Plum Island (35 page)

“There’s no danger of a … a plague, or some kind of epidemic—”

“None at all.”

“Good. There were a lot of worried people the other night.”

“Worry no more. Where were you Monday night?”

“Me? Oh, I was at dinner with friends. In my own restaurant, right here, as a matter of fact.”

“What time?”

“About eight. We hadn’t even heard the news yet.”

“Where were you earlier? Like about five, 5:30.”

“I was home.”

“Alone?”

“I have a housekeeper and a girlfriend.”

“That’s nice. Will they recall where you were at 5:30?”

“Of course. I was home.” He added, “That was the day of the first pick. I arrived here about dawn. By four I was exhausted
and went home to nap. Then I came back here for dinner. A little celebration to mark the harvest. You never know when the
first pick will be, so it’s always spontaneous. In a week or two, we’ll have a big harvest dinner.”

“What a life.” I asked, “Who was at dinner?”

“My girlfriend, the estate manager, some friends….” He looked at me and said, “This sounds like an interrogation.”

It should. It was. But I didn’t want to get Mr. Tobin agitated and have him calling his lawyer, or Max. I said to him, “These
are just standard questions, Mr. Tobin. I’m trying to get a picture of where everyone was Monday night, what everyone’s relationship
was to the deceased. That sort of thing. When we have a suspect, then some of the friends and co-workers of the Gordons may
become witnesses. You see? We don’t know until we know.”

“I see.”

I let him settle down awhile, and we did grape talk again. The guy was smooth, but like anyone else, he was a little jumpy
around the fuzz. I asked him, “When and where did you see the Gordons last week?”

“Oh … let me think…. Dinner at my house. I had a few people over.”

“What was your attraction to the Gordons?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said.”

He replied, “I think I indicated it was the other way around, Detective.”

“Then why would you invite them to your house?”

“Well … in truth, they told some fascinating tales about Plum Island. My guests always enjoyed that.” He added, “The Gordons
earned their dinner.”

“Did they?” The Gordons rarely spoke about their job to me.

“Also,” he said, “they were an exceptionally attractive couple.” He asked me, “Did you … I mean, I suppose when you saw them
… but she was a rare beauty.”

“Indeed she was.” I asked, “Were you popping her?”

“Excuse me?”

“Were you sexually involved with Mrs. Gordon?”

“Heavens, no.”

“Did you give it a try?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you at least
think
about it?”

He thought about if he thought about it, then said, “Sometimes. But I’m not a wife chaser. I have enough on my plate.”

“Do you?” I guess champagne works when you own the vineyard, the chateau, the fermenting vats, and the bottling plant. I wonder
if guys who own microbreweries get laid as much as vintners? Probably not. Go figure.

Anyway, I asked Mr. Tobin, “Have you ever been to the Gordons’ house?”

“No. I don’t even know where they lived.”

“Then where did you send the social invitations?”

“Well … my public relations person does that. But now that I think about it, I recall that they live … lived in Nassau Point.”

“Yes, sir. It was in all the news. Nassau Point residents found murdered.”

“Yes. And I remember they mentioned they had a place on the water.”

“Indeed they do. Did. They commuted to Plum Island often. They probably said that a few dozen times at dinner parties along
with the Plum Island stories.”

“Yes, they did.”

I noticed that Mr. Tobin had little beads of sweat at the base of his hair weave. I had to keep in mind that the most innocent
of people got the sweats when they were under the modified and civilized third degree. I mean, we used to talk about sweating
information out of people in the old days— you know, the glaring lights, the nonstop interrogations, the third degree, whatever
the hell that means. Today, we’re very gentle, sometimes, but no matter how gentle you are, some people—innocent and guilty
alike—just don’t like being questioned.

It
was
getting a little warmer, and I took off my blue blazer and threw it over my shoulder. My S&W was on my ankle so Mr. T was
not alarmed.

The bees had found me and I said, “Do these sting?”

“If you annoy them, they do.”

“I’m not annoying them. I like bees.”

“They’re actually wasps. Yellow jackets. You must be wearing some cologne that they like.”

“Lagerfeld.”

“That’s one of their favorites.” He added, “Ignore them.”

“Right. Were the Gordons invited to dinner Monday night?”

“No, I wouldn’t have normally invited them to a small, spontaneous gathering…. Monday’s gathering was mostly close friends
and people involved with the business.”

“I see.”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Oh, just for the irony of it. You know, if they’d been asked, maybe they’d have come home sooner, gotten dressed … you know,
they might have missed their appointment with death.”

He replied, “No one misses their appointment with death.”

“Yeah, you know, I think you’re right.”

We were in a row of vines with purple grapes now. I asked Mr. Tobin, “Why do purple grapes make red wine?”

“Why … ? Well … I guess you could more properly call it purple wine.”

“I would.”

Mr. Tobin said, “This is actually called pinot noir. Noir means black.”

“I took French. These grapes are called black, they look purple, and the wine is called red. You see why people are confused?”

“It’s really not that complicated.”

“Sure it is. Beer is easy. There’s lager and pilsner. Right? Then you have ale and stout. Forget those and forget dark beer
and bock. Basically you have lager and pilsner, light or regular. You go into a bar, and you can see what’s on tap because
the taps are labeled. You can ask, ‘What do you have in bottles?’ When they’re through rattling it all off, you say, ‘Bud.’
End of story.”

Mr. Tobin smiled. “That’s very amusing. Actually, I enjoy a good, cold beer on a hot day.” He leaned toward me conspiratorially
and said, “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Your secret is safe with me. Hey, this goes on forever. How many acres do you have here?”

“Here I have two hundred acres. I have another two hundred scattered around.”

“Wow. That’s big. Do you lease land?”

“Some.”

“Do you lease land from Margaret Wiley?” He didn’t reply immediately, and if I’d been facing him across a table, I could have
seen his expression the moment I said, “Margaret Wiley.” But the hesitation was interesting enough.

Finally, Mr. Tobin replied, “I believe we do. Yes, we do. About fifty acres. Why do you ask?”

“I know she leases land to the vintners. She’s an old friend of my aunt and uncle. It’s a small world. Small fork.” I changed
the subject and asked, “So, are you the biggest grape on the fork?”

“Tobin is the biggest vineyard on the North Fork, if that’s what you mean.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“Hard work, a good knowledge of viniculture, perseverance, and a superior product.” He added, “And good luck. What frightens
us here is hurricanes. Late August to early October. One year the harvest was very late. About mid-October. No fewer than
six hurricanes came up from the Caribbean. But every one of them turned off in another direction. Bacchus was watching over
us.” He added, “That’s the god of wine.”

“And a hell of a composer.”

“That’s Bach.”

“Right.”

“By the way, we have concerts here and sometimes operas. I can put you on our mailing list, if you’d like.”

We found ourselves heading back into the big shingled complex. I said, “That would be great. Wine, opera, good company. I’ll
send you my card. I’m out at the moment.”

As we approached the winery, I looked around and said, “I don’t see your house.”

“I don’t actually live here. I do have an apartment on the top of that tower, but my house is south of here.”

“On the water?”

“Yes.”

“Do you boat?”

“A little.”

“Motor or sail?”

“Motor.”

“And the Gordons were guests in your house?”

“Yes. A few times.”

“They arrived by boat, I guess.”

“I believe they did once or twice.”

“And did you ever visit them in your boat?”

“No.”

I was going to ask him if he owned a white Formula, but sometimes it’s a good idea not to ask a question about something you
can discover another way. Questions tend to tip people off, to spook them. Fredric Tobin, as I said, was not a murder suspect,
but I had the impression he was hiding something.

Mr. Tobin showed me in through the entrance that we’d come out of. He said, “If I can be of any further help, please let me
know.”

“Okay … hey, I have a date tonight, and I’d like to get a bottle of wine.”

“Try our Merlot. The’95 is incomparable. But a little pricey.”

“Why don’t you show me? I have a few more things to cover anyway.”

He hesitated a moment, then led me into the gift shop, which was attached to a spacious wine-tasting room. It was a very handsome
room with a thirty-foot-long oak tasting bar, a half dozen booths to one side, boxes and racks of wine all over the place,
stained glass windows, a quarry tile floor, and so on. About a dozen wine lovers meandered around the room, commenting on
the labels or slurping up freebies at the wine bar, making stupid talk with the young men and women who were pouring and trying
to smile.

Mr. Tobin said hello to one of the pourers, Sara, by name, an attractive young lady in her mid-twenties. I assumed that Fredric
picked the furniture himself, and he had a good eye for clean-cut pretties. The boss said, “Sara, pour Mr….”

“John.”

“Pour John some of the’95 Merlot.”

And she did, with a steady hand into a small glass. I swirled the stuff around to show I was into this. I sniffed it and said,
“Nice bouquet.” I held it up to the light and said, “Good color. Purple.”

“And nice fingers.”

“Where?”

“The way it clings to the glass.”

“Right.” I sipped a little. I mean, it’s okay. It’s an acquired taste. It’s actually not bad with a steak. I said, “Fruity
and friendly.”

Mr. Tobin nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. And forward.”

“Very forward.”
Forward?
I said, “This is a bit heavier and more robust than a Napa Merlot.”

“Actually, it’s a bit lighter.”

“That’s what I meant.” I should have quit while I was ahead. “Good.” I put the glass down.

Mr. Tobin said to Sara, “Pour the’95 Cabernet.”

“That’s all right.”

“I want you to see the difference.”

She poured. I sipped and said, “Good. Less forward.” We chitchatted a bit, and Mr. Tobin insisted I try a white. He said,
“This is my blend of Chardonnay and other whites which I won’t reveal. It has a beautiful color, and we call it Autumn Gold.”

I sampled the wine. “Friendly, but not too forward.” He didn’t reply.

I said, “Did you ever think of calling one of your wines the Grapes of Wrath?”

“I’ll take that up with my marketing people.” I commented, “Nice labels.”

Mr. Tobin informed me, “All my reds have labels with a piece of Pollock art, and my whites are de Kooning.”

“Is that so?”

“You know—Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning. They both lived on Long Island and created some of their best works here.”

“Oh, the painters. Right. Pollock is the splatter guy.” Mr. Tobin didn’t reply, but glanced at his watch, clearly tired of
my company. I looked around and spotted an empty booth, away from the wine pourers and customers. I said, “Let’s sit over
there a minute.”

Mr. Tobin followed reluctantly and sat opposite me in the booth. I sipped at the Cabernet and said to him, “Just a few more
routine questions. How long did you know the Gordons?”

“Oh … about a year and a half.”

“Did they ever discuss their work with you?”

“No.”

“You said they liked to tell Plum Island stories.”

“Oh, yes. In a general way. They never gave away government secrets.” He smiled.

“That’s good. Did you know they were amateur archaeologists?”

“I … yes, I did.”

“Did you know they belonged to the Peconic Historical Society?”

“Yes. In fact, that’s how we met.”

“Everyone seems to belong to the Peconic Historical Society.”

“There are about five hundred members. That’s not everyone.”

“But everyone
I
come across seems to belong. Is this like a front for something else? Like a witches’ coven or something?”

“Not as far as I know. That could be fun, though.”

We both smiled. He seemed to mull something over; I can tell when a man is mulling, and I never interrupt a muller. Finally,
he said, “As a matter of fact, the Peconic Historical Society is having a party Saturday night. I am hosting it on my back
lawn. Last outdoor party of the season, weather permitting. Why don’t you and a guest join us?”

I guess he had room for two more now that the Gordons couldn’t make it. I replied, “Thanks. I’ll try.” Actually, I wouldn’t
miss it.

He said, “Chief Maxwell may be there. He has all the particulars.”

“Great. Can I bring something? Wine?”

He smiled politely. “Just bring yourself.”

“And a guest,” I reminded him. “Yes, and a guest.”

I asked Mr. Tobin, “Did you ever hear anything … any gossip about the Gordons?”

“Such as?”

“Well, sexual, for instance.”

“Not a word.”

“Financial problems?

“I wouldn’t know.” And round and round we went for another ten minutes. Sometimes you catch a person in a lie, sometimes you
don’t. Any lie, no matter how small, is significant. I didn’t exactly catch Mr. Tobin in any lies, but I was fairly certain
he knew the Gordons more intimately than he was letting on. In and of itself, this was not significant. I asked Mr. Tobin,
“Can you name any of the Gordons’ friends?”