Free A Fatal Vineyard Season by Philip R. Craig Page A

information from,” I said.
    â€œMaybe Buddy could help,” said Julia.
    â€œWho’s Buddy?” I asked.
    â€œMy cousin,” said Julia. “He’s out there. He’s working for an agency. He knows as much as we do about what’s happened, and maybe he can help you find people who know more.”
    â€œHe and I dated,” said Ivy. “That’s how I met Julia. Buddy and I broke up after a while, but we stayed friends. Okay, we’ll phone Buddy, too. He knows lots of people out there.”
    Julia went to a wall and took down a photograph that was hanging there. She brought it to me and pointed at a face. “There. That’s Buddy.”
    I looked at the face. It was a typical Crandel face, smooth and well boned. Smiling Buddy was standing beside smilingJulia amid other smiling people who all looked Crandelish. I turned the photo over. It had been taken three years previously.
    â€œThat’s my mom,” said Julia, pointing to a woman who looked like a slightly younger version of Betsy Crandel. “And that’s Aunt Anna, Buddy’s mom. Buddy and I were going out to Hollywood, and Mom wanted a last picture of the family all together. Every time all of us kids are together, she wants one of these pictures, just in case we’re never together again. She must have dozens of them stored away in boxes!”
    â€œYou leave your mom alone,” said Ivy with a smile. “Besides, someday one of these pictures really will be the last one when you’re all in the same place at the same time, and she’ll have a picture of the historic event.”
    â€œThree years ago was the last time you were all together?” I asked.
    Julia nodded. “The last time. We try to get together here every summer, but for the last couple of years somebody’s always been missing.” She pointed to young people in the photo. “My littlest brother is down in Washington sitting behind a desk in the Pentagon, and my sister, here, is in the Middle East now, working for the U.N. It’s hard to coordinate all our vacations.”
    Julia put the photo back on its hook, and I finished my coffee and put my cup on the tray.
    â€œMake your calls out to the Coast,” I said. “I’ll phone you about noon and get the names and addresses I need. And if I were you, I’d call Thornberry Security in Boston. Meanwhile, be careful.”
    I went out into the bright September day, wishing my thoughts were half so crisp and clear.

— 9 —
    I drove up Circuit Avenue, so named, I’ve been told, because a century before, in camp-meeting days, it had been part of a circuit around the tabernacle, and, it being not only midmorning but post–Labor Day, I found a parking spot without difficulty. It was right where I wanted it: a couple of slots down from the door to the office of Enterprise Management Corporation. I got out and tried the knob, but the door was still locked, so I walked up the street, got a Globe, and went back to the truck.
    Circuit Avenue is a one-way street with diagonal parking, which causes a lot of traffic stops while people put on the brakes to wait for other people to back out of parking places. On the plus side for business owners, it allows for more cars to park near their establishments than would otherwise be the case; and for me it made for more comfortable spying, since I didn’t have to screw my head around so much in order to keep an eye on the Enterprise Management Corporation door while simultaneously reading my paper.
    The news was about the same as usual. I wonder if it ever changes. In our house, Zee gets the sports page and the crossword and I get the rest, but when I’m alone, I read the whole thing, or at least I skim it, from end to end. I was in the business section, reading about the problems of some computer outfit, when a woman came down the street, unlocked the Enterprise Management door, and went in.
    I