Plum Island

by Nelson DeMille

  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 of 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 lie, 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.

  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 everyone who gets a disease, or who’s held hostage, or who gets plugged is a hero. But if I could trade on the hero thing to get my ass out of hot water, I surely would. Problem was, media-made heroes had only about ninety days shelf-life. I got shot in mid-April. Maybe I should call my lawyer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes.”

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

  “Whitestone. Emma Whitestone.”

  “Right. Is that possible today?”

  “I don’t know….”

  “Why don’t I call Emma Whitestone—”

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

  “Great. I really appreciate—”