Free A Fatal Vineyard Season by Philip R. Craig

home after the detail at the Crandel place last night. Tired, probably, and not paying attention. Somebody was waiting for him inside his own garage, probably hunkered down behind the pickup in the other stall. As near as we can figure it, whoever it was came up behind him with a sack and dropped it over his head, then beat the shit out of him with a crowbar and stuck his piece up his rear and left him there. We got a call saying something had happened. Muffled voice from a public phone in Vineyard Haven. We’re trying to find out if anybody saw anyone at the phone, but so far no luck.”
    â€œWas he raped?”
    Lisa looked at me. “Don’t know yet. They’ve flown him up to Boston. He’s in bad shape.”
    â€œCould he tell you anything?”
    â€œHe’s in a coma. They say he may have permanent brain damage. It makes me sick. We’ll pull Alexandro in again, but a fat lot of good it will do.”
    â€œIf he raped Larry, maybe the semen will ID him.”
    â€œWe’ll see.”
    I left her there with her troubles, glad once again that I was no longer a policeman, and drove to the Crandel house.
    There was now a peephole in the front door. More of Manny Fonseca’s work, no doubt. Julia apparently looked through it before opening the door to my knock.
    â€œThanks for coming,” she said. “Ivy’s got your coffee waiting.”
    We went into the living room. Its large, comfortable chairs and couches, its Oriental rugs and filled bookshelves, its paintings and photographs of generations of Crandels, spoke of informal, genteel living, which was in sharp contrast to the tension in the air. Ivy Holiday was standing by the fireplace, her movie-star face bruised with a frown.
    â€œYou did come,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
    I pointed at a tray holding a coffeepot, cream and sugar, and cups. “I’ll have one of those.”
    She poured and we all sipped.
    â€œI may be able to help you while you’re here on the island,” I said, “but I don’t think I can do much with regard to your admirer, Mackenzie Reed, because he’s in a California hoosegow and I’m right here.”
    â€œYou can find out if this Vegas man is working for him,” said Julia.
    â€œMaybe. The Vegas boys are bad news all by themselves. They don’t need any help from Mackenzie Reed.”
    â€œSomebody is working for him,” said Julia bitterly. “We can’t go on not knowing who it might be. We need help. Somebody is out there.”
    I could imagine how she felt, and it may have been thatimagination that moved my tongue. “All right,” said my mouth, “I’ll help you as best I can. There’ll be some expenses.”
    â€œDon’t worry about the expenses,” said Julia. “Thank you.” The women exchanged glances.
    I was irked with myself. “Don’t thank me yet.” I took a slow sip of coffee. “I’ll need names and telephone numbers of any lawyers the two of you have, and the PI outfit you hired out there, and I’ll need to have both of you call them and tell them who I am so they’ll talk to me.”
    â€œI’m not sure this is necessary,” said Ivy. “It’s probably just a waste of time and money. I’m not afraid of this Alexandro guy, and Mackenzie Reed’s in prison, and maybe there’s nobody else involved.”
    Julia had apparently heard that before, but she had the Crandel stubbornness. “You may not be worried, Ivy, but I think you should be. I’m going to do this!”
    Ivy gave her a thoughtful look, then shrugged, shook her head, and smiled. “All right, if it’s that important to you.” Ivy glanced at her watch. “There’s a three-hour time difference; we can make those calls as soon as people are up in L.A.”
    â€œAnd do the same with anybody else you think I might be able to get