Plum Island

CHAPTER 17

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 everycrt'e' 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 Mam 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 amp;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."

Mr. Murphy agreed. He asked me, "Is that a suspect?"

"No, sir. Okay, sorry to bother you again." I asked, "Did anyone try to question you about this case?"

"Nope."

"Remember, don't talk to anyone except Chief Maxwell, me, and Detective Penrose."

Mr. Murphy asked, "Where is she?" 'Detective Penrose? She's home with morning sickness."

"Pregnant?" asked Agnes."

"About a month," I replied. "Okay — "

"I didn't see a wedding ring," observed Agnes.

"You know how these young girls are." I shook my head sadly then said, "Okay, thanks again." I exited quickly, got back into my Jeep, and drove off.

Apparently Mr. Fredric Tobin had been at the Gordons' on at least one occasion. Yet, he didn't seem to recall his June visit. But maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it was another brown-bearded man in a white Porsche.

Maybe I should find out why Mr. Tobin lied.

I tried my answering machine again, and there were two new calls. The first was Max, who said, "John, this is Chief Maxwell. Maybe I didn't make myself clear about your status. You're no longer working for the township. Okay? I got a call from Fredric Tobin's attorneys, and they're not happy people. Understand? I don't know exactly what you and Mr. Tobin discussed, but I think that's the last official conversation you should have with him. Call me."

Interesting. All I'm trying to do is help, and I'm getting home-towned by the local old boys.

The next call was from my ex, whose name is Robin Paine, which fits her, and who also happens to be an attorney. She said, "Hello, John, this is Robin. I want to remind you that our one-year separation ends on October first, at which time we are legally divorced. You'll get a copy of the decree in the mail. There's nothing for you to sign or do. It's automatic." She put a light tone in her voice and said, "Well, you can't commit adultery after October first unless you remarry. But don't get married before you get your decree or it's bigamy. Saw you on the news. Sounds like a fascinating case. Be well."

Right. Robin, by the way, was a Manhattan assistant district attorney once, which is how I met her. We were on the same side. She switched sides and took a high-paying job with a big-name defense attorney who liked her style in court. He may have liked more than her style, but aside from that, our marriage became a conflict of interest. I mean, I'm trying to put scumbags in the slammer, and the woman I'm sleeping with is trying to keep them in business. The last straw was when she took the case of a high-level drug guy who, aside from his American problems, was wanted in Colombia for icing a judge. I mean, Jeez, lady, I know somebody has to do it, and the money is terrific, but I was feeling matrimonially challenged. So I told her, "It's me or your job," to which she replied, "Maybe you should change your job" and she meant it — her firm needed a private investigator and she wanted me to take the job. I pictured doing PI work for her and her idiot boss. Maybe getting their coffee between cases. Right. Divorce, please.

Aside from these little career conflicts, we were actually in love once. Anyway, October first. Then she is officially ex, and I lose the opportunity to be an adulterer or a bigamist. Life just isn't fair sometimes.

Over the causeway and onto Main Road, heading back toward the hamlet of Cutchogue. I called Margaret Wiley.

She said, "I reached Emma at her florist shop, and she's on her way to the Peconic Historical Society house."

"That's very nice of her to give up her time."

"I told her it concerned the Gordon murders."

"Well, I'm not sure it does, Mrs. Wiley. I was just curious about — "

"You can discuss that with her. She's waiting for you."

"Thank you." I think she hung up before I did.

Anyway, I drove back to the Peconic Historical Society house and parked in the small lot beside a van marked "Whitestone Florist."

I went to the front door, and there was a yellow Post-it near the knocker that said, "Mr. Corey, please let yourself in."

So, I did.

The house, as I said, was large, circa about 1850s, typical of the home of a rich merchant or sea captain. The foyer was big, and to the left was a large sitting room, to the right was the dining room. The place was all antiques, of course, mostly junk if you want my opinion, but probably worth a bunch of buckos. I didn't see or hear anyone in the house, so I wandered about from room to room. It wasn't actually a museum in the sense of exhibits; it was just a decorated period house. I couldn't see anything sinister about the place, no paintings of burning churches on the walls, no black candles, no needlepoint pentagrams or black cats, and the kitchen had no bubbling witch's cauldron.

I wasn't sure why I was here, but something had drawn me here. On the other hand, I think I had geriatric overload, and the thought of talking to one more septuagenarian was more than I could handle. I should have opened the bottle of Tobin wine and chugged it before meeting Mrs. Whitestone.

Presently, I found the gift shop — Gift Shoppe — which had once been a summer kitchen, I think, and I went in. The lights were off, but sunlight came in through the windows.

The gifts ran the gamut from locally published books to local handicrafts, Indian crafts, needlepoint, dried herbs, pressed flowers, herbal teas, floral scents, candles (none black), watercolors, more painted tiles, seed packets, and so on. What do people do with all this crap?

I picked up a piece of weathered barn siding on which someone had painted an old sailing ship. As I studied the painting, I felt that someone was watching me.

I turned toward the entrance of the gift shop and a good-looking woman of about thirty-something was standing there, staring at me. I said, "I'm looking for Emma Whitestone."

"You must be John Corey."

"I must be. Do you know if she's in?"

"I'm Emma Whitestone."

The day was turning around. "Oh," I said. "I expected someone older."

"I expected someone younger."

"Oh…"

"Margaret said you were a young man. But you're closer to middle age, I think."

"Uh…"

She walked up to me and extended her hand. She said, "I'm president of the Peconic Historical Society. How can I help you?"

"Well… I don't know."

"Neither do I."

Okay, here's the deal: she was tall — only an inch or so shorter than I am — thin but shapely, shoulder-length brown hair that was washed but not ironed, light makeup, no nail polish, no jewelry, no earrings, no wedding or engagement ring. And she wasn't wearing much clothing either. She had on a knee-length, beige cotton summer dress with itty-bitty shoulder straps holding it up. Beneath this scanty number was little in the way of underwear. Certainly no bra, but I could see bikini panty lines. Also, she was barefoot. If I pictured Ms. Whitestone dressing this morning, she had slipped on the panties and the dress, put on a touch of lipstick, sort of combed her hair, and that was it. She could conceivably get out of that outfit in four seconds. Less with my help.

"Mr. Corey? Are you thinking about how I can help you?"

"Yes, I am. Just a second." She was not overly built, but was designed for speed and perhaps endurance. She had nice gray-green eyes and her face, aside from being pretty, was, at first glance, innocent. She reminded me of photos I'd seen of 1960s flower children, but maybe I thought that because she was a florist. On second look, there was a quiet sexuality in her features. Really.

I should mention, too, that she had a nice, even tan, giving her skin a café au lait color. This was one good-looking and sensual woman. Emma Whitestone.

"This has to do with the Gordons?"

"Yes." I put down the piece of barn siding and asked, "Did you know them?"

"Yes. We were friendly, but not friends." She added, "It was awful."

"Yes."

"Do you have any… leads?"

"No."

"I heard on the radio that they may have stolen a vaccine."

"Looks that way."

She thought a moment, then said to me, "You knew them."

"That's right. How do you know?"

"Your name came up a few times."

"Did it? In a nice way, I hope."

"Very nice." She added, "Judy had a little crush on you."

"Really?"

"Didn't you know?"

"Maybe." I wanted to change this subject, so I said, "Do you have, like, a list of members here?"

"Sure. The office is upstairs. I was doing some paperwork there when you arrived. Follow me."

I followed her. She had on a lavender scent. As we made our way through the mansion, I said, "Beautiful house."

She glanced back at me and said, "I'll give you a personal tour later."

"Terrific. Wish I had my camera."

We went up the wide, sweeping stairs, me still slightly behind her. Her panties really were skimpy. Also, she had nice feet, if you're into that.

On the second floor, she led me into a room that she described as the upstairs parlor. She invited me to sit in a wingback chair near the fireplace, which I did.

She said, "Can I offer you a cup of herbal tea?"

"I've had several cups already, thank you."

She sat in a wooden rocker opposite me and crossed her long, long legs. She asked, "What exactly do you need, Mr. Corey?"

"John. Please call me John."

"John. Please call me Emma."

"Well, Emma," I began, "I'd first like to ask you a few questions about the Peconic Historical Society. What's it all about?"

"It's about history. The North Fork has a number of local historical societies, most housed in historic buildings. This is the largest of all the societies and is named Peconic, an Indian name for this region. We have about five hundred members. Some are very prominent, some are simple farmers. We are dedicated to preserving, recording, and passing on our heritage."

"And discovering more about that heritage."

"Yes."

"Through archaeology."

"Yes. And research. We have some interesting archives here."

"Could I see them later?"

"You can see whatever you'd like later." She smiled.

Oh, my heart. I mean, was this a tease, or was this for real? I smiled at her. She smiled again.

Back to the job. I asked her, "Were the Gordons active members?"

"They were."

"When did they join?"

"About a year and a half ago. They'd moved here from Washington, D.C. They were from the Midwest, but they'd worked for the government in Washington. I suppose you know that."

"Did they ever discuss their work with you?"

"Not really."

"Have you ever been to their house?"

"Once."

"Did you socialize with them?"

"Now and then. The Peconic Historical Society is very social. That's one of the reasons they enjoyed us."

I asked, with some subtlety, "Did Tom have the hots for you?"

Instead of being insulted or shocked, she replied, "Probably."

"But you were not sexually involved with him?"

"No. He never asked."

I cleared my throat. "I see…"

"Look, Mr. Corey — John. You're wasting your time and my time with those kinds of questions. I don't know why or who murdered the Gordons, but it had nothing to do with me or with a sexual triangle involving me."

"I didn't say it did. I'm just exploring any sexual angles as part of the larger investigation."

"Well, I wasn't sleeping with him. I think he was faithful. She was faithful, too, as far as I know. It's hard to have an affair around here without everyone knowing about it."

"That may be your perception."

She regarded me a moment, then asked me, "Were you and Judy involved?"

"No, we weren't, Ms. Whitestone. This is not the afternoon soaps. This is a murder investigation, and I'll ask the questions."

"Don't be so touchy."

I took a deep breath and said, "I apologize."

"I want you to find the murderer. Ask your questions."

"Right. Okay… let me ask you this… what was your first thought when you heard they'd been murdered?"

"I don't know. I suppose I thought it had to do with their jobs."

"Okay. What do you think now?"

"I have no opinions."

"I find that hard to believe." Let's come back to that."

Okay." I still wasn't sure where I wanted to go with this interview, or what I was specifically seeking. But I had this mental image in my mind, sort of a map, and on it was Plum Island, Nassau Point, the bluffs above Long Island Sound, Tobin Vineyards, and the Peconic Historical Society. If you connected these points with a line, you had a five-sided geometric shape with no meaning. But if you connected these points in a metaphysical way, maybe the shape made sense. I mean, what was the common element of these five points? Maybe there wasn't any; but somehow they seemed connected, they seemed to share something. What?

I thought about whatever it was that had pinged in my head on Plum Island. History. Archaeology. That was it. What was it?

I asked Ms. Whitestone, "Do you know any of the people who work on Plum Island?"

She thought a moment, then replied, "Not really. A few of my customers work there. Other than Tom and Judy, I don't know any of the scientists and none of them belong to the historical society." She added, "They're a close-knit group. Keep to themselves."

"Do you know anything about the proposed digs on Plum Island?"

"Only that Tom Gordon had promised the historical society a chance to root around on the island."

"You're not into archaeology?"

"Not really. I prefer archive work. I have a degree in archival science. Columbia University."

"Is that so? I teach at John Jay," which is actually about fifty blocks due south of Columbia. Finally, we had something in common.

"What do you teach?" she asked.

"Criminal science and ceramics."

She smiled. Her toes wiggled. She recrossed her legs. Beige. The panties were beige like the dress. I was at a point where I almost had to cross my legs lest Ms. Whitestone notice that Lord Pudly was stirring from his nap. Keep your fee-pee in the teepee.

I said, "Archival science. Fascinating."

"It can be. I worked at Stony Brook for a while, then got a job out here in the Cutchogue Free Library. Founded in 1841, and they still pay the same salary. I was raised here, but it's hard to make a living out here unless you're in some sort of business. I own a florist shop."

"Yes, I saw the van."

"That's right. You're a detective." She asked, "So what are you doing out here?"

"Convalescing."

"Oh, right. Now I remember. You look fine."

So did she, but you're not supposed to hit on the witness, so I didn't mention it. She had a nice, soft, breathy voice which I found sexy.

I asked her, "Do you know Fredric Tobin?"

"Who doesn't?"

"He belongs to the Peconic Historical Society."

"He's our largest benefactor. He gives wine and money."

"Are you a wine connoisseur?"

"No. Are you?"

"Yes. I can tell the difference between a Merlot and a Budweiser. Blindfolded."

She smiled.

I said, "I'll bet a lot of people wish they'd gotten into wine years ago. I mean, as a business."

"I don't know. It's interesting, but not that lucrative."

"It is for Fredric Tobin," I pointed out.

"Fredric lives way above his means."

I sat up. "Why do you say that?"

"Because he does."

"Do you know him well? Personally?"

She asked me, "Do you know him personally?"

I really don't like to be interrogated, but I was on thin ice here. How are the mighty fallen. I replied, "I was at one of his wine-tasting things. Back in July. Were you there?"

"I was."

"I was with the Gordons."

"That's right. I think I saw you."

"I didn't see you. I would have remembered." She smiled.

I asked again, "How well do you know him?"

"Actually, we were involved."

"In what?"

"I mean we were lovers, Mr. Corey."

This was disappointing to hear. Nevertheless, I stuck to business and asked, "When was this?"

"It began… oh, about two years ago, and it lasted — Is this relevant?"

"You can refuse to answer any question."

"I know that."

I asked her, "What happened to the relationship?"

"Nothing. Fredric just collects women. It lasted for about nine months. Not a record for either of us, but not bad. We did Bordeaux, the Loire, Paris. Weekends in Manhattan. It was all right. He's very generous."

I mulled this over. I had developed a tiny crush on Emma Whitestone, and I was a little annoyed that Fredric had beat me to the cookie jar. I said, "I'm going to ask you a personal question, and you don't have to answer. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Are you still…? What I mean is — "

"Fredric and I are still friends. He has a live-in now. Sondra Wells. A total phony, including the name."

"Right. You said he lives above his means."

"Yes. He owes the banks and private investors a small fortune. He spends too much. The sad thing is that he's very successful, and he could probably live very well on his profits if it weren't for Foxwoods."

"Foxwoods?"

"Yes, you know. The Indian gambling casino. In Connecticut."

"Oh, right. He gambles?"

"Does he ever. I went with him once. He lost about five thousand dollars in one weekend. Blackjack and roulette."

"My goodness. I hope he had a return ferry ticket."

She laughed.

Foxwoods. You took the Orient Point ferry with your car aboard to New London, or the Foxwoods high-speed ferry and bus to Foxwoods, blew it out, and came back to Orient on Sunday night. A nice diversion from the workaday world of the North Fork, and if you weren't compulsive, you had a nice time, you made a few hundred or you lost a few hundred, you had dinner, saw a show, slept in a nice room. A good date weekend. A lot of the locals, however, didn't like the proximity to sin. Some wives didn't like the boys going over with the grocery money. But, like anything else, it was a matter of degree.

So, Fredric Tobin, cool and dandy viniculturist, a man who seemed in control, was a gambler. But if you, thought about it, was there a bigger gamble than the grape crop every year? The fact was, grapes were still experimental here, and so far, so good. No blight, no diseases, no frosts or heat spells. But one day, Hurricane Annabelle or Zeke was going to blow a billion grapes into the Long Island Sound, sort of like the biggest tub of Kool-Aid ever.

And then there were Tom and Judy, who gambled with little pathogenic bugs. Then they gambled with something else and lost. Fredric gambled with the crop and won, then gambled with cards and roulette and he, too, lost.

I said to Ms. Whitestone, "Do you know if the Gordons ever went with Mr. Tobin to Foxwoods?"

"I don't think so. But I wouldn't know. It's been about a year since Fredric and I parted."

"Right. But you're still friends. You still talk."

"I guess we're friends. He doesn't like it when his ex-lovers are angry with him. He wants to keep them all as friends. This is interesting at parties. He loves to be in a room with a dozen women that he's had sex with."

Who doesn't? I asked her, "And you don't think Mr. Tobin and Mrs. Gordon were involved?"

"I don't know for sure. I don't think so. He wasn't a wife chaser."

"How gallant."

"No, he was chicken. Husbands and boyfriends frightened him. He must have had a bad experience once." She sort of chuckled in her breathy way. She added, "In any case, he'd rather have Tom Gordon as a friend than Judy Gordon as a lover."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know. I never understood Fredric's attachment to Tom Gordon."

"I thought it was the other way around."

"That's what most people thought. It was Fredric who sought Tom out."

"Why?"

"I don't know. At first, I thought it was a way of getting to Judy, but then I came to learn that Fredric doesn't do wives. Then I figured it had to do with the Gordons' attractiveness and their jobs. Fredric is a collector of people. He fancies himself the leading social personage of the North Fork. Maybe he is. He's not the richest man, but the winery gives him some status. You understand?"

I nodded. Sometimes you dig for days and weeks and come up with nothing. Sometimes you hit gold. But sometimes it's fool's gold. I mean, this was fascinating, but was it relevant to the double homicide? Also, was this an exaggeration? A little revenge on Ms. Whitestone's part? This would not be the first ex-lover who sent me sniffing up the wrong tree in order to make life miserable for the party of the second part. So I asked her point-blank, "Do you think Fredric Tobin could have killed the Gordons?"

She looked at me as if I'd lost my mind, then said, "Fredric? He's not capable of violence of any sort."

"How do you know?"

She smiled and replied, "God knows, I gave him enough reason to take a swing at me." She added, "He just wasn't physical. He was in total control of his temper and his emotions. And why would he want to kill Tom and Judy Gordon?"

"I don't know. I don't even know why they were killed. Do you?"

She didn't reply for a second, then said, "Maybe drugs."

"Why do you think that?"

"Well… Fredric was concerned about them. They did coke."

"He told you that?"

"Yes."

Interesting. Especially since Fredric never mentioned it to me, and since there wasn't a grain of truth in it. I know what a cokehead looks and acts like, and the Gordons weren't cokeheads. So why would Tobin pin that on them? I asked her, "When did he tell you this?"

"Not long ago. A few months ago. He said they came to him and wanted to know if he wanted to score some good stuff. They dealt to support their habit."

"You believe that?"

She shrugged. "Could be."

"Okay… back to Mr. Tobin's relationship with the Gordons. You think he was the one who sought them out and cultivated the relationship."

"It seemed that way. I know in the nine months I was with him, he'd been on the phone with them a lot, and he rarely had a party without inviting them."

I thought about this. Certainly this didn't square with what Mr. Tobin had told me. I asked Ms. Whitestone, "What then was Mr. Tobm's attraction to the Gordons?"

"I don't know. Though I do know that he made it seem to everyone that it was the other way around. Funny thing is that the Gordons seemed to go along with it, as if they were honored to be in Fredric's company. Yet, when it was just the four of us a few times, you could see they considered themselves his equals. You understand?"

"Yes. But why were they playacting?"

Again, she shrugged. "Who knows?" She looked at me a moment, then said, "It was almost as if the Gordons were blackmailing Fredric. Like they had something on him. In public, he was the big cheese. In private, Tom and Judy were pretty familiar with him."

Blackmail. I let that percolate for a good half minute.

Emma Whitestone said, "I'm only guessing. Speculating. I'm not being vindictive or anything. I had a good time with Fredric, and I liked him, but I wasn't hurt when he broke it off."

"Okay." I looked at her, and we made eye contact. I asked her, "Have you spoken to Fredric since the murder?"

"Yes, yesterday morning. He called."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing more than anyone else was saying. Standard stuff."

We went into some detail about that phone conversation, and indeed, it seemed standard and pro forma.

I asked her, "Has he spoken to you today?"

"No."

"I visited him this morning.'

"Did you? Why?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know why you're here, either."

"Right." I didn't want to explain that I was out of potential witnesses after Plum Island and the Murphys and that I was off the job and had to interview people that the county PD would not think to interview. I wasn't exactly scraping the bottom of the barrel, but I was sort of working the edge of the crowd. I asked her, "Do you know any of the Gordons' friends?"

"I didn't really travel in the same circles except for when we were with Fredric. And then it was his friends."

"Wasn't Chief Maxwell a friend of theirs?"

"I think so. I could never understand that relationship any more than I could understand the Gordons' relationship with Fredric."

"I seem to be having trouble finding friends of the Gordons."

"From what I can gather, all their friends are Plum Island people. That's not so unusual. I told you — they're a tight-knit group." She added, "You'd be better off looking there than around here."

"Probably."

She asked me, "What did you think of Fredric?"

"A delightful man. I enjoyed his company." Which was true. But now that I knew he'd popped Ms. Whitestone here, I was more convinced than ever that there was no sexual justice in the world. I added, "Beady eyes."

"Shifty, too."

"Right." I said to her, "Could I ask a favor of you?"

"You can ask."

"Would you not tell him of our conversation?"

"I won't go into details. But I'll tell him we spoke." She added, "I don't lie. But I can keep things to myself."

"That's all I ask."

In Manhattan, there are not that many of these interlocking relationships as there are here. I had to keep this in mind, and I had to deal with it, and I had to adjust my style accordingly. But I'm bright and I can do that. On that subject, I asked Emma Whitestone, "I assume you know Chief Maxwell."

"Who doesn't?"

"Did you ever date him?"

"No. But he's asked."

"You don't like cops?"

She laughed. She wiggled her toes again and crossed her legs again. My goodness.

We went round and round for the next fifteen minutes or so, and Emma Whitestone had a lot of gossip, a lot of insights into people, though not much of it seemed to relate to the case. The problem was that I still didn't know what I was doing here, but it was nice being here. I should say, though, that I was a gentleman. To hit on a female officer is okay because as a peer, she can tell you to take a hike. However, with civilians, especially ones who might wind up in front of the DA, you had to be careful. You didn't want to compromise yourself or the witness. Nevertheless, I was interested.

No, I'm not fickle. I was still pining for Beth. I asked Ms. Whitestone, "Can I use your phone?"

"Sure. Right in there."

I went into an adjoining room, which was like going from the nineteenth century into the twentieth. This was the office suite of the historical society, complete with modern office furniture, file cabinets, copy machine, and so forth. I used a phone on one of the desks and called my answering machine. There was one message. A male voice said, "Detective Corey, this is Detective Collins of the Suffolk County Police. Detective Penrose asked me to call you. She's in a lengthy conference. She says she can't meet you this afternoon, and she'll call you tonight or tomorrow." End of message. I hung up and looked around the office. Under one of the desks was a pair of leather thongs, most probably Ms. Whitestone's.

I went back to the library, but I didn't sit down.

Emma Whitestone looked at me and asked, "Anything wrong?"

"No. Where were we?"

"I don't know."

I looked at my watch, then asked her, "Can we finish this over lunch?"

"Sure." She stood. "First I'll give you a tour of our house."

And she did. Room by room. Most of the upstairs was used for offices, storage, exhibits, and archives, but there were two bedrooms decorated in ye olde. One, according to Emma, was mid-seventeen hundreds, and the other was contemporary with the house, mid-eighteen hundreds. She said, "The house was built by a sea merchant who made his fortune in South America."

"Cocaine?"

"No, silly. Semiprecious stones from Brazil. Captain Samuel Farnsworth."

I pushed down on the lumpy bed. "Do you nap here?"

She smiled. "Sometimes. It's a feather mattress."

"Osprey feathers?"

"Could be. They used to be all over."

"They're making a big comeback.",

"Everything's making a big comeback. Damned deer devoured my rhododendrons." She led me out of the bedroom and said, "You wanted to see the archives."

"Yes."

She showed me into what had probably been a good-sized bedroom, and which was now filled with file cabinets, shelves, and a long oak table. She said, "We have original books and documents going back as far as the mid-sixteen hundreds. Deeds, letters, wills, legal decisions, sermons, army orders, ships' manifests and logs. Some of it is fascinating."

"How did you get into this?"

"Well, I suppose it had something to do with growing up here. My own family goes back to the original settlers."

"You're not related to Margaret Wiley, I hope."

She smiled. "We have family connections. Didn't you enjoy Margaret?"

"No comment."

She went on, "Archive work must be a little like detective work. You know — mysteries, questions to be answered, things that need to be uncovered. Don't you think so?"

"I do, now that you mention it." I added, "To tell you the truth, when I was a kid, I wanted to be an archaeologist. I found a musket ball once. Somewhere out here. Can't remember where." I added, "Now that I'm old and infirm, maybe I should take up archive work."

"Oh, you're not that old. And you might enjoy it. I can teach you to read this stuff."

"Isn't it in English?"

"Yes, except that seventeenth- and eighteenth-century English can be difficult. The spelling is atrocious and the script is sometimes hard to decipher. Here, take a look at this." She offered a big looseleaf binder that was on the table. Inside were plastic sleeves and in the plastic were old parchments. She flipped to one of the pages and said, "Read that."

I bent over the book and looked at the faded script. I read, "Dear Martha, Don't believe the rumors about me and Mrs. Farnsworth. I'm loyal and true. How about you? Your loving husband, George."

She laughed. "That's not what it says."

"That's what it looks like."

"Here, I'll read it." She pulled the binder toward her, and said, "This is a letter from a Phillip Shelley to the royal governor, Lord Bellomont, dated 3 August 1698." She read the letter, which to me had been indecipherable. The letter was full of "my lords" and "haths" and "your humble servant" stuff. The guy was complaining about some injustice regarding a land dispute. I mean, these people came across the ocean to a new continent and had the same gripes they had in Southwold with a "w."

I said to Ms. Whitestone, "Very impressive."

"There's nothing to it. You can learn it in a few months. I taught Fredric in two months, and he has no attention span."

"Really."

"The language isn't as difficult as the script and the spelling."

"Right." I asked her, "Can you give me a list of members?"

"Sure." We went into the office, and she gave me a paperbound membership directory, then slipped on her sandals.

I asked her, "How did you get this job?"

She shrugged. "I don't know… It's a pain in the butt. This was another one of Fredric's stupid social-climbing ideas. I was the archivist here, which I didn't mind doing. Then he proposed me as president, and whatever Fredric wants, Fredric gets. Plus, I'm still the archivist. Flower girl and president and archivist of the Peconic Historical Society."

"Are you hungry?"

"Sure. Let me call the shop." She did, and I poked around the office a bit. I heard her say, softly, ''I may not be back this afternoon."

No, Ms. Whitestone, you may not be if I have anything to say about it.

She hung up, and we went downstairs. She said, "We have small receptions and parties here. It's nice at Christmas."

"That reminds me — are you going to Mr. Tobin's soiree on Saturday?"

"Maybe. Are you?"

"I thought I would. In the line of duty."

She suggested, "Why don't you arrest him in front of everyone and take him away in handcuffs?"

"That sounds like fun, only I don't think he's done anything wrong."

"I'm sure he's done something wrong." She led me to the front door and we went outside. It was getting warmer. She locked the door and took the Post-it note off. I said, "I'll drive."

I started my vehicle with the remote. She said, "That's a nice feature."

I said, "It's good to detonate car bombs from a distance."

She laughed. I was not joking.

We got into my sport utility vehicle, and I threw it into reverse, purposely leaving my door ajar. The female voice said, "The driver's side door is ajar."

Emma said, "That's a silly feature."

"I know. It sounds like my ex-wife. I'm trying to kill it. The voice, not my ex-wife."

Emma played with the computer buttons as she asked me, "How long have you been divorced?"

"Actually, it's not official until October first. In the meantime, I'm trying to avoid adultery and bigamy."

"That should be easy."

I wasn't sure how to take that. I pulled out of the parking area and said, "What do you like? You pick."

"Why don't we continue the mood and go to a historic inn? How about the General Wayne Inn? Do you know it?"

"I think so. Isn't that John Wayne's place?"

"No, silly. Mad Anthony Wayne. He slept there."

"Is that what made him mad? Lumpy mattress?"

"No… are you historically challenged?"

"Totally clueless."

"Mad Anthony Wayne was a Revolutionary War general. He was the leader of the Pennsylvania Volunteers."

"Right. Their big single was 'My Heart's on Fire and You're Sit-tin' on My Hose.'"

Emma Whitestone stayed silent awhile, wondering, I'm sure, if she'd made the right decision. Finally, she said, "It's on Great Hog Neck. I'll direct you."

"Okay." And off we went to a place called the General Wayne Inn, located in a place called Great Hog Neck. I mean, could I get into this scene? Did I miss Manhattan? Hard to say. If I had big bucks, I could do both. But I don't have big bucks. Which got me to thinking about Fredric Tobin, who, as it turns out, also doesn't have big bucks, and there I was envying him, figuring he was on top of the world — grapes, babes, bucks — turns out he's broke. Worse, he's in debt. For a man like Fredric Tobin, to lose it all would be the equivalent of losing his life. He might as well be dead. But he wasn't. Tom and Judy were dead. Connection? Maybe. This was getting interesting.

But time was running out for me. I could play cop for maybe forty-eight more hours before I was shut down by the Southold PD, the NYPD, and the Suffolk County PD.

Ms. Whitestone was giving me directions as I ruminated. Finally, she asked me, "Are they leveling with us about the vaccine?"

"I think so. Yes."

"This had nothing to do with germ warfare?"

"No."

"Or drugs?"

"Not that I can determine."

"Burglary?"

"It looks that way, but I think it has to do with a stolen vaccine." Who says I'm not a team player? I can put out the official bullshit as well as anyone else. I asked Ms. Whitestone, "You have another theory?"

"No, I don't. I just have this feeling that they were killed for some reason we don't yet understand."

Which is exactly what I thought. Bright woman.

I asked her, "Have you ever been married?"

"Yes. I married young, sophomore year in college. Lasted seven years." She added, "And I've been divorced seven years. Add it up."

"You're twenty-five."

"How did you get twenty-five?"

"Forty-two?"

She said, "Turn right here. Right is toward me."

"Thanks."

It was a pleasant drive, and we soon found ourselves on Great Hog Neck — which is yet another peninsula that juts into the bay, lying somewhat east and north of Nassau Point, sometimes called Little Hog Neck.

I've noticed that around here there are three main sources of place names — Native Americans, English settlers, and realtors. The latter have maps with nice names that they make up to replace yucky names like Great Hog Neck.

We passed a small observatory called the Custer Institute, which Mrs. Wiley had mentioned, and I got a briefing on that and on the American Indian Museum across from the observatory.

I asked Emma, "Were the Gordons interested in astronomy?"

"Not that I knew about."

"You know they bought an acre of land from Mrs. Wiley."

"Yes." She hesitated, then said, "That was not a good deal."

"Why did they want that land?"

"I don't know… It never made sense to me."

"Did Fredric know about the Gordons' buying that land?"

"Yes." She changed the subject to the immediate environs and said, "There's the original Whitestone house. Sixteen eighty-five."

"Still in the family?"

"No, but I'm going to buy it back." She added, "Fredric was supposed to help me out, but… That's when I realized he wasn't as well off as he appeared."

I didn't comment.

Like Nassau Point, Hog Neck was mostly cottages and some newer weekend homes, many of them gray-shingled to look like ye olde. There were some fields that Emma said had been common pastureland since colonial times, and there were woods here and there. I asked, "Are the Indians friendly?"

"There are no Indians."

"All gone?"

"All gone."

"Except the ones in Connecticut who opened the biggest casino complex between here and Las Vegas."

She said, "I have some Native American blood."

"Really?"

"Really. A lot of the old families do, but they're not advertising it. Some people come to me actually wanting to expunge relatives from the archives."

"Incredible." I knew there was a politically correct thing to say, but every time I try to do PC, I blow it. I mean, it changes, like weekly. I played it safe with, "Racist."

"Racial, though not necessarily racist. Anyway, I don't care who knows I have Indian blood. My maternal great-grandmother was a Corchaug."

"Well, you have nice color."

"Thanks."

We approached this big white clapboard building set on a few acres of treed land. I actually recalled seeing the place once or twice, when I was a kid. I have these childhood memories of places in my mind, still-life summer scenes, sort of like looking at slides through a viewfinder. I said to Ms. Whitestone, "I think I ate here with my family when I was a wee lad."

"Quite possible. It's two hundred years old. How old are you?"

I ignored this and asked, "How's the food?"

"Depends." She added, "It's a nice setting, and off the beaten path. No one will see us, and no one will gossip."

"Good thinking." I pulled into the gravel driveway, parked, and opened my door a crack with the engine still running. A tiny little bell chimed and the schematic of my vehicle showed a door ajar. I said, "Hey, you killed the voice."

"We don't want your ex-wife's voice annoying you."

We got out of the vehicle and walked toward the inn. She took my arm, which surprised me. She asked, "When do you get off duty?"

"Now."