Plum Island (56 page)

The man had some cool, I’ll give him that. He was near broke, if I could believe Emma Whitestone, and he was a double murderer,
if I could believe my instincts, not to mention what I’d just seen in the boathouse. And he must have known that I knew both
his secrets, yet he was not ruffled. He was more concerned that I not fuck up his party than that I might fuck up his life.
A very cool customer, indeed.

The serving girl returned with the wineglass of beer on a tray. I took the beer and commented, “I don’t like wine.”

She smiled. “Me neither. There’s more beer in the refrigerator.” She winked and moved off.

Sometimes I think I’m blessed with sex appeal, charisma, and animal magnetism. Other times, I think I must have bad breath
and body odor. Tonight, I felt I was on, hot as a three-dollar pistol; I tilted my hat rakishly, adjusted my sword, and began
working the party.

It was mostly a young and early-middle-age crowd, not too many of the grandes dames and DAR types. I didn’t see Margaret Wiley,
for instance. It was mostly couples—the world is mostly couples—but there were a few strays who looked able to make conversation
if neither of my one and only true loves showed up.

I noticed a woman in a white, sort of silky dress, wearing the required chapeau from which fell long blonde hair. I recognized
her as Lord Freddie’s little thing, who the Gordons had pointed out to me at the wine tasting. She was crossing the lawn,
alone, so I set course and intercepted. “Good evening,” I said.

She smiled. “Good evening.”

“I’m John Corey.”

The name obviously meant nothing to her, and she kept smiling. She said, “I’m Sondra Wells. A friend of Fredric Tobin.”

“Yes, I know. We met in July at the vineyard. A wine tasting. I was with the Gordons.”

Her smile dropped, and she said, “Oh, that was terrible.”

“It certainly was.”

“A tragedy.”

“Yes. You were close to the Gordons?”

“Well … Freddie was. I liked them … but I don’t know if they liked me.”

“I’m sure they did. They always spoke highly of you.” Actually, they never spoke of her at all.

She smiled again.

She spoke well and carried herself well as if she’d gone to school to learn how to do those things; it was all too practiced,
and I could imagine Tobin sending her off someplace where she had to walk with a book on her head and recite Elizabeth Barrett
Browning while sucking on a pencil.

I personally couldn’t see why anyone would trade Emma Whitestone for Sondra Wells. Then again, beauty is in the eye of the
beholder and all that. I said to Ms. Wells, “Do you like boating?”

“No, I don’t. Fredric seems to enjoy it.”

“I have a place on the water west of here. I love to boat.”

“How nice.”

“In fact, I’m sure I saw Mr. Tobin … let’s see, last Monday, about cocktail time, I guess, in his little Whaler. I thought
I saw you with him.”

She thought a moment, then said, “Oh … Monday … I was in Manhattan all day. Fredric had a car and driver take me and the housekeeper
to the city, and I spent the day shopping.”

I saw her little brain working and a frown passed over her lips. She asked me, “You saw Fredric in the Whaler with a … another
person?”

“Perhaps it wasn’t him, or if it was, he may have been alone, or perhaps with a man….”

She frowned again.

I love to stir up the shit. Beyond that, I had now placed Ms. Wells and the housekeeper in Manhattan at the time of the murders.
How convenient. I asked her, “Do you share Fredric’s interests in local history and archaeology?”

She replied, “No, I don’t. And I’m glad he’s given it up. Of all the hobbies a man can have, why that one?”

“It might have had something to do with the Peconic Historical Society’s archivist.”

She gave me a very cool look, indeed, and would surely have walked away, except that Fredric himself popped up and said to
Ms. Wells, “May I steal you a moment? The Fishers want to say hello.” Fredric looked at me and said, “You’ll excuse us?”

“I guess, unless the Fishers want to say hello to me, too.”

Fredric gave me an unpleasant smile, Ms. Wells gave me a frown, and off they went, leaving their boorish guest to contemplate
his gauche behavior.

About 8:30 I saw Max and Beth. Max also had on a pirate hat, and Beth had a sort of silly bonnet on her head. She was wearing
white slacks and a blue and white striped boat top. She looked different. I walked over to them at the long buffet. Max was
stuffing his face with a plate of pigs in the blanket, my very favorite. We exchanged greetings, and I stole one of his hot
dogs.

Beth said, “Nice evening. Thank you for suggesting I come.”

“You never know what you can learn by listening.”

Max said to me, “Beth briefed me on the Suffolk PD’s progress so far. She did a lot of work in the last four days.”

I glanced at Beth to see if she’d said anything to Max about her visit to my house. Beth shook her head slightly.

Max said to me, “Thanks again for your help.”

“No problem. Don’t hesitate to call again.”

Max said to me, “You never returned any of my phone calls.”

“No, and I never will.”

“I don’t think you have any reason to be angry.”

“No? Try reversing the situation, Max.” I added, “I should have kicked you off my porch.”

Max replied, “Well … I apologize if I caused you any inconvenience.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Beth interjected and said to Max, “John is in some trouble with his bosses because he helped you.”

Max said again, “Sorry. I’ll make a few calls, if you tell me who to call.”

“No offense, Max, but they don’t want to hear from a rural police chief.”

Actually, I wasn’t that angry with Max and even if I had been, it’s hard to stay angry with Max. Basically, he’s a good egg,
and his only real fault is that he
always
looks out for Number One. Sometimes I make believe I’m angry so the other person thinks they owe me something. Like a small
piece of information. I asked Max, “By the way, have there been any other deaths among Plum Island workers that have come
to your attention? Say, two or three years ago?”

He thought a moment, then said, “There was a drowning accident, two years ago this summer. A guy … Dr. somebody … a veterinarian
… I think.”

“How’d he drown?”

“I’m trying to think … he was in his boat … right, he was night fishing or something, and when he didn’t come home, his wife
called us. We got the Coast Guard out, and they found his boat empty about one in the morning. The next day, he washed up
from the bay there….” He cocked his head toward Shelter Island.

“Any evidence of foul play?”

“Well, there was a bump on his head, and an autopsy was done, but it appeared he’d slipped in the boat, hit his head on the
gunnel, and gone overboard.” Max added, “It happens.” He looked at me. “Why do you ask that?”

I replied, “I promised Mr. Tobin, and so did you, Max, that we wouldn’t discuss any of this at his party.” I added, “I need
a beer.” I walked off, leaving Max with a weenie in his hand.

Beth caught up to me and said, “That was rude.”

“He deserved it.”

“Remember, I have to work with him.”

“Then work with him.” I saw my favorite server, and she saw me. She had a glass of beer on her tray and handed it to me. Beth
took a glass of wine.

Beth said, “I want you to tell me about the archaeological digs, about Fredric Tobin, about everything you’ve found out, and
all your conclusions. In return, I’ll get you an official status, and you’ll have all the resources of the county PD behind
you. What do you say?”

“I say, keep your official status, I’m in enough trouble, and I’ll tell you all I know tomorrow. Then I’m outta here.”

“John, stop playing hard to get.”

I didn’t reply.

“Do you want me to make an official call to your boss? What’s his name?”

“Chief Inspector Asshole. Don’t worry about that.” The band was playing “As Time Goes By,” and I asked her, “Want to dance?”

“No. Can we talk?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think the drowning of that other Plum Island employee is related to this case?”

“Maybe. We might never know. But I see a pattern.”

“What pattern?”

“You look good in that hat.”

“I want to talk about the case, John.”

“Not here, and not now.”

“Where and when?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tonight. You said tonight. I’ll go back to your place.”

“Well … I don’t know if I can do that….”

“Look, John, I’m not offering to have sex with you. I just need to talk to you. Let’s go to a bar or something.”

“Well … I don’t think we should leave together….”

“Oh … right. You’re in love.”

“No … well … maybe I am … in any case, this can wait until tomorrow. If I’m right about this, then our man is right over there,
and he’s hosting a party. If I were you, I’d keep him under loose surveillance tomorrow. Just don’t spook him. Okay?”

“Okay, but—”

“We’ll meet tomorrow, and I’ll give you the whole thing, then I’m through with it. Monday I’m heading back to Manhattan. I
have medical and professional appointments all day Tuesday. Okay? Tomorrow. Promise.”

“Okay.” She touched glasses with me, and we drank.

We chatted awhile, and while we were doing that, I saw Emma in the distance. She was speaking with a group of people among
whom was Fredric Tobin, ex-lover and suspected murderer. I don’t know why it annoyed me to see them chatting. I mean, get
sophisticated, John. When my wife took long business trips with her Randy Dan boss, did I get bent up? Not too much.

Beth followed my gaze and said, “She seems very nice.”

I didn’t reply.

Beth went on, “I happened to mention her to Max.”

I definitely didn’t respond to that.

Beth said, “She used to be Fredric Tobin’s … girlfriend. I guess you know that. I only mention it in case you don’t. I mean,
you should be careful of pillow talk if Tobin is a suspect. Or is that why you’ve befriended her? To find out more about Tobin?
John? Are you listening to me?”

I looked at her and said, “You know, Beth, I sometimes wish one of those bullets really had neutered me. Then I’d be completely
free of the control of women.”

She observed, “Next time you’re having sex, you won’t be thinking like that.” She turned and walked off.

I looked around, realizing again that Tom and Judy would have been here tonight. I wondered if the treasure was supposed to
be discovered on the bluff this week. Would they have announced it to the press by now? Or would they have announced it here
tonight?

In any case, the Gordons were in cold storage tonight, the treasure was hidden somewhere, and their probable killer was about
fifty feet from me, talking to a woman I’d become very fond of. In fact, I noticed that Tobin and Emma were alone now, talking
tête-à-tête.

I’d had enough of this and made my way around the side of the house, discarding my hat and sword on the way. About halfway
across the front lawn, I heard my name called, but I kept walking.

“JOHN!”

I turned.

Emma hurried across the lawn. “Where are you going?”

“Someplace where I can get a beer.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, I don’t need the company.”

She informed me, “You need lots of company, my friend. That’s your problem. You’ve been alone too long.”

“Do you write a lovelorn column for the local weekly?”

“I will not let you bait me, and I will not let you leave alone. Where are you going?”

“Ye Olde Towne Taverne.”

“My favorite dive. Have you had their nacho platter?” She took my arm and off we went.

I got in her old car and within twenty minutes, we were ensconced in a booth at the Olde Towne Taverne, beers in hand, nachos
and chicken wings on the way. The Saturday night regulars didn’t look as if they were on their way to, or back from, Freddie’s
fabulous fete.

Emma said, “I called you last night.”

“I thought you went out with the girls.”

“I called you when I got back. About midnight.”

“No luck with the hunt?”

“No.” She said, “I guess you were sleeping.”

“Actually, I went to Foxwoods. You can lose your drawers there.”

“Tell me about it.”

We talked awhile, and I said to her, “I’m assuming you didn’t say anything to Fredric about what we’ve been discussing.”

She hesitated a half second too long, then replied, “I didn’t … but I did tell him … I said that you and I were dating.” She
smiled. “Are we dating?”

“Archivists are always dating—July 4, 1776, December 7, 1941—”

“Be serious.”

“Okay, I seriously wish you hadn’t mentioned me at all.”

She shrugged. “I’m happy, and I want everyone to know it. He wished me luck.”

“What a gentleman.”

She smiled. “Are you jealous?”

“Not at all.”
I’m going to see him fry.
“I think you should not discuss us with him and certainly not discuss pirate treasure.”

“Okay.”

And so we had a pleasant dinner and then went to her place, a little cottage in a residential section of Cutchogue. She showed
me her chamber pot collection, ten of them, all used as planters and placed in a big bay window. My gift was now filled with
soil and held miniature roses.

She disappeared for a moment and returned with a wrapped gift for me. She said, “I got it at the historical society gift shop.
I didn’t lift it, but I took forty percent off for myself.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“Just open it.”

And I did. It was a book titled
The Story of Pirate Treasure
.

She said, “Open to the flyleaf.”

I opened it and read, “To John, my favorite buccaneer, Love, Emma.” I smiled and said, “Thank you. This is what I’ve always
wanted.”

“Well, not always. But I thought you might want to look it over.”

“I will.”

Anyway, the cottage was cute, it was clean, there was no cat, she had scotch and beer, the mattress was firm, she liked the
Beatles and the Bee Gees, and she had two pillows for me. What more could I ask? Well, whipped cream. She had that, too.