Free A Deadly Vineyard Holiday by Philip R. Craig

that I had done a great thing. But tonight my mind was full of Burt Phillips, and not even the combined tenors could push him aside.
    â€œNo,” Karen was saying. “We’re supposed to spend the night right here.”
    â€œBut I don’t see why we can’t stay there,” said Debby. “They invited us. Their parents said it was okay. It would be fun! Why can’t we?”
    Karen took a deep breath. “Because we can’t.” She looked at me for help.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I asked.
    Karen opened her mouth, but Debby spoke first, her words coming fast as bullets. “Jill and Jen have invited us to spend the night at their house, and their folks said it would be okay. It’ll be fun, and I want to go. Say it’s okay!”
    â€œWell . . . ,” I said.
    â€œIt’s not okay,” said Karen. “I can’t take the chance.”
    â€œWell . . . ,” I said.
    â€œI’m going to call Mom,” said Debby. “If she says it’s okay, it’s okay, isn’t it?”
    â€œWell . . . ,” I said.
    â€œI’m going to call her right now,” said Debby, and she went to the phone.
    I looked at Karen’s frowning face. “How were things in Oak Bluffs?”
    Things in O.B. had been fine. No one in the ticket line had guessed that the girl with the big glasses was the daughter of the president of the United States, and the movie had been a summer comedy with some good laughs. Afterward, they’d all had ice cream up on Circuit Avenue.
    For Debby, it had been a blast, and even nay-saying Karen had had a good time. Except for this notion of overnighting with the twins at the Skyes’ house. John and Mattie Skye had said it would be fine, but Karen had never imagined that Debby would get so stuck on the idea.
    â€œAnd tomorrow,” Debby was saying into the phone, “Jeff is taking all of us clamming. We’re going to have a clambake on Sunday! Maybe you can come!”
    I felt my eyes widen. The president having clams at our house? The parking logistics alone made that unlikely. During his first trip to the island I had once caught a glimpse of the caravan taking the great man to play golf at Farm Neck, and I doubted if we could fit all of the necessary cars into our yard. There had been at least a dozen vehicles in that parade: a police car in front, another in back, and, in between, cars full of, I supposed, Secret Service agents, a car full of media types, complete with TV and movie gear, the big armored brown Suburban that presumably bore the golfer himself, more cars full of agents or other personnel,an ambulance, and a couple more cars containing other people of some kind or other. I didn’t have room to park such a convoy.
    On the other hand, if Debby’s folks wanted to come, it would be all right with me. I’d just have to spend a little more time on the clam flats. I knew I couldn’t dig enough to feed their entourage, though. Those minions would have to bring their own grub or eat downtown afterward.
    I realized that Debby was talking to me. I looked up and met her inquiring eyes. Her hand was over the speaker on the phone.
    â€œSorry. What did you say?”
    â€œI said is it all right if my mom and dad come for clams?”
    Good grief; she’d been serious. My mouth moved and said, “Sure.”
    â€œSure,” she said into the phone. Then, to me: “What time?”
    My mouth moved again. “Five-thirty.” My traditional hour for clambakes.
    â€œFive-thirty. It’ll be fun. Do try! And thanks! Bye.” She turned to me. “She says they’ll try to come!” Then she looked at Karen. “And she says we could spend the night with Jill and Jen. If . . .”
    She paused, and Karen looked at her with narrowed eyes. “If what?”
    Debby came across to me. “If cousin Jeff says it’s