Plum Island

CHAPTER 18

Lunch was pleasant enough. The place was nearly empty and had undergone a recent restoration, so if you let your imagination go, it was 1784 and Mad Anthony Wayne was stomping around ordering grog, whatever that is.

The food was basic American? nothing tricky, which appeals to my carnivorous tastes, and Ms. Emma Whitestone turned out to be a basic American girl, nothing tricky, which likewise appealed to my carnivorous tastes.

We didn't discuss the murders, or Lord Tobm, or anything unpleasant. She was really into history, and I was fascinated by what she was saying. Well, not really, but history coming from Emma Whitestone's breathy mouth was not too hard to take.

She went on about the Reverend Youngs, who led his flock here from Connecticut in 1640, and I wondered aloud if they took the New London ferry, which got me a cool look. She mentioned Captain Kidd and lesser-known pirates who sailed these waters three hundred years ago, then told me about the Hortons of lighthouse fame, one of which built this very inn. And then there was the Revolutionary War General, Francis Marion, the Swamp Fox, after whom, she said, East Marion was named, even though I argued there was probably a town called Marion in England. But she knew her stuff. She told me about the Underbills, the Tuthills, and a little about the Whitestones, who were actually Mayflower Pilgrims, and about people with first names like Abijah, Chauncey, Ichabod, and Barnabas, not to mention Joshua, Samuel, and Isaac, who weren't even Jewish. And so on.

Ping ! Whereas Paul Stevens had bored me senseless with his computer-generated voice, Emma Whitestone had me bewitched with her sort of aspirating tones, not to mention her gray-green eyes. Anyway, the net result was the same — I'd heard something that caused a delayed reaction in my usually awake brain. Ping ! I listened for her to say it again, whatever it was, and I tried to recall what it was and why I thought it was significant. But to no avail. This time, however, I knew it was on the tip of my brain, and I knew I'd have it out very soon. Ping !

I said to her, "I feel the presence of Mad Anthony Wayne here."

"Do you? Tell me about it."

"Well, he's sitting at that table by the window, and he's been sneaking glances at you. He's giving me dirty looks. He's mumbling to himself, 'What hath he got that I haveth not?'"

She smiled. "You're crazy."

"Haveth not got? Or goteth not?"

"I'll teach you eighteenth-century English if you stop being a jerk."

"I thank thee."

Well, before we knew it, it was three p.m. and the waiter was getting antsy. I hate to interrupt the flow and energy of a case to chase panties — delectus interruptus. It's a fact that the first seventy-two hours of a case are the most critical. But a fella has to answer certain biological calls, and my bells were ringing.

I said, "If you have time, we can take a spin in my boat."

"You have a boat?"

Actually, I didn't, so this might not have been a good line. But I had waterfront property and a dock, so I could say the boat sank. I said, "I'm staying at my uncle's place. A farm bay estate."

"Bay farm estate."

"Right. Let's go."

We left the General Wayne Inn and drove toward my place, which is about twenty minutes west of Hog Neck.

As we traveled west along Main Road,'she informed me, "This used to be called King's Highway. They changed the name after the Revolution."

"Good idea."

"Funny thing is that my alma mater, Columbia University, was called Kings College, and they also changed it after the Revolution."

"I'll tell ya, if we have another revolution, there are a lot of names I'd like to change."

"Such as?"

"Well, first, East Seventy-second Street where my condo is. I'd like to call it Cherry Lane. Sounds nicer." I continued, "Then there's my ex-wife's cat, Snowball — I'd like to change his name to Dead Cat." I went on with a few more name changes, come the revolution.

She sort of interrupted by asking me, "Do you like it out here?"

"I think so. I mean, it's nice, but I'm not sure I fit."

She informed me, "There are a lot of eccentrics out here."

"I'm not eccentric. I'm nuts."

"There are a lot of those, too." She added, "This is no rural backwater. I know farmers with Ivy League degrees, I know astronomers from the Custer Institute, and there are the vintners who studied in France, and the scientists from Plum Island and Brookhaven labs, plus academics from Stony Brook University, artists, poets, writers, and — "

"Archivists."

"Yes. I get annoyed when people from the city think we're hicks."

"I certainly don't think that."

"I lived in Manhattan for nine years. I got tired of the city. I missed my home."

"I sensed a certain city sophistication about you, coupled with a country charm. You're in the right place."

"Thank you."

I think I passed one of the more important tests on my way to the sack.

We were driving through farm and wine country now, and she said, "The autumn is long and lazy here. The orchards are still heavy with fruit and many of the vegetables haven't been picked yet. It can be snowing in New England around Thanksgiving, and we're still harvesting here." She asked me, "Am I rambling on?"

"No, not at all. You're painting a beautiful word picture."

"Thank you."I was now on the first landing of the staircase leading to the bedroom.

Basically, we both kept it light and airy, the way people do who are really sort of edgy because they know they might be headed for the sheets.

Anyway, we pulled up the long driveway to the big Victorian, and Emma said, "A big painted lady."

"Where?"

"The house. That's what we call the old Victorians."

"Oh. Right. By the way, my aunt used to belong to the Peconic Historical Society. June Bonner."

"Sounds familiar."

"She knew Margaret Wiley." I added, "Actually, my aunt was born here, which is why she talked Uncle Harry into this summer place."

"What was her maiden name?"

"I'm not sure — maybe Witherspoonhamptonshire."

"Are you making fun of my name?"

"No, ma'am."

"Find out your aunt's maiden name."

"Okay." I stopped in front of the painted lady.

She said, "If it's an old family, I can look it up. We have a lot of information on the old families."

"Yeah? Lots of skeletons in the closets?"

"Sometimes."

"Maybe Aunt June's family were horse thieves and whores."

"Could be. There are a lot of those in my family tree."

I chuckled.

She said, "Could be that her family and mine are related. You and I could be related by marriage."

"Could be." I was at the top of the stairs now, the bedroom door was about ten feet away. Actually, I was still in the Jeep. I said, "Here we are," and got out.

She got out, too, and looked at the house. She said, "And this is her house?"

"Was. She's deceased. My Uncle Harry wants me to buy it."

"It's too big for one person."

"I can cut it in half." Okay, into the house, tour of the ground floor, check my answering machine in the den — no messages — into the kitchen for two beers and out onto the back porch and into two wicker chairs.

She said, "I love watching the water."

"This is a good place to do it. I've been sitting here for a few months."

"When do you have to go back to work?"

"I'm not sure. I'm scheduled to see the doc next Thursday."

"How did you get involved in this case?"

"Chief Maxwell."

She said, "I don't see your boat."

I looked out at the rickety dock. "Oh, it must have sunk."

"Sunk?"

"Oh, I remember. It's in for repairs."

"What do you have?"

"A… twenty-four foot… Boston Whaler…?"

"Do you sail?"

"You mean like a sailboat?"

"Yes. A sailboat."

"No. I'm into powerboats. Do you sail?"

"A little."

And so forth.

I'd taken off my jacket and docksiders and rolled up my sleeves. She'd slipped off the thongs, and we both had our bare feet on the rail. Her little beige number had slipped north of the knees.

I got my binoculars, and we took turns looking out at the bay, the boats, the wetlands — which used to be called a swamp when I was a kid — the sky, and all that.

I was up to beer five, and she was going one for one with me. I like a woman who can pound down the suds. She was a little lit by now, but still had a clear head and voice.

She had the binoculars in one hand, and a Bud in the other. She said, "This is a major meeting point on the Atlantic Coastal Flyway, a sort of rest stop for migratory birds." She looked through the binoculars at the distant sky and continued, "I can see flights of Canada geese, long skeins of loons, and a ripply line of old-squaws. They'll all stay around until November, then continue on south. The osprey winds up in South America."

"That's good."

She rested the binoculars in her lap and stared out to sea. She said, "On stormy days, when the wind blows hard out of the northeast, the sky turns silvery gray and the birds act strange. There's a feeling of eerie isolation, an ominous beauty that has to be felt and heard as much as seen."

We stayed silent for a while, then I said, "Would you like to see the rest of the house?"

"Sure."

My first stop on the tour of the second floor was my bedroom, and we didn't get much farther.

It actually took three seconds for her to get out of her things. She had a really beautiful all-over tan, a firm body, everything exactly where it belonged, and exactly as I'd pictured it.

I was still unbuttoning my shirt by the time she was naked. She watched me getting undressed and stared at my ankle holster and revolver.

A lot of women aren't into armed men as I've learned, so I said, "I have to wear this by law," which was true in New York City but not necessarily out here.

She replied, "Fredric carries a gun."

Interesting.

Anyway, I was in the altogether now, and she came up to me and touched my chest. "Is that a burn?"

"No, a bullet hole." I turned around. "See? That's the exit wound."

"My God."

"Just a flesh wound. Here, look at this one." I showed her the entry wound in my lower abdomen, then turned again and showed her the exit on my rump. The grazing wound on my left calf was less interesting.

She said, "You could have been killed."

I shrugged. Aw shucks, ma'am.

Anyway, I was glad the cleaning lady had changed the sheets, glad I had condoms in the night table, and glad Willie Peter responded to Emma Whitestone. I turned the phone ringer off.

I knelt down at the side of my bed to say my prayers, and Emma got into the bed and wrapped her long, long legs around my neck.

Anyway, without going into details, we hit it off pretty well and fell asleep, wrapped in each other's arms. She felt good and didn't snore.