Plum Island

CHAPTER 16

Morning sunlight streamed into my second-floor bedroom windows, and I was happy to be alive; happy to discover that the bloody dead pig on the pillow beside me had been a bad dream. I listened for the sounds of birds just to be sure I wasn't the only living creature on earth. A gull squawked somewhere over the bay. Canada geese were honking on my lawn. A dog barked in the distance. So far, so good.

I arose, showered, shaved, and so forth, and made a cup of freeze-dried microwave coffee in the kitchen.

I had spent the night thinking, or, as we say in the biz, engaged in deductive reasoning. I had also made callbacks to Uncle Harry, parents, siblings, and Dom Fanelli, but not to the New York Times or to Max. I told everyone that the person on TV was not me, and that I had not seen the news show or shows in question; I said that I had spent the night watching Monday Night Football in the Olde Towne Taverne — which is what I should have done — and I had witnesses. Everyone bought it. I hoped my commanding officer, the aforementioned Detective Lieutenant Wolfe, would also buy it.

Also, I told Uncle H that Margaret Wiley had the hots for him, but he seemed uninterested. He informed me, "Dickie Johnson and I were born together, grew up together, had lots of women together, and got old together, but he died before me."

How depressing. Anyway, I called Dom Fanelli, but he was out, and I left a message with his wife, Mary, whom I used to get along with until I got married, but Mary and Ex didn't like each other at all. Neither my divorce nor my getting shot had made Mary and me buddies again. It's weird. I mean, with partners' wives. It's a bizarre relationship at best. Anyway, I said to Mary, "Tell Dom that wasn't me on TV. A lot of people made the same mistake."

"Okay."

"If I die, it's the CIA who did it. Tell him."

"Okay."

"There may be people on Plum Island who are also trying to kill me. Tell him that."

"Okay."

"Tell him to talk to Sylvester Maxwell, chief of police out here, if I die."

"Okay."

"How're the kids?"

"Okay."

"Gotta run. My lung is collapsing." I hung up.

Well, at least I was on record, and if my phone was tapped by the Feds, it's good for them to hear me tell people that I think the CIA is trying to kill me.

Of course, I didn't really think that. Ted Nash, personally, would like to kill me, but I doubted if the Agency would approve capping a guy just because he was a sarcastic prick. Point was, though, if this thing had to do with Plum Island in some significant way, then it wouldn't surprise me if a few more bodies did turn up.

Last night, while I made my phone calls, I checked out my piece and ammo with a flashlight and magnifying glass. Everything looked okay. Paranoia's kind of fun if it doesn't eat up too much time and doesn't get you off the track. I mean, if you're having a routine day, you can make believe someone's trying to kill you, or otherwise fuck you up, then you can play little games, like using the remote car ignition, imagining someone's tapped your phone, or tampered with your weapon. Some crazy people make up imaginary friends who tell them to kill people. Other crazy people make up imaginary enemies who are trying to kill them. The latter, I think, is a little less crazy and a lot more useful.

Anyway, I had spent the rest of the night going through the Gordons' financial records again. It was that or Jay Leno.

I had looked closely at May and June of the previous year to see how the Gordons had financed their one-week vacation in England after their business trip. I noticed now that the Visa card in June was slightly higher than usual and so was their Amex. A small bump in a usually smooth road. Also, their phone bill last June was about a hundred dollars higher than usual, indicating perhaps long-distance activity in May. Also, I had to assume they'd taken cash or traveler's checks with them, yet there were no unusual cash withdrawals. This was the first and only indication that there was outside cash available to the Gordons. People with illegal income often buy thousands of dollars in traveler's checks, go out of the country, and blow it out big time. Or maybe the Gordons knew how to do England on twenty dollars a day.

Whatever the case might be, regarding the printouts, they basically had clean sheets, as we say. Whatever they were up to, they hid it well, or it didn't entail large expenses or large deposits. At least not in this account. The Gordons were very bright, I reminded myself. And they were scientists, and as such, they were careful, patient, and meticulous.

It was now eight a.m. Wednesday morning, and I was on my second cup of bad coffee, looking around the refrigerator for something to eat. Lettuce and mustard? No. Butter and carrots? That worked.

I stood at the kitchen window with my carrot and tub of butter, mulling, brooding, noodling, chewing, and so forth. I waited for the phone to ring, for Beth to confirm for five p.m., but the kitchen was quiet except for the clock.

I was dressed more spiffily this morning with tan cotton pants and striped oxford shirt. A blue blazer hung on the back of the kitchen chair. My.38 was on my ankle, and my shield — for what it was worth out here — was inside my jacket. And, optimist that I am, I also had a condom in my wallet. I was ready for battle or romance, or whatever the day would bring.

Carrot in hand, I walked down the sloping lawn to the bay. A light mist hung above the water. I walked out to the end of my uncle's dock, which needed major repair, and I watched where I stepped. I recalled the time the Gordons tied up to the dock — this would have been about mid-June, only a week or so.after I'd met them for the first time, which had been in the bar of Claudio's Restaurant in Greenport.

On the occasion of their docking here at Uncle Harry's, I had been in my customary convalescing position on the back porch, drinking convalescent beer, checking out the bay with the binocs when I spotted them.

Back in Claudio's the week before, they had asked me to describe my house from the water and, sure enough, they'd found it.

I recalled that I had walked down to the dock to greet them, and they talked me into taking a spin with them. We tooled around the series of bays that lie between the North and South Forks of Long Island — Great Peconic Bay and Little Peconic, Noyack Bay and Southold Bay, then out into Gardiners Bay, and then to Orient Point. At one point, Tom opened the throttles on the speedboat, and I thought we were going to go airborne. I mean, that thing was nose up and breaking the sound barrier. Anyway, this was also the time when the Gordons showed me Plum Island. Tom had said, "That's where we work."

Judy had added, "Someday we'll see if we can get you a visitor's pass. It's really interesting."

And so it was.

That was the same day we got caught in the wind and currents in Plum Gut, and I thought I was going to puke my guts into the Gut and wondered if that was how the Gut got its name.

I recalled that we'd spent the whole day on the water and had come back here exhausted, sunburned, dehydrated, and hungry. Tom went for pizzas, and Judy and I slugged beers on the back porch and watched the sun go down.

I don't think I'm a particularly likable fellow, but the Gordons went out of their way to befriend me, and I never understood why. I didn't need or want the company, at first. But Tom was smart and funny, and Judy was beautiful. And bright.

Sometimes things don't make sense while they're happening, but after a period of time or after an incident or whatever, then the significance of what was done or said is clear. Right?

The Gordons may have known they were in danger, or could be in danger. They'd already made the acquaintance of Chief Maxwell, and they wanted some person or persons to know they were tight with the Chief. Next, they spent a good deal of time with yours truly, and again, I think this may have been a way of showing someone that Tom and Judy hung out with the fuzz. Maybe Max or I would get a letter delivered if anything happened to the Gordons, but I wasn't holding my breath.

Also, on the subject of things that made sense in retrospect, on that particular night in June, before Tom had returned with the pizza., Judy, who'd poured three beers into an empty stomach, had asked me, regarding Uncle's house, "What's a place like this worth?"

"I guess about four hundred thousand, maybe more. Why?"

"Just wondering. Is your uncle selling it?"

"He offered it to me for below market, but I'd need a two-hundred-year mortgage."

And there the discussion ended, but when people ask you how much a house or a boat or car is worth, then ask you if it's for sale, they're either nosy or in the market. The Gordons weren't nosy. Now, of course, I think that the Gordons expected to become rich very quickly. But if the source of these newfound riches was an illegal transaction, the Gordons could hardly flash the money around arid start buying four-hundred-thousand-dollar homes on the water. Therefore, the expected bucks were either legit, or would have the appearance of legit. Vaccine? Maybe.

And then something went wrong, and those bright brains got splattered across the cedar deck, like somebody dropped a five-pound package of ground beef near the barbeque grill.

I remembered later that night in June remarking to Tom that I thought we had been in some danger out in the Gut. Tom had switched from beer to wine and his mind was mellow. He had a philosophical streak for a techno-guy, and he'd said to me, "A boat in the harbor is a safe boat. But that's not what boats are for."

Indeed not, metaphorically speaking. It occurred to me that people who play with Ebola virus and other deadly substances must, by nature, be risk-takers. They had won for so long at the game of biohazard that they'd begun to think they were charmed. They decided to branch out into another dangerous game, but one that was more lucrative. They were, however, out of their element, like the scuba diver who goes mountain climbing, or vice versa; lots of guts and lung power, but not a clue about how it's done.

Well, back to Wednesday morning in September, about nine a.m. now. Tom and Judy Gordon, who stood right here on Uncle Harry's dock with me, are now dead, and the ball is in my court, to switch metaphors.

I turned and walked back toward the house, invigorated by the morning air and my carrot, motivated by my good memories of two nice people, my mind clear, the disappointments and worries of yesterday put in their proper perspective. I was rested and eager to do battle. To kick ass.

I had yet another seemingly unconnected dot that needed to be placed on the sonar screen: Mr. Fredric Tobin, vintner.

But first, thinking someone may have called whilst I was reflecting by the bay, I checked my answering machine, but there were no messages. "Bitch." Now, now, John.

More annoyed than hurt, I left the house. I was wearing Mr. Ralph Lauren's blazer, Mr. Tommy Hilfiger's oxford shirt, Mr. Eddie Bauer's pants, Mr. Perry Ellis' boxer shorts, Mr. Karl Lagerfeld's aftershave, and Messrs. Smith and Wesson's revolver.

I started the car with the remote and climbed in.

"Bonjour, Jeep."

I drove up to Main Road and turned east into the rising sun. Main Road is mostly rural, but becomes the main streets of many of the hamlets. Between the downtowns are barns and farmhouses, nurseries, lots of farm stands, a few good and simple restaurants, a bunch of antique stores, and some really charming New England — style clapboard churches.

One thing that has changed since I was a wee lad, however, is that Main Road now boasts about two dozen wineries. Regardless of where the vineyards are, most of the wineries have set up headquarters on Main Road to rope in the touristos. There are wine tours and free wine tastings, followed by a mandatory visit to the gift shop where the day-tripper feels obligated to buy the local grape nectar along with wine country calendars, cookbooks, corkscrews, coasters, and whatnot.

Most of these winery buildings are actually converted farmhouses and barns, but some are big new complexes that combine the actual wine-making facilities with the wine and gift shop, a restaurant, wine garden, and so forth. Main Road is not exactly the Rue de Soleil, and the North Fork is not the Côte du Rhône, but the overall ambience is pleasant, sort of a cross between Cape Cod and the Napa Valley.

The wines themselves aren't bad, I'm told. Some are quite good, I'm told. Some have won national and international competitions, I'm told. As for moi, I'll have a Bud.

In the hamlet called Peconic, I pulled into a big gravel parking field marked by a wooden sign that read "Fredric Tobin Vineyards." The sign was black lacquer, and the letters were carved into the wood and painted gold. Some weird streaks of various-colored paint crisscrossed the black lacquer, and I would have thought this was vandalism, except I'd seen the same streaks on the Tobin wine labels in the liquor stores and also on the wine labels while sitting on the back deck of Tom and Judy's house. Regarding the paint streaks on Mr. Tobin's sign, I concluded that this was art. It's getting harder to tell the difference between art and vandalism.

I exited my expensive sport utility vehicle and noticed a dozen others like my own. This was where they bred, perhaps. Or were these the vehicles-of-choice for urban and suburban cowboys whose definition of off-road meant a parking lot? But I digress.

I walked toward the Tobin complex. The smell of crushed and fermenting grapes was overwhelming, and a million bees flew around; about half of them liked my Lagerfeld.

How shall I describe the Tobin winery? Well, if a French chateâu were built of American cedar shingle, it would look like this place. Clearly Mr. Tobin had spent a small fortune on his dream.

I'd been here before and knew the place. Even before I entered, I knew that the complex consisted of the visitors' reception area, to the left of which was the big gift and wine shop.

To the right was the actual wine-making wing, a sprawling two-story building filled with copper vats, crushers, and all that stuff. I once took a guided tour and listened to the blabber. Never in the course of human events has so much bullshit been concocted about something as small as a grape. I mean, a plum is bigger. Right? People make plum wine. Right? What's with this grape crap?

Anyway, rising above all of this is a broad central tower, sort of like a castle keep, about fifty feet high, from which flies a big flag. I don't mean Old Glory. I mean a black flag with the Tobin logo on it. Someone likes to see his name around.

All of this shingle is stained white, so from a distance it kind of looks like it could be one of those limestone châteaux you see in the travel brochures. Freddie put a big bucko into this thing, making me wonder exactly how much money there was in grape squeezing.

To continue the word picture of Château Tobin: farther to the left was a small restaurant that women and reviewers invariably described as cute. I called it prissy and stuffy. But no matter, it wasn't on my list of places to go if the Olde Towne Taverne was closed by the Board of Health.

The restaurant had a covered terrace where people who dressed with Eddie, Tommy, Ralph, Liz, Carole, and Perry could sit and bullshit about the wine, which, by the way, is really grape juice with alcohol.

Anyway, attached to and behind the cute restaurant is a bigger catering hall, a nice place to have a wedding, christening, or bar mitzvah, according to the brochure that was signed by Fredric Tobin, proprietor.

I'd been to the hall for one of Mr. Tobin's wine-tasting soirees, back in July. The occasion was to celebrate some new releases, by which I guess he meant wine that was ready to sell and guzzle. I had been a guest of the Gordons, as I may have mentioned, and there were about two hundred people present, the cream of North Fork society — bankers, lawyers, doctors, judges, politicians, a few attendees from Manhattan who had summer places here, successful merchants and realtors, and so forth. Mixed in with the local crème were a smattering of artists, sculptors, and writers who, for various and sundry reasons, didn't do the Hampton scene across the bay. Probably many of them weren't financially successful enough to afford the Hamptons, though, of course, they'd tell you they were more artistically honest than their Hampton colleagues. Barf. Also, Max had been invited, but couldn't attend. According to Tom and Judy, they were the only Plum Island people there. Tom said, "Hosts and hostesses avoid Plum Island people like the plague." We both got a good chuckle out of that. Gosh, I missed Tom. And Judy, too. She was bright.

I recalled that on this occasion of tasting the juice of the grape, Tom introduced me to our host, Fredric Tobin, a single gentleman who at first glance appeared to be a man who wore comfortable shoes, if you get my meaning. Mr. Tobin was dressed in a foppish purple suit, a white silk shirt, and a tie that sported vines and grape clusters. Gag me with a spoon.

Mr. Tobin was polite, but a bit cool toward moi, which always annoys me when I'm in La-Di-Da gatherings. I mean, a homicide detective sort of crosses social lines, and the average host or hostess enjoys a detective or two around to spin a yarn. Everyone loves murder. But Fredric sort of blew me off before I could tell him my theory about wine.

I had mentioned to Tom and Judy that Monsieur didn't even have the courtesy to make a pass at me. Tom and Judy informed me that Freddie (as no one dared call him to his face) was in fact an enthusiastic heterosexual. Some people, according to Judy, mistook Fredric's charm and refined manners as a sign that he was gay or bi. That has never happened to me.

I discovered from the Gordons that the suave and debonair Mr. Tobin had studied viniculture in France and held some grape juice degrees and all that.

Tom had pointed out to me a young lady who was Mr. Tobin's current live-in. She was an absolute knockout — about twenty-five, tall, blonde, blue eyes, and built like she came out of a Jell-O mold. Oh, Freddie, you lucky dog. How could I have misjudged you?

So, that was my sole encounter with the Lord of the Bees. I could see why Tom and Judy had sought this fellow out — for one thing, the Gordons loved wine and Tobin made some of the best. But beyond that, there was a whole social matrix to the wine biz, such as that party, and private dinner parties, and outdoor concerts at the vineyards, extravagant picnics on the beach, and so forth. The Gordons seemed to buy into this whole thing, which surprised me, and though they weren't fawning over Fredric Tobin or sucking up to him, they certainly had little in common with him socially, financially, professionally, or otherwise. Point is, I found it a little out of character for Tom and Judy to be involved with a guy like Fredric. Regarding that name, there's a case of getting rid of an "e" while everyone else around here was trying to tack "e's" onto things. To be succinct, Fredric the Grape seemed like a pompous ass, and I liked the idea of popping his balloons a little. Also, he had a beard, and perhaps a white sports car.

I was now in the gift shop, poking around, trying to find something nice for my lost love, something like a corkscrew whose handle said, "I got screwed on the North Fork." Lacking that, I found a nice hand-painted ceramic tile showing an osprey perching on a pole. This is a very strange-looking bird, but I liked the tile because it had no wine motif.

As the cashier wrapped it, I asked her, "Is Mr. Tobin in?"

The attractive young lady glanced at me and replied, "I'm not sure."

"I thought I saw his car. White sports car. Right?"

"He may be around. That will be ten-ninety-seven with tax."

I paid ten-ninety-seven with tax and collected my change and package.

"Have you done the wine tour?" she asked me.

"No, but I saw beer made once." I took my shield case out of my jacket and held it up to her. "Police department, miss. What I'd like you to do is press whatever button on your phone there that will connect you with Mr. Tobin's office and have him come here chop, chop. Okay?"

She nodded and did as she was told. She said into the phone, "Marilyn, there's a policeman here who wants to see Mr. Tobin."

"Chop, chop."

"Without delay," she translated. "Okay… yes, I'll tell him." She hung up and said to me, "He'll be right down."

"Where's up?"

She pointed to a closed door in the far wall and said, "That leads to the tower suites — the business offices."

"Right. Thanks." I went to the door and opened it, finding myself in a large, round wood-paneled common area, sort of a lobby, that was the base of the tower. One door led to the fermenting vats, and one back to the reception area from which I'd entered. A glass-paneled door led outside to the rear of the winery. There was also a staircase leading up, and to the right of that, an elevator.

The elevator door opened, and Mr. Tobin strode out, barely giving me a glance in his haste to get to the gift shop. I noted that the expression on his face was one of concern. I said, "Mr. Tobin?"

He turned toward me. "Yes?"

"Detective Courtney." I sometimes mispronounce my own name.

"Oh… Yes, what can I do for you?"

"I just need some of your time, sir."

"What is this about?"

"I'm a homicide detective."

"Oh… the Gordons."

"Yes, sir." He apparently didn't remember my face, which is the same one I had in July when I met him. True, my name had changed slightly, but anyway, I wasn't going to prompt him. Regarding my status, jurisdiction, and all that technical crap, I simply had not heard Max's message on my machine. I said to the proprietor, "I understand you were a friend of the victims."

"Well… we were social acquaintances."

"I see." Regarding Fredric Tobin, he was dressed, I'm chagrined to say, somewhat like I was dressed: a bunch of designer labels and docksiders. He had no grape tie, but sported a silly lilac-colored puff in the breast pocket of his blue blazer.

Mr. Tobin was a man of about fifty, perhaps younger, less than medium height, which might account for his Napoleon complex. He was of medium build, had a full head of short brown hair, though not all his own, and a neatly trimmed beard. His teeth, also not his own, were pearly white, and his skin was suntanned. All in all, he was a well-groomed fellow, well spoken, and he carried himself well. However, all the cosmetics and grooming couldn't change his beady, dark eyes which moved all over the place, like they were loose in their sockets.

Mr. Tobin wore a pine-scented aftershave lotion which I suspected did not attract bees.

He asked me, "Do I understand that you want to question me?"

"Just a few routine questions." There are no routine questions in a homicide investigation, by the way.

"I'm sorry, I don't… I mean, I have absolutely no knowledge of what could have happened to the Gordons."

"Well, they were murdered."

"I know… I meant — "

"I just need some background."

"Perhaps I should call my attorney."

My eyebrows rose at that. I said, "That's your right." I added, We can do this down at the station house with your attorney present. Or we can do this here in about ten minutes."

He seemed to mull this over. "I don't know… I'm not used to this…"

I spoke in my most engaging tone. "Look, Mr. Tobin, you're not a suspect. I'm just interviewing friends of the Gordons. You know — background."

"I see. Well… if you think I can help, I'll be happy to answer any questions you have."

"There you go." I wanted to get this guy away from a phone, so I said, "Hey, I've never walked though a vineyard. Can we do that?"

"Of course. Actually, I was about to do that when you arrived."

"This really works out for everyone."

I followed him out the glass-paneled door into the sunlight. Two small dump trucks were parked nearby, filled with grapes.

Mr. Tobin informed me, "We began harvesting two days ago."

"Monday."

"Yes."

"That's a big day for you."

"It's a fulfilling day."

"You were here all day, I guess."

"I was here early."

I nodded. "Good harvest?"

"Very good, so far, thank you."

We walked across the back lawn into the closest vineyard, between two rows of unpicked grapes. It really smelled good out here, and the bees hadn't located me yet, thank goodness.

Mr. Tobin indicated my little bag with his logo on it and inquired, "What did you buy?"

"A painted tile for my girlfriend."

"Which one?"

"Beth."

"I mean, which painted tile?"

"Oh. The osprey."

"They're making a comeback."

"Painted tiles?"

"No. Ospreys. Look, Detective — "

"They're weird. I read that they mate for life. I mean, they're probably not Catholic. Why do they mate for life?"

"Detective — "

"But then I read another version of that. The females will mate for life if the male comes back to the same nest. You know, the wildlife people put these big poles up with platforms on them, and they build their nests there. The ospreys. Not the wildlife people."

"Detective — "

"What it comes down to is that the female is not really monogamous. She's attached to the nest. She goes back to the same nest every year, and she'll screw for the first male who shows up. Sort of like Southampton ladies in their summer houses. You know? They never want to give up the Hampton house. I mean, okay, the guy may be dead, or he took a powder, and he'll never show up. But sometimes he's just late getting a train. You know? Meanwhile, she's balling the pool guy. But anyway, back to ospreys — "

"Excuse me, Detective… what was -?"

"Just call me John."

He glanced at me, and I could see he was trying to place me, but wasn't quite getting it. In any case, after my little Columbo routine, Tobin had decided I was a simpleton, and he was a little more relaxed. He said to me, "I was shocked to hear the news." He added, "What a tragedy. They were so young and vibrant."

I didn't respond.

"Do you know anything about the funeral arrangements?"

"No, sir, I don't. I think the Gordons are still in the ME's office — the medical examiner. They're all, like, in pieces now, and then they get put back together later. Like a jigsaw puzzle except the ME saves the organs. I mean, how would anyone know the organs are missing?"

Mr. Tobin didn't comment.

We walked awhile in silence through the vineyards. Sometimes if you don't ask questions, the person you're interviewing gets fidgety and starts to babble to fill in the silence. After a minute or so, Mr. Tobin said, "They seemed like such nice people."

I nodded.

He let a few seconds pass, then added, "They couldn't have had an enemy in the world. But there are some strange goings-on at Plum Island. Actually, what happened sounds like a burglary. That's what I heard on the radio. Chief Maxwell said it was a burglary. But some of the media are trying to connect it to Plum Island. I should call Chief Maxwell. He and I are friends. Acquaintances. He knew the Gordons."

"Really? Everyone seems to know everyone else out here."

"It seems that way. It's the geography. We're bounded by water on three sides. It's almost like a small island. Eventually, everyone's paths cross. That's why this is so disturbing. It could have been one of us."

"You mean the killer or the victims?"

"Well, either," Mr. Tobin replied. "The killer could be one of us, and the victims could have been… Do you think the killer will strike again?"

"Oh, I hope not. I have enough to do."

We kept walking along'this really long row of vines, but Mr. T had stopped running at the mouth, so I asked him, "How well did you know the Gordons?"

"We were social acquaintances. They were enamored with the glamour and romance of wine making."

"Really?"

"Are you interested in wine, Detective?"

"No, I'm a beer guy, myself. Sometimes I drink vodka. Hey, how does this sound?" I pitched him Krumpinski's real potato vodka, flavored and natural. "What do you think? A sister industry, right? There are potatoes all over the place here. This whole end of Long Island could be swimming in alcohol. Some people see grape jelly and mashed potatoes. We see wine and vodka. What do you think?"

"Interesting concept." He pulled a bunch of white grapes from the vine and squeezed one in his mouth. "Very nice. Firm, sweet, but not too sweet. Just enough sun and rain this year. This is going to be a vintage year."

"Terrific. When was the last time you saw the Gordons?"

"About a week ago. Here, try this." He put a few grapes in my hand.

I put one into my mouth, chewed, and spit out the skin. "Not bad."

"The skins have been sprayed. You should squeeze the pulp into your mouth. Here." He handed me half the bunch. We walked along like old buds, squeezing grape pulp into our mouths — but not each other's mouths. We weren't that close yet. Mr. Tobin went on about the weather, the vines, and all that. He said, "We have the same moderate annual rainfall as Bordeaux."

"You don't say?"

"But our reds are not as dense as Bordeaux-classed growths. Our texture is different."

"Of course."

"In Bordeaux, they let the skins macerate with the new wine for a long time after fermentation. Then they age the wine in the barrel for perhaps two or three years. That won't work for us. Our grapes and theirs are separated by an ocean. They are the same species, but they've developed their own character. Just like us."

"Good observation."

"We also have to handle the wine more gently when racking than they do in Bordeaux. I made some mistakes in the early years."

"We all do."

"Here, protecting the fruit is more important, for instance, than worrying about a tannic taste. We don't get the tannin they do in Bordeaux."

"That's why I'm proud to be an American."

"When making wine, one can't be too dogmatic or too theoretical. You have to discover what works."

"Same with my job."

"But we can learn from the old masters. In Bordeaux, I learned the importance of leaf spread."

"That's the place to learn it." This wasn't as bad as a history lesson, but it was a damned close second. Nonetheless, I let him babble. I stifled a yawn.

He said, "Leaf spread lets you capture sunlight at this northern latitude. They don't have that problem in southern France, or Italy or California. But here on the North Fork, as in Bordeaux, you have to strike a balance between leaf cover and sun on the grapes."

He went on. And on.

And yet, I found myself almost liking the guy, my first impression notwithstanding. I don't mean we were ever going to be big pals, but Fredric Tobin was a man of some charm, though a wee bit intense. You could tell he loved what he did; he seemed very much at home among the vines. I was beginning to understand why the Gordons might like him.

He said to me, "The North Fork is a microclimate. Different from the surrounding areas. Do you know that we get more sunlight than they do right across the bay in the Hamptons?"

"You're kidding. Do the rich people in the Hamptons know that?"

He continued, "More sunlight than right across the Sound in Connecticut?"

"You don't say? Why is that?"

"It has to do with the bodies of water and the prevailing winds around us. We have a maritime climate. Connecticut has a continental climate. It can be ten degrees colder over there in the winter. That would damage the vines."

"Goes without saying."

"Also, it never gets too hot here, which can also stress the vines. The bodies of water all around us have a moderating influence on the climate."

"Warmer, sunnier, ospreys coming back. That's great."

"And the soil is very special. This is very rich glacial soil, just the right nutrients, and it's drained by the sand stratum below."

"Boy, I'll tell you, when I was a kid, if anyone had said to me, 'Hey, John, this will all be vineyards someday,' you know, I'd have laughed in his face and kicked him in the balls."

"Does this interest you?"

"Very much." Not a bit.

We turned into another row where a mechanical harvester was beating the crap out of the vines, and the grape bunches were getting sucked into this contraption. Jeez. Who invents these things?

We got into another row where a couple of nubile young things in shorts and Tobin T-shirts were doing it by hand. Baskets of grapes sat in the row. The Lord of the Vines stopped and bantered with them. He was on his game today, and the nubes were responding well. He was probably old enough to be their father, but girls paid attention to money, pure and simple. I had to use all my charm and wit to get the little undies off, but I know rich guys who say less clever and charming things to young ladies — things like, "Let's fly Concorde to Paris this weekend." Works every time.

After a minute or so, we moved on from the little grape pluckers, and Mr. Tobin said to me, "I haven't heard the news this morning, but one of my employees told me that she heard on the radio that the Gordons had possibly stolen a new miracle vaccine and were going to sell it. Apparently they were double-crossed and murdered. Is that right?"

"That seems to be what happened."

"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 château, 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 amp;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 or 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 he, 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?"

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.