Plum Island (36 page)

He thought a moment, then said, “Well, as I said, your colleague, Chief Maxwell, for one.” He named a few other people whose
names I didn’t recognize. He said, “I really don’t know their friends or professional associates well. As I said … well, let
me put it bluntly—they were sort of hangers-on. But they were attractive, well spoken, and had interesting jobs. They were
both Ph.D.’s. You can say we each got something out of the arrangement…. I like to surround myself with interesting and beautiful
people. Yes, that’s somewhat shallow, but you’d be surprised how shallow the interesting and beautiful people can be.” He
added, “I’m sorry about what happened to them, but I can’t help you any further.”

“You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Tobin. I really appreciate your time, and I appreciate your not making a big deal of this with
an attorney.”

He didn’t reply.

I slid out of the booth, and he did the same. I said, “Will you walk me out to my car?”

“If you’d like.”

I stopped at a counter on which was lots of literature about wine, including some brochures on and about Tobin Vineyards.
I gathered a bunch of them and threw them in my little bag. I said, “I’m one of those brochure nuts. I have all these brochures
from Plum Island—rinderpest, lumpy skin disease—anyway, I’m getting a real education on this case.”

Again, he didn’t reply.

I asked him to find me the Merlot’95, which he did. I said, apropos the label, “Jackson Pollock. I never would have guessed.
Now I have something to talk about with my date tonight.” I brought the wine to the cashier, and if I thought Mr. Tobin was
going to charge it off to goodwill, I was wrong. I paid the full price, plus tax.

We walked out into the sunlight. I said, “By the way, I was, like yourself, an acquaintance of the Gordons.”

He stopped walking and I, too, stopped. He looked at me.

I said, “John Corey.”

“Oh … yes. I didn’t catch the name….”

“Corey. John.”

“Yes … I remember now. You’re the policeman who was wounded.”

“That’s right. I’m feeling much better now.”

“Aren’t you a New York City detective?”

“Yes, sir. Hired by Chief Maxwell to help out.”

“I see.”

“So, the Gordons did mention me?”

“Yes.”

“Did they say nice things about me?”

“I’m sure they did, but I don’t recall precisely.”

“We’ve actually met once. Back in July. You had a big wine-tasting thing in your big room there.”

“Oh, yes….”

“You had on a purple suit and a tie with grapes and vines.”

He looked at me. “Yes, I think we did meet.”

“No doubt about it.” I looked around the gravel lot and commented, “Everyone has a four-wheel drive these days. That’s mine
over there. It speaks French,” I explained, as I started it with the remote. I asked Mr. Tobin, “Is that your white Porsche
over there?”

“Yes, it is. How do you know that?”

“I just thought it might be. You’re a Porsche kind of guy.” I put my hand out, and we shook. I said, “I might see you at your
party.”

“I hope you find who did it.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will. I always do. Ciao. Bonjour.”

“Bonjour is hello.”

“Right. Au revoir.”

We parted, our footsteps crunching across the gravel in opposite directions. The bees followed me to my car, but I slipped
inside quickly and drove off.

I thought about Mr. Fredric Tobin, proprietor, bon vivant, connoisseur of all things beautiful, local big wheel, acquaintance
of the deceased.

My training told me he was clean as a whistle, and I shouldn’t spend another minute thinking about him. Of all the theories
I’d developed about why the Gordons were murdered and who may have done it, Mr. T did not fit one of them. Yet, my instinct
told me to follow up on the gentleman.

I
headed west along Main Road, trying to read the vehicle owner’s manual as I drove. I pushed a few buttons on the dashboard,
and voilà, the LED displays all went from metric to one hundred percent American. This is the most fun you can have in the
front seat of a car.

Feeling now technologically enriched, I accessed my telephone answering machine with my cell phone. “I’ll tell ya, if those
pilgrims could see us now, tooling around past their old farms and villages—”

The machine said, “You have three messages.”

One must be from Beth. I listened, but the first was from Max, reiterating that I was no longer on the case and asking me
to call him back, which I had no intention of doing. The second message was from Dom Fanelli. He said, “Yo, J.C. Got your
message. If you need help out there, just holler. Meanwhile, I’m getting some leads about who used you for target practice,
so I don’t want to leave it up in the air unless you really need me there. Why do so many people want to kill my good bud?
Hey, I spoke to Wolfe personally, and he’s not buying that it wasn’t you on TV. He says he has information that it was. He
wants you to answer some questions. My advice is monitor your calls. That’s it for now. Keep your bubble out of trouble.”

“Thanks.”

The last message was not from Beth, but was from none other than my commanding officer, Detective Lieutenant Andrew Wolfe.
He didn’t say much except, “I’d like you to call me back as soon as possible.” Ominous.

I wondered if Nash and Wolfe really knew each other. The point was, however, that undoubtedly Nash had told Wolfe that, indeed,
it had been John Corey on TV, and John Corey was working a homicide case when he was supposed to be on convalescent leave.
All those statements were true, and I suppose Andrew Wolfe wanted an explanation from me. I know I could explain how I’d gotten
involved with this case, but it would be difficult for me to explain to Detective Lieutenant Wolfe why he was an asshole.

All things considered, it would be best not to return that call. Maybe I should speak to my lawyer. No good deed goes unpunished.
I mean, I’m just trying to be a good citizen, and the guy who talked me into this, my buddy Max, picks my brains, gets me
into a pissing match with the Feds, then pulls my shield. Actually, he never gave me a shield. And Beth hasn’t called.

I kept reminding myself I was a hero, though I’m not sure how getting shot is heroic. When I was a kid, only people who shot
at
bad guys were heroes. Now everyone who gets a disease, or who’s held hostage, or who gets plugged is a hero. But if I could
trade on the hero thing to get my ass out of hot water, I surely would. Problem was, media-made heroes had only about ninety
days shelf-life. I got shot in mid-April. Maybe I should call my lawyer.

I was in the hamlet of Cutchogue now, approaching downtown, which can get by you real quick if you’re not paying attention.
Cutchogue is ye olde quaint, neat, and prosperous, like most of these hamlets, partly because of the wine biz, I think. There
were long banners strung across Main Street advertising a whole bunch of events, like the Annual East End Seaport Maritime
Festival, and a concert at Horton Lighthouse featuring the Isotope Stompers. Don’t ask.

Well, the summer was officially over, but the fall season had a lot going on for the residents and for the smaller number
of tourists. I always suspected there was a big party held each November, open to locals only, and it was called, “The North
Fork Residents Say Good Riddance to the Fucking Tourists Festival.”

So there I was driving very slowly, looking for the Peconic Historical Society building that I remembered was somewhere around
Main Road. To the south side of the road was the Cutchogue Village Green, which boasted the oldest house in New York State,
circa 1649, according to the sign. This looked promising, and I drove down a small lane that bisected the green. There were
a number of old clapboards and shingled buildings across the green which thankfully lacked pillories, stocks, dunking stools,
or any other public displays of early American S&M.

Finally, a short distance from the village green, I saw a big white clapboard house, a mansion really, with tall white pillars
in front. A wooden Chippendale-style sign on the lawn said, “Peconic Historical Society.” Beneath that it said, “Museum,”
then, “Gift Shoppe.” Two “p’s” and an “e.” I won a Scrabble game with that word once.

Hanging from two short chains was another sign giving the days and hours that the museum and gift shoppe were open. After
Labor Day, the hours were confined to weekends and holidays.

There was a phone number on the sign, and I dialed it. There was a recorded message, a woman’s voice that sounded like it
was taped in 1640, which went on about hours and events and all of that.

Never one to be put off by other people’s agendas, I got out, climbed the steps to the big porch, and knocked with ye olde
brass knocker. I really gave it a good pounding, but no one seemed to be about, and there were no cars in the small lot to
the side.

I got back into my vehicle and dialed my new friend, Margaret Wiley. She answered, and I said, “Good morning, Mrs. Wiley.
This is Detective Corey.”

“Yes.”

“You mentioned yesterday about seeing the Peconic Historical Society museum, and I was thinking about that all day. Do you
think it would be possible to go see it today and maybe speak to some of the officers—what was the president’s name? Witherspoon?”

“Whitestone. Emma Whitestone.”

“Right. Is that possible today?”

“I don’t know….”

“Why don’t I call Emma Whitestone—”

“I’ll call her. She may consent to meet you at the museum.”

“Great. I really appreciate—”

“Where can I reach you?”

“Tell you what. I’ll call you back in ten or fifteen minutes. I’m in my car, and I have to stop and get a gift for my mother.
It’s her birthday. Hey, I’ll bet you have a gift shop in the museum.”

“We do.”

“Great. By the way, I spoke to my Uncle Harry and gave him your regards.”

“Thank you.”

“He said to say hello to you, and he’d like to call you when he gets out here.” I didn’t mention Uncle Harry’s dead dick.

“That would be nice.”

“Terrific. Okay, I’d really appreciate it if Mrs. Whitestone or any of the other officers of the society could meet me this
morning.”

“I’ll do what I can. I may have to come myself.”

“Don’t put yourself out. And thanks for your help yesterday.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I almost didn’t. “Fifteen minutes. Call around.”

“Is your friend with you today?”

“My partner?”

“Yes, the young lady.”

“She’ll be along shortly.”

“She’s a delightful woman. I enjoyed speaking to her.”

“We’re going to get married.”

“How unfortunate.” She hung up.

Oh, well. I threw the vehicle into gear, and the female voice was back, telling me, “Release emergency brake,” which I did.
I messed around with the computer awhile, trying to delete this option, expecting the voice to say, “Why are you trying to
kill me? Don’t you like me? I’m only trying to help you.”

What if the doors locked and the gas pedal went down to the floor? I threw the owner’s manual in the glove compartment.

I turned south on the delightfully named Skunk Lane, then across the causeway to Nassau Point again.

I drove to the Gordons’ street and noticed Max’s white Jeep out front of the crime scene. I pulled into the Murphys’ driveway,
out of sight of the Gordons’ house.

I went directly to the rear of the Murphys’ house and saw them in the TV room, known also as the Florida room, a jalousied
extension to the original building. The TV was going, and I rapped on the screen door.

Edgar Murphy stood, saw me, and opened the door. “Back again?”

“Yes, sir. I just need a minute of your time.”

He motioned me inside. Mrs. Murphy stood and gave me a lukewarm hello. The TV stayed on. For a half second, I was at my parents’
house in Florida—same room, same TV show, same people, really. Anyway, I said to them, “Describe the white sports car you
saw next door in June.”

They both gave it a go, but their descriptive powers were limited. Finally, I took a pen out of my pocket, picked up a newspaper,
and asked them to draw an outline of the car, but they said they couldn’t. I drew an outline of a Porsche for them. You’re
not supposed to lead a witness like this, but what the hell. They both nodded. Mr. Murphy said, “Yup, that’s it. Big fat car.
Like a turned-over washtub.” Mrs. Murphy agreed.

I took the Tobin Vineyards brochure from my pocket and folded it so as to show only a small black and white photo of Fredric
Tobin, proprietor. I didn’t let them see the whole brochure because they would have told everybody that the police thought
Fredric Tobin murdered the Gordons.

The Murphys studied the photo. Again, this is really leading the witness, showing only one photo without mixing it up with
others, but I had no time or patience for procedure. I did not, however, say, “Is this the man you saw in the sports car?”

Mrs. Murphy, however, did say, “That’s the man I saw in the sports car.”