Plum Island (57 page)

The next morning, Sunday, we went out for breakfast at the Cutchogue Diner, then without asking me, she drove to church, a
nice clapboard Methodist church. She explained, “I’m not a fanatic about it, but it gives me a lift sometimes. It’s not bad
for business either.”

So I attended church, ready to dive under the pew if the ceiling caved in.

After church, we retrieved my car in front of Mr. Tobin’s mansion, and Emma followed me back to my mansion.

While Emma made tea for herself, I called Beth at her office. She wasn’t in so I left a message with a guy who said he was
working the Gordon case. I said to him, “Tell her I’ll be out all day. I’ll try to speak to her tonight. If not, she should
come to my place tomorrow morning for coffee.”

“Okay.”

I called Beth’s house and got her answering machine. I left the same message.

Feeling that I’d done what I could to keep my promise, I went into the kitchen and said, “Let’s take a Sunday drive.”

“Sounds good to me.”

She drove her car home and I followed, then we went to Orient Point in my Jeep and took the New London ferry. We spent the
day in Connecticut and Rhode Island, visiting the mansions in Newport, having dinner in Mystic, then taking the ferry back.

We stood on the deck of the ferry and watched the water and the stars.

The ferry passed through Plum Island Gut, and I could see the Orient Point Lighthouse on the right. To the left, the old stone
Plum Island Lighthouse was dark and forbidding against the night sky.

The Gut was choppy, and Emma remarked, “That storm’s tracking this way. The seas get rough long before the weather moves in.”
She added, “Also, the barometer drops. Can you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“The falling air pressure.”

“Uh….” I stuck my tongue out. “Not yet.”

“I can feel it. I’m very weather sensitive.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I think it’s a good thing.”

“So do I.”

“Are you sure you can’t feel it? Don’t your wounds ache a little?”

I focused on my wounds and sure enough, they did ache a little. I said to Emma, “Thanks for bringing it to my attention.”

“It’s good to get in touch with your body, to understand the relationships between the elements and your body and mind.”

“Absolutely.”

“For instance, I get a little crazy during a full moon.

”
“Crazier,”
I pointed out.

“Yes, crazier. How about you?”

“I get very horny.”

“Really? During a full moon?”

“Full moon, half-moon, quarter-moon.”

She laughed.

I glanced at Plum Island as we passed by. I could see a few channel lights and, on the horizon, a glow from where the main
lab would be behind the trees. Otherwise, the island was as dark as it had been three hundred years ago, and if I squinted
I could imagine William Kidd’s sloop, the
San Antonio
, reconnoitering the island one July night in 1699. I could see a boat being lowered off the side with Kidd and maybe one
or two others aboard, and I could see someone in the boat rowing toward the shore….

Emma interrupted my thoughts and asked me, “What are you thinking?”

“Just enjoying the night.”

“You were staring at Plum Island.”

“Yes…. I was thinking about … the Gordons.”

“You were thinking about Captain Kidd.”

“You must be a witch.”

“I’m a good Methodist and a bitch. But only once a month.”

I smiled. “And you’re weather sensitive.”

“That’s right.” She asked me, “Are you going to tell me any more about this … this murder?”

“No, I’m not.”

“All right. I understand. If you need anything from me, just ask. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“Thanks.”

The ferry approached the slip, and she asked me, “Do you want to stay at my place tonight?”

“Well … I do, but … I should go home.”

“I can stay at your place.”

“Well … to tell you the truth, I was supposed to talk or to meet with Detective Penrose today, and I should see if I can still
do that.”

“All right.”

And we left the matter there.

I dropped her off at her home. I said to her, “I’ll see you tomorrow after work.”

“Good. There’s a nice restaurant on the water that I’d like to take you to.”

“Looking forward to it.” We kissed on her doorstep, and I got into my Jeep and drove home.

There were seven messages for me. I was in no mood for them and went to bed without playing them. They’d be there in the morning.

As I drifted off, I tried to figure out what to do about Fredric Tobin. There’s sometimes this situation when you have your
man, yet you don’t have your man. There is a critical moment when you have to decide if you should keep stalking him, confront
him, smoke him out, or pretend to lose interest in him.

I should have also been thinking that when you corner an animal or a man, he can become dangerous—that the game is played
by both hunter and hunted, and that the hunted had a lot more to lose.

But I forgot to consider Tobin as a thinking, cunning animal because he struck me as such a fop, the same way I’d struck him
as a simpleton. We both knew better, but we’d both been lulled a little bit by each other’s act. In any event, I blame myself
for what happened.

I
t was raining Monday morning when I woke up, the first rain we’d had in weeks, and the farmers were happy even if the vintners
were not. I knew at least one vintner who had bigger problems than a heavy rain.

As I dressed, I listened to the radio and heard that a hurricane named Jasper was off the coast of Virginia, causing unsettled
weather conditions as far north as New York’s Long Island. I was glad I was driving back to Manhattan today.

I hadn’t been to my Seventy-second Street condo in over a month, and I hadn’t accessed my answering machine messages either,
partly because I didn’t want to, but mostly, I guess, because I forgot my access code.

Anyway, at about nine
A.M.
, I went downstairs dressed in designer jeans and polo shirt and made coffee. I was sort of waiting for Beth to call or come
by.

The local weekly was on the kitchen counter, unread from Friday, and I was not too surprised to see last Monday’s murder on
the front page. I took the paper out on the back porch with a mug of coffee and read the local hotshot reporter’s version
of the double murder story. The guy was imprecise enough, opinionated enough, and was a bad enough stylist to write for
Newsday
or the
Times
.

I noticed an article about Tobin Vineyards in which Mr. Fredric Tobin was quoted as saying, “We will begin the harvest any
day now, and this promises to be a vintage year, perhaps the best in the last ten years, barring a heavy rain.”

Well, Freddie, it’s raining. I wondered if condemned men are allowed to request wine with their last meal.

Anyway, I threw the local weekly aside and picked up Emma’s gift,
The Story of Pirate Treasure
.I flipped through it, looked at the pictures, saw a map of Long Island, which I studied for a minute or so, then found the
chapters on Captain Kidd and read at random a deposition of Robert Livingston, Esq., one of Kidd’s original financial backers.
The deposition read in part,

That hearing Capt. Kidd was come into these parts to apply himself unto his Excellency, the Earl of Bellomont, the said Narrator
came directly from Albany ye nearest way through the woods to meet the said Kidd here and wait upon his Lordship. And at his
arrival at Boston, Capt. Kidd informed him there was on board his Sloop then in Port, forty bales of Goods, and some Sugar,
and also said he had about eighty pound weight in Plate. And further the said Kidd said he had Forty pound weight in Gold
which he hid and secured in some place in the Sound betwixt this and New York, not naming any particular place, which nobody
would find but himself.

I did a little math in my head and figured that forty pounds of gold would be worth about three hundred thousand dollars,
on the hoof, so to speak, not counting whatever historical value or numismatic value it would have, which could easily quadruple
the value according to what Emma had said.

I spent the next hour reading and the more I read, the more I was convinced that nearly every narrator in this episode, from
Lord Bellomont to the lowest seaman, was a liar. No two stories were alike, and the value and amount of the gold, silver,
and jewels were all over the lot. The only thing everyone agreed on is that treasure had been put ashore in various spots
around the Long Island Sound. Not once was Plum Island mentioned, but what better place to hide something? As I’d learned
on my trip to Plum, the island had no harbor then, so it was unlikely to be visited by random ships looking for food or water.
It was owned by white settlers, and therefore off-limits to Indians, but was apparently uninhabited by anyone. And if Kidd
dropped off a valuable treasure with John Gardiner, a man he didn’t know, why wouldn’t he sail the five or six miles across
the bay to Plum Island and bury more treasure there? It made sense to me. I wondered, though, how Fredric Tobin had figured
it out. He would be happy to tell us at his press conference when he announced his discovery. He’d probably say, “Hard work,
a good knowledge of viniculture, perseverance, and a superior product. And good luck.”

Anyway, I dawdled on the back porch for a long time, reading, watching the weather, working the case in my mind, waiting for
Beth, who I thought should have arrived by now.

Finally, I went inside through the French doors that led to the den and played the seven messages on my answering machine.

Number one was from Uncle Harry saying he had a friend who wanted to rent the house, so would I mind buying it or leaving.
Two, Detective Lieutenant Wolfe, who said simply, “You’re pissing me off.” Three, Emma’s old unplayed message, a little before
midnight on Friday just saying hello; four, Max on Saturday morning with the particulars on the Tobin party and saying he
had a nice chat with Beth and would I call him. Five, Dom Fanelli, who said, “Hey, paisano, you missed a good time. What a
night. The wine was flowing, we picked up four Swedish tourists in Taormina’s, two of them airline stewardesses, one model,
one actress. Anyway, I called our friend, Jack Rosen at the
Daily News
, and he’s going to do a story on your return to New York after convalescing in the country. Wounded hero comes home. Beautiful.
Give him a call Monday
A.M.
and the story will run Tuesday, so the humps at Police Plaza can read it before they bust your cajones. Am I good, or what?
Call me Monday, and we’ll have a drink
P.M.
, and I’ll tell you about the Swedes. Ciao.”

I smiled. Four Swedes, my ass. Number six was Beth on Sunday morning asking where I’d disappeared to Saturday night, and when
could we meet. And number seven was Beth on Sunday afternoon, acknowledging my message to her office and saying she’d be at
my house on Monday morning.

So, when the doorbell rang a little before noon, I wasn’t too surprised to see Beth there. I said, “Come in.”

She left her umbrella on the porch and came in. She was wearing another tailored suit, this one sort of a rust color.

I thought I should say I was alone, so I said, “I’m alone.”

She said, “I know.”

We looked at each other for some very long seconds. I knew what she was going to say, but I didn’t want to hear it. She said
it anyway. “Emma Whitestone was found in her house by one of her employees this morning, dead, apparently murdered.”

I said nothing. What could I say? I just stood there.

Beth took my arm and led me into the living room to the couch. “Sit down,” she said. I sat.

She sat beside me and took my hand. She said, “I don’t know how you feel … I mean, I know you must have been fond of her….”

I nodded. For the second time in my life, I wasn’t the one giving the bad news. I was the one hearing about the murder of
someone I cared about. It was mind-numbing. I couldn’t quite grasp it because it didn’t seem real. I said to Beth, “I was
with her until about ten last night.”

Beth said, “We have no time of death yet. She was found in her bed … apparently killed by blows to the head with a fireplace
poker that was found on the floor … there was no sign of forced entry … the back door was unlocked.”

I nodded. He would have had a key which he never returned, and she never thought to change the lock. He knew there was a poker
handy.

Beth continued, “There was the appearance of a burglary … pocketbook emptied, cash gone, jewelry box emptied. That sort of
thing.”

I took a deep breath, and said nothing.

Beth then told me, “Also, the Murphys are both dead. Apparently also murdered.”

“My God.”

Beth said, “A Southold PD was patrolling their street about once an hour and was keeping an eye on the Murphy house, but …
he didn’t see anything.” She added, “When a new shift came on at eight
A.M.
, the officer noticed that the newspaper was on the lawn and it was still there at nine. He knew that the Murphys rose early
and took the paper in, so—” She asked me, “Do you want to hear this?”