Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Philip R. Craig grew up on a small cattle ranch near Durango, Colorado, before going off to college at Boston University, where he was an All-American fencer. He earned his M.F.A. at the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop. A recently retired professor of English at Wheelock College in Boston, he and his wife Shirley now live year-round on Martha's Vineyard.

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Sell Low, Die Hard

Former champion Olympic fencer-turned-sleazy real estate developer Donald Fox isn't making any friends on Martha's Vineyard this gray and chilly March. He's using unscrupulous methods and legal ambiguities to force homeowners to sell their valuable land at rock bottom prices. He's even approached fisherman/sometime-sleuth J. W. Jackson and his wife Zee, not realizing that the retired Boston cop is anything but an easy mark. So when Donald's brother Paul is shot by an unseen assailant on a Vineyard street, J. W. can't help wondering if the wrong Fox sibling inadvertently took the bullet. Since Jackson's curiosity and deep-rooted sense of justice have always gotten the better of him -- and since the bluefish aren't running yet anyway -- he's going to track down the shooter, before preseason on his beloved isle turns irrevocably deadly.

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A Vineyard Killing

Avon Books

Chapter One

Our children, Joshua and Diana, were over on the mainland for two days, being spoiled by Zee's mother and father, and Zee and I were having lunch in the E and E Deli with John and Mattie Skye. It was a sunny but chilly March day, with a cold wind blowing from the north.

Outside, the traffic at the dread five corners Vineyard Haven was moving smoothly along. Such would not be the case when summer arrived and the street would be a slow-moving parking lot.

"Too bad the twins couldn't make it down with you," said Zee, wiping her lips.

"The girls have more interesting ways to spend their long weekend than being with their parents said Mattie. "They're college women now."

I could remember when John and Matti's daughters, Jen and Jill, were little girls, about the ages our children were now. I hadn't been able tell them apart then, and I still couldn't. "They don't make a quesadilla as good as this one up in Westock," I said.

"But Weststock has college men," explained Mattie. "Compared to that, even E and E food has insufficient appeal."

"You're brave to leave them alone up there for three days," said Zee.

I suspected that she was thinking of our Diana who would be of interest to young men in another ten years or so. I shared her view, having begun worrying about just such boys shortly after Diana had been born.

"They're eighteen," said John, who made his living teaching medieval lit at Weststock College. "They're supposed to be grown-up enough to stay out of trouble."

I had never grown up that much, so said nothing about John's fantasy.

The front door opened and let in both some cold air and John Reilley, who looked carefully around the room, nodded slightly to me, and went to the counter to order.

I knew a folk song about a sailor named John Riley, but I didn't know much about this John Reilley. Two things I did know were that he always took a survey of a room before he entered it, and that he was a carpenter with the reputation of being good with his hands. It was an excellent reputation to have on an island that was awash with money being spent by people buying old houses, tearing them down, and then building massive new ones. John Reilley would never be out of work as long as he lived on Martha's Vineyard.

Almost immediately the door opened again an three other men came in, one limping slightly and carrying a silver-headed cane. After sweeping the room with their eyes, they followed John Reilley to the counter. Apparently today was a day when everybody was checking out delis before they came in.

Strange.

"Well, well," said John Skye in a quiet voice. "I see that even evil real estate developers are allowed in this joint."

My face apparently revealed my ignorance because John added, "The one in the middle is Dot ald Fox, the boss of Saberfox. The one on his right his little brother Paul. I don't know the guy with the cane."

"Ah," said Zee, straightening and frowning as she looked at Donald Fox. "The Savannah Swordsman himself, eh?"

I now glanced that way, too, for Fox's name was headliner in the local press. The Fox brothers wes tall, handsome men wearing expensive winter coats, hut Donald's face was as hard as his brother's was gentle.

"The very same," said John. "Did I tell you that one of his minions has contacted us and made the now famous offer to purchase our place?"

"No, you didn't," said Zee, glancing at Mattie's angry face, "but Jeff and I have also been honored by a similar visit. The rep was a Mr. Albert Kirkland, complete with coat and tie and one of those little lap top computers that people carry around instead briefcases these days. Jeff told him to take a hike."

"I was much nicer than that," I said. "I just told him we weren't interested in selling any land."

"And he said that it might be wise to reconsider since a lot of Vineyard land titles are pretty fuzzy and that Saberfox was doing extensive research in the Registry of Deeds."

"He left before any shots were fired," I said.

"What's scary," said Zee, "is that Saberfox has more money and lawyers than God and can out spend almost anybody who has land he wants ...

Excerpted from A Vineyard Killingby Craig, Philip R. Excerpted by permission.
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