Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow

by Cynthia Baxter

  “You ready to order?” the waitress asked, clearly concerned that I was out of my seat.

  “Um, no. I need another minute.” I glanced back at the television screen and saw that Falcone had been replaced by our local weatherman, who was grinning so broadly I suspected we were in for a few days of sunshine.

  I slunk back to my chair and studied my menu, pretending I was frowning because of indecisiveness rather than the giant rock that was now lodged in my stomach. In fact, I was so focused on trying to hide how upset I was that it took me a few seconds to realize that somebody was saying my name.

  “Dr. Popper?” I heard again. I glanced up, surprised to discover that a man was standing next to my table, grasping a straw hat in his gnarled hands. “I thought that was you. But, well, my eyesight isn’t that good, especially without my glasses.”

  “Hello, Mr. Simcox,” I said. I was right about the likelihood of running into him—and pleased about the possibility of gathering more information. “It’s nice to see you again. In fact, would you care to join me?”

  He looked startled. Even I had to admit that our previous encounter at Thorndike Vineyards on Saturday hadn’t exactly been what you’d call a bonding experience.

  “I was just going to grab a quick bite before heading back to my own neck of the woods,” I added. There was something about being on the East End that prompted me to talk like an old cowhand.

  He hesitated. “Well...I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Not at all,” I insisted. “I’d enjoy the company.”

  He hesitated, then pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down. Just like the first time I’d met him, he was dressed casually in his new jeans and a comfortable-looking blue chambray shirt that was just a tiny bit frayed at the collar.

  “Do you eat here often?” I asked.

  “All the time. In fact, I suppose I’m what you’d call a regular.” With an apologetic smile, he added, “Eating out all the time can add up. But sitting at a kitchen table alone gets pretty depressing, so coming here for most of my meals is my one indulgence. Besides, the prices aren’t too bad.”

  Having scanned the menu, I had to agree. “So what’s good?”

  “Just about everything,” he assured me. He perched on the edge of his chair awkwardly, as if he still wasn’t convinced he wasn’t making a bad move. “Except the chicken pot pie. I’d steer clear of that, if I were you.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Simcox,” I replied, smiling. “Sounds like advice worth following.”

  “Please, call me Theo.”

  After we’d ordered—me, clam chowder and one of those underpriced turkey sandwiches, Theo, the tuna salad on white toast—we both settled back in our chairs.

  “So,” he began, spreading his paper napkin out in his lap, “what brings you to the North Fork? Seeing patients, I imagine.” Thoughtfully, he added, “You do call the dogs and cats you treat ‘patients,’ don’t you?”

  “The animals are the patients. Their owners are the clients. And yes, that’s why I’m in the area today. I had some patients to see.” I hesitated, then said, “I thought I might stop in at the Thorndikes’, too. Just to say hello and see how they’re doing.”

  “Hmm. Yes.” Theo’s expression darkened as our waitress plunked a cup of clam chowder down in front of me. Maybe I was just being overly sensitive, but I was pretty sure she looked relieved that I wasn’t going to have to eat my lunch alone like Charlie Brown after all.

  “Poor Gordon,” he continued. “He’s not doing well, I understand. Not well at all. In fact, he’s having such a hard time dealing with what happened that he’s leaving all the details to Joan. Not only did she plan the entire funeral; she’s started to pack away Cassandra’s things. As if that weren’t heartbreaking enough, she’s also been trying to arrange for a cleanup crew to take care of the room where...Cassandra’s home office.”

  “How well do you know the Thorndikes?” I asked, doing my best to sound as if I were simply making conversation instead of pumping him for information.

  “Quite well, actually. I’ve lived on the property next to Gordon’s vineyard for close to two decades. In fact, he and I have been friends since the early days, back when we were both starting out in the business. I’ve known Joan almost as long as Gordon has.”

  “It’s wonderful that they both work in the family business together,” I commented.

  “And they complement each other beautifully,” Theo added. “Gordon is the genius behind the winemaking, and Joan helps him with the marketing. And Cassandra, of course...” He cleared his throat, as if trying to banish the thickness I could tell was lodged there.

  “It must be nice to have neighbors you have so much in common with,” I said, doing my best to brighten up the conversation.

  “Many of us who live here on the North Fork are in the same business, and it’s certainly been a big factor in my friendship with Gordon. Still, he and I are different in a lot of ways. Our approach to the business, for one thing. For me, it’s just that: a business. For him, it’s a calling. Of course, he had the luxury of going into it with an entirely different perspective.”

  I shook my head to demonstrate my confusion.

  “Gordon’s one of the lucky ones who started out his operation with a lot of money.”

  “Investors?” I asked politely.

  “Family money. Quite a bit, from what I understand. Not that you’d ever guess by looking at him. Gordon’s a quiet, low-key guy. But he’s steady. And he’s passionate about wine. Has a real gift, too. A talent, I guess you’d call it.”

  “You must have it, too,” I observed.

  His response was a shrug. “Me, I learned the wine business by reading books and studying, not by instinct. Sure, I know all the facts. But as much as I’ve always wanted to master the wine business, I’ve never had Gordon’s magic touch.”

  “You’ve certainly done well, though,” I said.

  “I suppose I can’t complain,” he admitted. “I’ve even won a few awards. Still, I’m not in the same league as Gordon. Never will be either.”

  I suspected he was just being modest. And very loyal to his friend, a trait I found endearing. Especially because of what life had recently thrown Gordon Thorndike’s way.

  “Since you’ve known Gordon so long, I guess you knew Cassandra since she was a little girl.” I lowered my eyes, concentrating on excavating a particularly large chunk of clam with my spoon.

  “Yes, I did. Ethan, too.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m sure he’s taking it hard.”

  “Were Cassandra and Ethan close?” I asked.

  “Like cats and dogs, if you’ll excuse the expression.”

  Not only did I excuse it; I recognized that I’d heard it before. From the looks of things, the list of people Cassandra had had trouble getting along with was long indeed—and it included blood relatives as well as her fiancé.

  Theo attempted a smile but didn’t get very far. “Although I suppose that when you came right down to it, Cassandra and Ethan were too much alike to have a close relationship.”

  I hesitated, wondering how far I dared push the conversation. Doing my best to sound casual, I said, “Joan mentioned something about Cassandra being...difficult.”

  My words seemed to turn Theo’s face into stone. “I thought the world of that girl,” he said in a low, controlled voice. “It’s true she was independent. Strongwilled, even. But while I’m extremely fond of Joan, I’m not about to allow whatever difficulties the two of them might have experienced as stepmother and stepdaughter to smear Cassandra’s name.”

  The vehemence of his reaction startled me into silence. I’d taken a chance—and it had backfired. Clutching my spoon, I started shoveling in clam chowder, desperately trying to come up with a less incendiary topic of conversation.

  “I always enjoy making calls on the North Fork,” I said, deciding that talking about work would provide a convenient segue. “It’s so peaceful—and it has such an interesting history. Speak
ing of which, where do you stand on the issue of whether Captain Kidd’s treasure still lies buried out here?”

  He raised his eyes from his plate. “Oh, there’s treasure out here, all right.”

  “Really?” His response surprised me.

  “Sure.” He gestured toward the window. “You’re looking at it.” My confusion must have shown on my face, because he added, “The land.”

  “Of course.” Glancing out, I saw the fields of a neighboring farm stretching out, the rich soil nurturing apple trees, endless rows of cauliflower and broccoli, and of course pumpkins, a sure sign that Halloween was getting close.

  “We’ve got some of the most fertile land you’ll find anywhere,” Theo continued with more than a trace of pride in his voice. “In fact, when the English settlers first arrived on the North Fork in the 1600s, they could hardly believe their good fortune. They found an unbelievable abundance of wildlife to hunt, fish to catch, and top-quality soil just waiting to be planted. In fact, the farming conditions here were far superior to what they found in the New England colonies like Connecticut and Massachusetts. And our growing season is substantially longer.

  From what I understand, back in those days, the English grew a little bit of everything. Of course, that changed in the late nineteenth century when immigrants from Poland and Ireland started coming in. They planted the crops they were familiar with, like cauliflower, cabbage, and the one Long Island became most famous for: potatoes.

  “Today, Long Island’s farms are the most productive in New York State. Of course, farming has diminished significantly over the last decades, and these days most of it is dedicated to flowers and ornamental shrubs. But the region still produces fruits and vegetables, mostly tomatoes, corn, and, yes, potatoes. If you ask me, that’s a treasure more valuable than anything Captain Kidd could have left behind.”

  “I suppose there are all kinds of treasure,” I agreed.

  “Besides,” he continued, “there’s more to the story of Captain Kidd than most people know. The truth is that he wasn’t a bad guy at all. In fact, he was merely a pawn in a rich man’s game.”

  “Tell me more,” I said, genuinely intrigued.

  “Kidd was originally a Scotsman, the son of a minister. But he made a name for himself as a skilled sea captain early on. He moved to New York City in the 1680s and married a wealthy widow. The following decade, England and France went to war, and Kidd forged a successful career as a privateer. Privateers were basically freelance sailors who provided support to the British Royal Navy. Ironically, Kidd’s job was defending British and American trade routes in the Caribbean against pirates.

  “Then the newly appointed governor of New York City, Lord Bellomont, and three other well-to-do individuals commissioned him to lead an expedition in the Indian Ocean. His official duty was to protect his ship from pirates. But his backers made it clear that he was welcome to capture any French ships he came across and help himself to their cargo—with the understanding that he’d share the spoils with them, of course.

  “Captain Kidd had a difficult time finding men, though, since the British Navy had just drafted most of them. He was so desperate to put together a crew that he ended up promising to pay them an unusually large percentage of the booty. In fact, by the time he embarked on his journey, he’d promised well over one hundred percent to his crew and his backers. He also ended up signing on some men who were known to be pirates.

  “The voyage began like any other. But the crew became restless. Too many ships that weren’t French were getting past them, and they revolted. In the midst of the melee, Kidd hit a gunner in the head with a bucket. The man—William Moore, I believe his name was—died of a fractured skull soon afterward.

  “From then on, the members of Kidd’s crew considered themselves pirates. When they neared India, they attacked a ship called the Quedah Merchant. They stole her cargo—sugar, opium, silk, spices, and gold—which was supposedly worth the spectacular amount of seventy thousand pounds.

  “But the real problem for Kidd was that while he was on his two-year voyage, things changed back at home. The English had begun clamping down on piracy. When he reached the West Indies, he learned he was now considered a pirate—and that he was a wanted man. He managed to obtain a pardon by bribing a few corrupt politicians, as was the norm in those days. He then buried some of his booty on Gardiner’s Island—and, some people believe, a few other places along the North Fork.”

  “So the story has a happy ending,” I commented, “at least for Captain Kidd. Thanks to those corrupt politicians, he was pardoned.”

  “Not quite. He sailed home, thinking all was well. Instead, he was arrested and sent back to England. He was held in Newgate Prison for a year, where he was forbidden to communicate with his wife or anyone else. When he finally stood trial, he was never given a fair chance to defend himself. Of course, the fact that his backers withheld the documents that might have proven his innocence didn’t help his case. He wasn’t allowed to take the stand to defend himself, and neither were any members of his crew, aside from two deserters.

  “Captain Kidd was found guilty of both piracy and the murder of William Moore. As was the tradition in those days, he was executed by hanging and his corpse was put in a harness made of hoops and chains and covered in tar to keep the skeleton together. Then it was put into an iron cage and hung at the mouth of the Thames River as a message to others. The British government wasn’t exactly subtle. Kidd’s body supposedly remained there for years before finally rotting away. Meanwhile, his backers suffered a bit from the scandal but in the end held on to their wealth and power.”

  “What a grisly tale!” I exclaimed. “But what about the buried treasure?”

  “With John Gardiner’s help, the British authorities unearthed some ten thousand pounds worth of gold from his island. But the other treasure—if it ever really existed— has never been found.”

  “Fascinating!” I was already looking forward to telling Nick the true story of Captain Kidd. I wondered if I could find a way to capture enough of the magic to tell Maggie Rose without giving her nightmares.

  Glancing down, I realized I’d polished off the rest of my lunch without even realizing it. I was actually sorry that I’d run out of excuses to converse with Theo Simcox. I never would have expected he’d turn out to be such a captivating storyteller.

  I only wished he’d been as forthcoming about Cassandra as he’d been about Captain Kidd.

  “I suppose I should be on my way,” I said reluctantly.

  “Actually,” he said after clearing his throat, “if you’re not in a hurry, meeting you the other day reminded me that I’ve got a pet of my own that I’ve been meaning to bring to the vet. Haven’t had the time, though, especially since I’ve been helping at the Thorndikes’ vineyard. Since you’re out here and all, I wonder if you could stop by and take a look at one of my greyhounds. Shiraz has had allergies since I got her. Scratching excessively, rubbing her eyes...the poor thing has had such a rough time. Her regular vet put her on a drug I believe he refers to as ‘pred.’ I’ve been giving her five milligrams a day.”

  “Prednisolone,” I said. “It’s a synthetic adrenal corticosteroid that’s used to reduce inflammation.”

  “Shouldn’t I worry about her being on a steroid like cortisone?”

  “It might not be a bad idea to reevaluate,” I commented. “Whenever you’re dealing with a steroid, you have to consider the side effects. I have some time right now, and I’d be happy to stop over.”

  “I’d certainly appreciate that. Come autumn, we all get incredibly busy, just like Joan was saying the other day. Of course, my operation isn’t nearly as big as the Thorndikes’. Still, sometimes it’s difficult to find time for even the important things.”

  He grabbed the check. “I’ll get this,” he insisted. “And once we’re paid up, you can follow me to my humble home.”

  Just as I had with Joan Thorndike, I followed Theo to his house. It was easy not
to lose him, not only because there was little traffic but also because he drove so slowly. I wondered if that was because he was getting on in years or simply because of his old clunker of a car, a dented Dodge that was at least twelve or thirteen years old. Still, I suspected that, like his soft, well-worn shirts, it was simply something he felt comfortable in.

  Our two-vehicle caravan made a sharp right turn after a large wooden sign that read Simcox Wineries. Unlike the Thorndikes, he lived on the same piece of land that his winery occupied, just to the east of Thorndike Vineyards. I followed him along his paved driveway, relieved that it was much shorter and smoother than the Thorndikes’. Theodore Simcox’s home was a rambling if somewhat ramshackle Victorian farmhouse that was set fairly far back from the road, behind the dignified brick building that served as the vineyard’s visitors’ center. It had a few faded shingles and the shutters could have used a coat of paint, but it looked solid enough. Beyond the house stretched acres of farmland, planted with the now-familiar rows of grapes.

  “This part of Long Island is so beautiful,” I observed as I climbed out of my van, taking in the manicured fields flanking the road. “It’s hard to believe we’re only seventy miles from Times Square.”

  “It is quite nice, isn’t it?” Theodore agreed. “When people think of Long Island, they picture one housing development after another. Yet right now we could be in the Napa Valley—or in one of the wine regions of France.”

  “What about the wine industry here on Long Island?” I asked. “I know it’s only a few decades old. How did it get started?”

  “Interestingly enough, two Harvard students are responsible,” Theo explained. “A married couple, Louisa and Alex Hargrave, who happened to be passionate about wine. But they were more than mere devotees. They were also true visionaries, the first to recognize that the growing conditions on Long Island’s East End—the soil conditions, the climate—were just like those of France’s Bordeaux region.

  “In the mid-seventies, the Hargraves took a chance by planting Vitis vinifera wine grapes on their North Fork land—the same type used by French and Californian wineries. Many people thought they were fighting a losing battle. But in the end, they prevailed. These days, they’re considered the founders of one of Long Island’s major industries.”