Plum Island (49 page)

I laughed.

She took my arm, and we walked to the end of the wharf and watched the boats.

She said, “I was thinking … if Tom and Judy had lived, and they announced that they’d found this fabulous treasure—a pirate’s
treasure, Kidd’s treasure—then the newspeople would have been all over the place, like they were when the Gordons were murdered.
They were all over Southold asking questions of people on the street, filming Main Street, and all that.”

“That’s what they do.”

“So, it’s ironic that they were here to report the murders of the Gordons instead of their fortune.”

I nodded. “Interesting observation.”

“I wonder if the newspeople would have come to the Peconic Historical Society for the treasure story.”

“Probably.”

She said, “You know, as I was saying before, there used to be treasure-hunting frenzies. As recently as the 1930s— the Depression—and
right into the late 1950s, Kidd-mania would sweep over this area, usually started by some stupid rumor, or some minor find
of coins on the beach. People would come from all over and start digging up the beaches, bluffs, the woods … that hasn’t happened
in a while…. Maybe times have changed.” She asked me, “Did you play pirate when you were a kid?”

“I was thinking about that…. I remember now hearing about pirates out here when I was a kid. But not too much….” I added,
“My aunt was a little more sophisticated. She was into Indians before Indians were in.”

“My family was into the early settlers and the Revolution. I do remember talk of pirates…. I have an older brother, and I
remember him playing pirates once or twice with his friends. I guess it was a boy thing. Like cops and robbers, cowboys and
Indians.”

“I guess. Now they play narc and dealer.” I added, “But there was this kid—no pun intended—up in Captain Kidd Estates.” I
told Emma the story of Billy the treasure hunter.

She commented, “It comes in circles. Maybe pirates are in again.” She asked me, “Did you ever read Robert Louis Stevenson’s
Treasure Island
?”

“Sure did. And Poe’s ‘The Gold Bug.’ Remember that dumb clue with a sketch of a goat—baby goat—a kid. Get it?”

“Got it. Did you ever read Washington Irving’s
Wolfert Webber
?”

“Never heard of that one.”

“A terrific pirate story,” she informed me. She smiled and asked me, “Did you ever see any of those old swash-buckler movies
from the 1930s and 1940s?”

“Loved ’em.”

She said, “You know, the English language has few words more intriguing and romantic than words like pirate, buried treasure,
galleon … what else?”

“Swashbuckler. I like that one.”

“How about the Spanish Main?”

“Right. Whatever that is.”

And so, standing on the wharf near this big, old three-master, with the sun setting, we played this silly word game, coming
up with words and phrases like buccaneers, doubloons, cutlasses, eye patches, peg legs, parrots, walking the plank, desert
islands, booty, plunder, pillage, the Jolly Roger, treasure maps, treasure chests, X marks the spot, and—scraping the bottom
of the rum barrel—phrases like, “Shiver me timbers” and “Ahoy, me hardies.” We both laughed, and I said, “I like you.”

“Of course you do.”

We walked back along the wharf toward Claudio’s, actually holding hands, which I hadn’t done in a long time.

Claudio’s was busy for a weeknight, and we sat at the bar and had a drink while a table was readied.

As I said, this is an old place, built in 1830, and claims to be the oldest restaurant in America that has been run continuously
by the same family—the Claudios, since 1870. My family had trouble sharing the kitchen and bathroom every morning; I couldn’t
imagine doing it for a hundred and thirty years.

Anyway, according to what a bartender told me, the building was once an inn when Greenport was a whaling port, and the bar
where Emma and I sat was transported here by barge from Manhattan in eighteen-eighty-something.

The bar and the shelves behind it are all mahogany, etched glass, and Italian marble, and it’s vaguely foreign and exotic
with none of the ye olde colonial look that’s more common in this area. In here, I can imagine I’m back in Manhattan, especially
when I smell the Italian food from the restaurant side. Sometimes I miss Manhattan and places like Little Italy, where the
Feast of San Gennaro was right now in progress, for instance. If I was back in New York City, Dom Fanelli and I would be down
on Mulberry Street this very night, stuffing our faces at each outdoor food stand and ending the evening in some coffeehouse.
Clearly, I had some decisions to make about my future.

Emma asked for a white wine and the bartender said to her, “We have six different local whites by the glass. Any preference?”

“Yes … Pindar,” she replied.

That’s my girl. Loyal and true. Won’t drink her ex-lover’s wine in front of the new beau. I’ll tell you, the older you get,
the more baggage you have to carry, and the less you’re able to lift it.

I ordered a Budweiser, and we clinked glasses. I said, “Thanks again for everything.”

“What historical lesson did you most enjoy?”

“The history of the feather bed.”

“Me, too.”

And so forth.

On the walls were lots of memorabilia, black and white photos of the Claudio ancestors, old photos of past sailing races,
old Greenport scenes, and so on. I like old restaurants—they’re sort of living museums where you can get a beer.

It was also in Claudio’s, back in June, where I’d first met the Gordons, which is one of the reasons I’d wanted to come here,
aside from my stomach demanding red sauce. Sometimes it’s good to physically return to a particular scene when you want to
recall something that happened there.

I found myself remembering my parents, my brother and sister, sitting at these tables, discussing the day’s activities and
planning the next day. I hadn’t thought about that in years.

Anyway, I left my childhood memories, which are better recalled on a shrink’s couch, and I put my mind back into June of this
year.

I’d come here, to the bar, because it was one of the few places I knew. I recall still feeling a little shaky, but there’s
nothing like a bar and a beer to buck a boy up.

I ordered my usual cocktail, a Bud, and immediately noticed this very attractive woman a few stools down. It was pre–tourist
season, early weeknight, raining, and there weren’t many people at the bar. I made eye contact with her. She sort of smiled,
and I moved in. “Hi,” I said.

“Hello,” she said.

“My name is John Corey.”

“Judy Gordon.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes, except for my husband, who’s in the men’s room.”

“Oh….” I now noticed the wedding ring. Why can’t I remember to look for the wedding ring? Well, but even if she’s married,
and she’s alone—but I digress. I said, “I’ll go get him for you.”

She smiled and said, “Don’t run off.”

I was in love, but I gallantly said, “See you around.” I was about to move back to my original bar stool when Tom showed up,
and Judy introduced me.

I excused myself, but Tom said, “Have another beer.”

I’d noticed they both had these sort of out-there accents, and I figured they were early tourists or something. They had none
of the New York abruptness I was used to. Like the joke goes, the guy from the Midwest goes up to a New Yorker on the street
and says, “Excuse me, sir, can you tell me how to get to the Empire State Building, or should I just go fuck myself?”

Anyway, I didn’t want to have a drink with them, feeling awkward, I guess, that I’d tried to pick up his wife and all that,
but for some reason that I’ll never completely understand, I decided to have one drink with them.

Well, I can be taciturn, but these were such open people that before long, I’d told them about my recent misfortune, and they
both remembered seeing the story on TV. I was a celebrity to them.

They mentioned they worked on Plum Island, which I found interesting, and that they’d come directly here from work by boat,
which I also found interesting. Tom had invited me to see the boat, but I put it off, not being that interested in boats.

It came out that I had a house on the water, and that’s when Tom asked me where it was and to describe it from the water so
he could visit. I did, and to my surprise, he and Judy had actually shown up a week later.

Anyway, we all got along very well in Claudio’s, and an hour later, we were having dinner together. That had been about three
months ago, not a very long time, but I felt I knew them well. I was finding out, however, that there were things about them
I didn’t know.

Emma said, “Hello? John?”

“Sorry. I was thinking about the first time I met the Gordons. Right here at this bar.”

“Really?” She asked me, “Areyouveryupsetabout…?”

“I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed their company.” I added, “I’m taking this a little more personally than I thought I would.”

She nodded. We chatted about this and that. It occurred to me that if she were in cahoots with the killer, or was in any way
part of the plot, she’d try to pump me a little. But she seemed to want to avoid the whole subject, which was fine with me.

Our table was ready, and we went to this sort of enclosed patio that looked out toward the bay. It was getting noticeably
colder, and I was sorry to see summer coming to an end. I had tasted my own mortality—literally tasted it when my blood came
running out of my mouth—and I suppose the shorter days and the chilly wind reminded me of the fact that my summer was over,
that little Johnny, who’d been so bug-eyed over the musket ball, had finally grown up as he lay in the gutter of West 102nd
Street, with three musket ball holes in him.

America is a country of second and third chances, a place of multiple resuscitations, so that, given enough retakes, only
a total idiot can’t eventually get it right.

Emma said, “You seem distracted.”

“I’m trying to decide if I want to start with the fried calamari or the scungili.”

“Fried is not good for you.”

“Do you miss the city?” I asked her.

“Now and then. I miss the anonymity. Here, everyone knows who you’re sleeping with.”

“I suppose so, if you parade all your boyfriends in front of your employees.”

She asked me, “Do
you
miss the city?”

“I don’t know…. I won’t know till I get back.” I excused myself, saying, “I have to go to the potty.” I went to my car and
got the potty, which I brought back in the gift bag.

I put the bag down in front of her, and she asked, “Is that for me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, John, you didn’t have to … Should I open it now?”

“Please.”

She reached inside the bag and pulled out the pot, which was swathed in pink tissue paper. “What is … ?”

I had this sudden panic attack. What if the old bird in the antique store was wrong? What if she’d confused Emma Whitestone
with someone else? “Wait,” I said, “maybe you shouldn’t open it—”

Other diners were looking now, curious, nosy, smiling.

Emma unfolded the tissue paper, revealing the white chamber pot with pink roses. She held it up by its jug handle.

A gasp arose from the crowd. Or at least it sounded that way. Someone laughed.

Emma said, “Oh, John! It’s beautiful. How did you know?”

“I’m a detective.”
Aw, shucks.

She admired the chamber pot, turning it, looking at the potter’s mark and all that.

The waiter came by and said, “There are rest rooms in the rear if you’d prefer.”

Well, anyway, we all got a nice chuckle, and Emma said she’d plant miniature roses in it, and I said that would definitely
keep people from sitting on it, and so forth. We ran out of potty humor and ordered dinner.

We had a pleasant meal, talking and watching the harbor. She asked me if I’d like her to spend the night again, which I did.
She opened her purse and pulled out a toothbrush and a pair of panties. She said, “I’m prepared.”

The stand-up comic waiter happened by at that moment, and said, “Can I get you more coffee, or are you in a real hurry to
get home?”

On the drive back to my digs in Mattituck, I had this strange feeling again that none of this was going to end well, not this
case, not this thing with Emma, not the thing with Beth, whatever that was, and not my career. It felt to me like the eerie
silence and clear skies of an approaching hurricane before it hits.

T
he next morning while I was dressing, the doorbell rang, and I assumed that Emma, who was downstairs, would answer it.

I finished dressing—tan slacks, striped oxford shirt, blue blazer, and docksiders, sans socks: standard outfit of the maritime
provinces. In Manhattan, people who didn’t wear socks often carried tin cups; here it was très chic.

I came downstairs about ten minutes later and found Emma Whitestone at the kitchen table having coffee with Beth Penrose.
Uh-oh.