Plum Island (40 page)

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—
detectus 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.

When I awoke, the sunlight was fading from the window, and Emma was sleeping on her side, sort of curled into a ball. I had
a sense that I should be doing something more constructive than having afternoon sex. But what? I was being effectively sandbagged,
and unless Max or Beth shared things with me like forensics, autopsies, and such, I had to proceed without any of the modern
technical advantages of police science. I needed phone records, I needed the fingerprint reports, I needed more Plum Island
stuff, and I needed access to the crime scene. But I didn’t think I was going to get any of that.

So, I had to fall back on gumshoeing, phone calls, face time with people who might know something. I’d decided to stick this
out no matter who didn’t like the idea.

I looked at Emma in the fading light. A naturally beautiful woman. And bright.

She opened her eyes and smiled at me. She said, “I saw you looking at me.”

“You’re very nice to look at.”

“Do you have a girlfriend out here?”

“No. But there’s someone in Manhattan.”

“I don’t care about Manhattan.”

I asked her, “How about you?”

“I’m between engagements.”

“Good.” I asked, “How about dinner?”

“Maybe later. I can make something.”

“I have lettuce, mustard, butter, beer, and cookies.” She sat up, stretched, and yawned. “I need a swim.” She rolled out of
bed and slipped into her dress. “Let’s take a swim.”

“Okay.” I got up and put on my shirt.

We went downstairs, out through the den, which led to the porch, across the lawn, and down to the bay.

She looked around. “Private here?”

“Pretty much.”

She slipped off her dress and threw it on the foot of the dock. I did the same with my shirt. She picked her way across the
stony beach, then dived in. I did the same.

The water was cool at first, and it took my breath away. We swam beyond the dock out into the dark bay. She was a good, strong
swimmer. I felt my right shoulder stiffening, and my lung started to wheeze. I had thought I was getting stronger, but this
exertion was too much for me. I swam back to the dock and grabbed on to the old wooden ladder.

Emma came up beside me and asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

We treaded water near the dock. She said, “I love swimming naked.”

“You don’t have to worry about something biting your worm.”

“Do you fish?”

“Now and then.”

“You can get flounder right off this dock.”

“I can get flounder in the supermarket.”

“If you go out in your boat just a few hundred yards, you can get brown trout, porgy, and weakfish.”

“Where can I get prime rib?”

“Beef is not good for you.”

“You had a hamburger for lunch.”

“I know. But it’s not good for people.” She added, “Neither is sex with strangers.”

“I’m a high-risk kind of guy, Emma.”

She said, “I guess I am, too. I don’t even know you.”

“That’s why you like me.”

She giggled.

In truth, most women considered cops safe. I mean, if a woman meets a cop in a bar, presumably he’s not a homicidal maniac,
he’s probably got a clean bill of health, and he has a few bucks in his wallet. Women don’t require much these days.

We bantered a little, we kissed and embraced, which is really nice, naked, half submerged, treading water. I like saltwater.
It makes me feel clean and buoyant.

I put one hand on her incredible butt and the other on her breast as we kissed and treaded. This was as much fun as I’d had
in a long time. She put one hand on my butt and the other on my periscope, which went immediately up.

I said, “Can we do it in the water?”

“It’s possible. You have to be in good shape. You have to keep treading water and keep air in your lungs to stay buoyant,
and at the same time … you know … do it.”

“No problem. My flotation device is big enough to keep us both afloat.”

She laughed. We actually consummated this aquatic feat, probably scaring a lot of fish in the process. My lung actually felt
better.

Afterward, we both lay on our backs and floated. I commented, “Look, my rudder is out of the water.”

She glanced over at me and said, “I thought that was a main mast.”

Well, enough nautical naughties. I picked up my head a little and watched her floating out away from the shore with the ebbing
tide. Truly, her breasts looked like twin volcanic islands in the moonlight.

She said, “Look up there, John. Shooting stars.”

I looked in the southern sky and saw them.

“Make a wish,” she said.

“Okay. I wish—”

“Don’t tell or it won’t come true.”

“It already came true, Emma. Me and you.” I mean, how’s that for romantic? And I already had sex—twice. When the lust is gone,
what’s left is loathing or love. I think I was in love.

She didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then said, “That’s very nice.”

“I meant it.”

We continued to float. After a minute or two she said, “Look there, in the eastern sky. Can you see the constellation Andromeda?”