Plum Island (60 page)

Beth said, “My house is pretty far inland, if you want to stop by later. From there, it’s less than two hours by car or train
to Manhattan, and you could leave after the worst of the storm has passed.”

“Thank you.”

We drove in silence awhile, then finally reached Main Road, which was clear of debris but flooded. There wasn’t much traffic
and almost all the businesses along the way were closed and some were boarded up. I saw an empty farm stand that had collapsed,
and a utility pole that had fallen over, taking the telephone and electric wires with it. I said, “I don’t think this is good
for the vines.”

“This is not good for anything.”

Within twenty minutes, I pulled into the gravel parking lot of Tobin Vineyards. There were no cars in the lot, and a sign
said, “Closed.”

I looked up at the tower and saw there were no lights in any of the windows, though the sky was almost black.

On both sides of the parking lot were vineyards, and the staked vines were taking a beating. If the storm got any worse, the
crop would probably be wiped out. I remembered Tobin’s little lesson about the moderating influence of the maritime climate—which
was true enough until you were in the path of a hurricane. “Jasper.”

“That’s what it’s called.” She looked around at the parking lot and the winery and said, “I don’t think he’s here. I don’t
see any cars, and the place is dark. Let’s try his house.”

“Let’s pop into the office first.”

“John, the place is closed.”

“Closed is a relative term.”

“No, it isn’t.”

I drove toward the winery, then swung off to the right, out of the parking lot and onto a grassy area between the winery and
the vineyard. I turned into the back of the big building where a few trucks sat parked among stacked empty wine barrels.

“What are you doing?” Beth asked.

I drove up to the back door at the base of the tower. “See if it’s open.”

She looked at me and started to say something.

“Just see if it’s open. Do what I say.”

She got out of the Jeep and ran to the door, pulling at the handle. She looked at me and shook her head, then started back
toward the Jeep. I hit the gas and plowed the Jeep into the door, which flew open. I shut off the engine and jumped out. I
grabbed Beth’s arm and ran through the open door into the tower.

“Are you crazy?”

“There’s a nice view at the top.” The elevator, as I’d noticed, had a keyed entry, so I started up the stairs. Beth grabbed
my arm and said, “Stop! This is called burglary, not to mention any civil rights violations—”

“This is a public building.”

“It’s closed!”

“I found the door broken in.”

“John—”

“Go back to the Jeep. I’ll take care of this.”

We looked at one another, and she gave me that look that said, “I know you’re angry, but don’t do this.”

I turned away from her and went up the stairs alone. On each landing, I tried the door to the offices, but they were all locked.

On the third-floor landing, I heard footsteps behind me and drew my .38. I waited at the back of the landing and saw Beth
turn the corner. She looked up at me.

I said to her, “This is my felony. I don’t need an accomplice.”

She replied, “The door was broken in. We’re investigating.”

“That’s what I said.”

We continued up the stairs together.

On the fourth floor, the executive offices, the door was also locked. This didn’t mean there was no one there—these fire exit
doors could be locked on this side, but would have to open out from the other side. I banged on the steel door and kept banging.

Beth said, “John, I don’t think anyone’s in—”

“I hope not.”

I ran up to the fifth floor and she followed. Again, I tried the knob, but it was locked.

Beth asked, “Is this his apartment?”

“Yes.” In a glass case on the wall was the mandatory steel-cut fire ax and a fire extinguisher. I took the extinguisher from
the wall, smashed the glass, and extracted the ax. The noise of the breaking glass echoed up and down the stairs.

Beth almost screamed, “
What
are you doing?”

I pushed her back and swung the ax at the doorknob, which came right off, but the locking mechanism held. A few more swings
opened the steel around the mechanism, and a final blow caused the door to swing inward.

I took a few deep breaths. My lung felt funny, as though I might have re-opened something that had taken a long time to close.

“John, listen to me—”

“Quiet. Listen for footsteps.” I pulled my piece from under my poncho, and she did the same. We stood motionless, and I peered
into the doorway I’d just opened. Blocking my view into Tobin’s apartment was a Japanese silk screen which hid the steel door
from Mr. Tobin’s delicate eyes. The apartment was dark and quiet.

I still had the ax in my left hand, and I pitched it through the door at the silk screen, which toppled over, revealing a
large living room and dining room combination.

Beth whispered, “We can’t go in there.”

“We
have
to go in there. Someone smashed the door open. There’re burglars somewhere.”

The noise we’d made so far was loud enough to attract anyone who was around, but I didn’t hear anything. I had to assume that
the rear door was alarmed, but the storm had probably set off dozens of alarms all over the North Fork to various central
station monitors. In any case, we could handle the cops if they showed up—in fact, we
were
the cops.

I moved into the living room, my piece held in both hands, swinging in an arc from left to midpoint. Beth did the same from
right to midpoint. She said, “John, this is not a good idea. Just calm down. I know you’re upset, and I don’t blame you, but
you can’t do this. We’re going to back out of here and—”

“Quiet.” I called out, “Mr. Tobin! Are you home, sir? You have visitors.”

There was no reply. I went farther into the living room, which was lit only by the dark sky outside the big arched windows
and by light filtering in from two big skylights in the twelve-foot-high ceiling. Beth slowly followed.

It was quite a place, as you can imagine—the living room was a semicircle with the round wall on the north. The other half
of the tower, the south half, was divided into an open kitchen, which I could see into, and a bedroom that occupied the southwest
quarter of the circle. The bedroom door was open, and I peered inside. I was satisfied that we were alone, or if Tobin was
here, he was hiding under the bed or in a closet, scared witless.

I looked around the living room. In the gray light, I could see that the decor was sort of light-and-airy modern, to match
the mood of a tower suite. The walls were decorated with watercolors that depicted local scenes which I recognized—Plum Island
Lighthouse, Horton Point Lighthouse, some seascapes, a few ye olde shingled houses, and even the General Wayne Inn. I said,
“Nice digs.”

“Very nice.”

“A fella could get lucky with the ladies up here.”

No response from Ms. Penrose.

I moved to one of the windows facing north and watched the storm raging outside. I could see that some of the vines were down,
and I imagined that the grapes that had not yet been picked were past ready now and would be taken by the wind.

Beth, sticking to my script, said, “There are no burglars here. We should leave and report that we found evidence of a break-in
here.”

“Good idea. I’ll just make sure the perp fled.” I gave her my keys. “Go sit in the Jeep. I’ll be right down.”

She hesitated, then said, “I’m going to move the Jeep to the parking lot. I’ll wait fifteen minutes. No longer.”

“Okay.” I turned away from her and went into the bedroom.

This was a little more plush and soft, the room where God’s gift to women carried the champagne bottles. In fact, there was
a champagne stand and bucket near the bed. I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t picture Emma in the bed with Mr. Wino. But that
didn’t matter anymore. She was dead, and he soon would be.

To the left was a big bathroom, multihead shower, Jacuzzi, bidet, the whole works. Yes, life had been good to Fredric Tobin,
until he started spending more than he was making. It occurred to me that this storm would have wiped him out without a transfusion
of gold.

There was a desk in the bedroom, and I pulled it apart, but I didn’t find anything incriminating or useful.

I spent the next ten or so minutes tearing the place apart. Back in the living room, I found a locked closet and broke open
the door with the fire ax, but the big walk-in closet seemed to contain only a sterling silver dinner service, some linens
and crystal, a glass-doored wine refrigerator, a cigar humidor, and other necessities of the good life, including a large
collection of video porn.

I ripped the closet apart, including the wine refrigerator, and again found nothing.

I walked around the living room with the fire ax in my hand, searching for whatever, and also working off a little frustration
by smashing things with the ax.

There was a wall unit, or entertainment center, as they’re called, with a TV, VCR, CD player, and all that, plus a few shelves
of books. I took this apart, too, shaking out the books and tossing them aside.

Then something caught my eye. In a gold frame, about the size of a book, was an old parchment. I picked it up and turned it
into the dim light from the window. It was a faded ink-sketched map with some writing on the bottom. I took it into the kitchen
and laid it down on the counter near one of those plug-in emergency lights that give off a weak glow. I opened the frame and
pulled out the parchment, which had ragged edges. I could see what it was now—a section of shoreline and a small inlet. The
writing was really difficult, and I wished Emma was here to help.

At first, I thought the map might be of a piece of the Plum Island shore, but there were no inlets on Plum Island, only the
harbor, which looked much different than what I could see on this map.

I then considered that this sketch might be of Mattituck Inlet, where Captain Kidd’s Trees were, but there seemed to be little
or no resemblance to the inlet I’d seen on my road atlas and in person. There was a third possibility, which was the bluffs
or ledges, though again, I could see no similarity between that shoreline, which was very straight, and the one on this map,
which was curved and showed an inlet.

Finally, I decided it had no meaning other than an old parchment that Tobin had decided to frame as a decoration. Right? Wrong.
I kept staring at it, trying now to make out the faint words—then I saw two words I could read; they said, Founders Landing.

Now that I was oriented, I could see that this was in fact a map of about a quarter mile of coastline that took in Founders
Landing, an unnamed inlet, and what today was the property of Fredric Tobin.

The writing on the bottom was obviously directions, and I could see numbers and made out the word “Oak.”

I heard a noise in the living room and drew my piece.

Beth said, “John?”

“In here.”

Beth came into the kitchen. I said, “I thought you were leaving.”

“The Southold police arrived on a phone call from a watchman. I told them it was under control.”

“Thanks.”

She looked out at the living room and said, “This place is wrecked.”

“Hurricane John.”

“Feel better?”

“No.”

“What do you have there?”

“A treasure map. It was in plain view, in this gold frame.”

She looked at it. “Plum Island?”

“No. The Plum Island map or whatever led them to the treasure is long destroyed. This is a map of Founders Landing and what
is now Tobin’s property.”

She said, “And?”

“Well, I’m sure it’s a forgery. In my archival studies, I learned that you can buy authentic blank parchment from any time
period in the last few centuries. Then, there are people in the city who will mix a little lamp carbon and oil or whatever,
and write anything you ask them to write.”

She nodded. “So, Tobin had this map made showing that there was treasure buried on his property.”

“Yes. If you look hard, you can see that the writing seems to give directions. And if you look real hard … see that X?”

She held the parchment up and said, “I see it.” She put it down and said, “He never intended to have the Gordons bury the
treasure on the bluff.”

“No. He intended to get the treasure from them, kill them, and bury it on his property.”

“So, is the treasure now buried on Tobin’s property?”

“Let’s go find out.”

“Another burglary?”

“Worse. If I find him home, I’m going to break his legs with this ax, then threaten to really hurt him if he doesn’t talk.”
I added, “I can drop you off somewhere.”

“I’ll come along. You need taking care of, and I have to look for Grandma’s locket on the lawn.”

I put the parchment in my shirt under the poncho and grabbed the fire ax. On my way to the staircase, I flung a table lamp
through one of the tall, arched windows. A gust of wind blew in through the shattered glass, whipping some magazines off the
coffee table. “Sixty-five knots yet?”

“Getting there.”