Off Season
Off Season
“I found one Kittery. M. Kittery, North Road, West Tisbury. I glanced at my watch and figured that school should be out by now. I dialed and after two rings heard a woman’s voice say, “Merry Christmas.”
“Mrs. Kittery?”
“Yes.”
“My name is J. W. Jackson. Is your husband at home?”
She had a cheerful voice. “No, Matt isn’t here. He should be home a little after five. Can I take a message?”
“No, it’s you I want to talk to. Do you have a few minutes?”
“I’ve already done my Christmas shopping, and besides, I don’t buy things sold over the phone. Sorry.”
“This is about Chug Lovell.”
There was a silence.
“I’m investigating his death, and your name came up.”
The once cheerful voice was strained. “I haven’t had anything to do with Chug Lovell for years. I don’t know anything about his death.”
“There were some photographs . . .”
“Oh, God . . .”
“Do you want to talk on the phone, or should I drive up there?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . .”
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