking a deer when she meets a