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

read some more and watched to see if any barn-sized men were going to show up and do some morning officework. When none did, and I had finished the sports pages and noted that the Red Sox, out of the pennant race since June, were now on a winning streak linked, some writers were quick to suspect, to the players’ upcoming winter contract negotiations, I got out and followed the woman through the door and upstairs.
    On a closed door there the company name was written on opaque glass above the knob. There weren’t any words asking me to Please Enter, but I did anyway.
    Curtained windows looked out over Circuit Avenue. The windows were behind a none-too-young desk. Some file cabinets were against a wall beside a large, old-fashioned safe, and there was a table with some out-of-date magazines on it. Two chairs were in front of the desk and one behind it. In the one behind it was a woman reading a paperback romance novel.
    On the cover of the novel was a picture of a woman with long blond hair and breasts about the size of her head that were bursting from a low-cut, white blouse. Her head was thrown back, her eyes were closed, and her mouth was open. She was being embraced by a muscular, bare-chested man with dark, curly locks and the face of a male model. Both of them looked a bit bored, I thought. The title of the book was Love’s Passionate something-or-other. I couldn’t make out the something-or-other because the woman’s fingers covered part of the book cover.
    The clothing and hair of the woman behind the desk were teetering on the brink of needing a washing, and her face was dull and sly. I thought it also carried a hint of a bruise on the left side. She turned down the corner of a page and closed the book, then looked at me without smiling.
    â€œHi,” I said, sitting down.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” Her voice gave no indication of interest.
    â€œMy name is John Appleseed,” I said tentatively. “I hope I’ve come to the right place.”
    She stared at me, then said, “What place is that?”
    I put a fawning smile on my face. “I’m thinking of opening a business in town. Nothing big, you understand. A souvenir shop just up the street.” I waved a vague hand in that direction. Another souvenir shop on Circuit Avenue was just what Oak Bluffs needed.
    The woman waited and then said, “So?”
    I turned my cap in my hands. “Well, I’ve been talking to some other merchants about doing business in town—you know, the sorts of problems that come up here, as they do in any town, of course, and I’m anxious to avoid them if I can, you understand. So before committing myself to this business opportunity I’m considering, I thought I’d do my best to take reasonable steps to minimize the possibility of having any unnecessary difficulties.”
    She said nothing.
    I tugged on an ear. “So, as you might guess, I made inquiries to my fellow entrepreneurs as to how I might best accomplish that and have been told that your corporation has been most successful in assuring the smooth operation of local firms.” I enlarged my smile and ran a hand across my brow. “So here I am, madam, to introduce myself and to discuss the possibility of doing business with your organization.”
    â€œI’m just the secretary. I don’t write contracts. You need to see the boss for that. You got a card?”
    I touched various pockets. “Heavens, I don’t think I do. How silly!”
    She sighed, opened a drawer, and got out a pen and a pad of paper. “What was your name, again?”
    â€œAppleseed. John Appleseed.”
    â€œAddress?”
    I gave her the address of the house in Somerville where we’d lived long ago when I was young and my father was still alive and we’d vacation on the Vineyard when the bluefish were running.
    â€œI have no address here on the island, you understand,though of course