Plum Island (61 page)

T
he ride from Tobin Vineyards to Founders Landing, usually about twenty minutes, took an hour because of the storm. The roads
were strewn with branches and the rain was so hard on the windshield, I had to crawl along with my headlights on, though it
was only five
P.M.
Every once in a while, a gust of wind blew the Jeep off-course.

Beth turned on the radio, and the weather guy said the storm had not been upgraded to a hurricane, but it was close. Jasper
was still tracking north at fifteen miles per hour, and the edge of the storm was about sixty miles from the Long Island coast.
The storm was picking up lots of moisture and strength over the open Atlantic. I commented, “These guys try to scare everyone.”

“My father said the hurricane of September 1938 totally destroyed large areas of Long Island.”

“My father told me about that one. Old people tend to exaggerate.”

She changed the subject and said, “If Tobin is home, I’m going to handle it.”

“Fine.”

“I mean it. You’ll play this my way, John. We’re not going to do anything to compromise this case.”

“We already did. And don’t worry about perfecting a case.”

She didn’t respond. I tried to call my answering machine, but the phone kept ringing. I said, “The power’s out in my house.”

“Probably out all over by now.”

“This is awesome. I think I like hurricanes.”

“Tropical storm.”

“Right. Those, too.”

It occurred to me that I wasn’t going to get back to Manhattan tonight, and therefore I wasn’t going to make my mandatory
meeting, and thus, I was in deep doo-doo on the job. I realized I didn’t care.

I thought again of Emma, and it occurred to me that had she lived, my life would have gotten happier. For all my waffling
about town or country living, I’d actually pictured myself here with Emma Whitestone, fishing, swimming, collecting chamber
pots, or whatever people did out here. It occurred to me, too, that all my North Fork connections were now ended—Aunt June
was dead, Uncle Harry was selling his place, Max and I would never repair whatever relationship we’d once had, the Gordons
were dead, and now Emma was gone, too. Add to this, things didn’t look too good in Manhattan either. I glanced at Beth Penrose.

She sensed my glance and looked back at me. Our eyes met and she said, “The sky is very beautiful after a storm passes.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

The area around Founders Landing had a lot of old-growth trees, and unfortunately, big pieces of them were on the road and
lawns. It took another fifteen minutes of weaving around to get to the Tobin property.

The wrought iron gates were shut, and Beth said, “I’ll get out and see if they’re locked,” but in the interest of time, I
drove through them.

Beth said, “Why don’t you see if you can get your adrenaline level down?”

“I’m trying.”

As we moved up the long drive, I could see that the lawn where we’d had our party not so long ago was now covered with broken
limbs, garbage cans, lawn furniture, and all sorts of debris.

The bay at the end of the lawn was wild, big waves breaking past the stone beach and onto the grass itself. Tobin’s dock was
holding up all right, but the boathouse had a lot of missing shingles. I said, “That’s funny.”

“What?”

“The Chris-Craft is missing.”

Beth said, “Well, it must be in dry dock somewhere. No one would go out on the water on a night like this.”

“Right.”

I didn’t see any cars in the driveway and the house was completely dark. I drove to the two-car garage, which was a separate
building to the side and rear of the house. I veered right and drove the Jeep into the garage door, which crashed down in
sections. I peered out the windshield and saw the white Porsche in front of me with a section of the garage door on top of
it and a Ford Bronco on the other side of the garage. I said to Beth, “Two cars here—maybe the bastard’s home.”

“Let me handle him.”

“Of course.” I whipped the Jeep around and drove toward the rear of the house, across the back lawn to the patio where I stopped
among some wind-scattered lawn furniture.

I got out, carrying the fire ax, and Beth rang the doorbell. We stood under the door canopy, but no one answered, so I opened
the door with the ax. Beth said, “John, for God’s sake, calm down.”

We entered the kitchen. The electricity was off, and it was dark and quiet. I said to Beth, “Cover this door.”

I went into the center hall and called up the stairs, “Mr. Tobin!” No one answered. “Are you home, Fredric? Hey, buddy!”
I’m going to chop your fucking head off
.

I heard a creak on the floor overhead, and I dropped the ax, drew my .38, and charged up the stairs, taking them four at a
time. I swung around the newel post and headed for the area where I’d heard the creak. I shouted, “Hands up! Police! Police!”

I heard a noise in one of the bedrooms, and I charged in just in time to see the closet door close. I pulled it open, and
a woman screamed. And screamed again. She was about fifty, probably the housekeeper. I said, “Where is Mr. Tobin?”

She covered her face with her hands.

“Where is Mr. Tobin?”

Beth was in the bedroom now, and she brushed past me and took the woman’s arm. She said, “Everything is okay. We’re the police.”
She led the woman out of the closet and sat her on the bed.

After a minute of nice talk, we learned that the woman’s name was Eva, that her English was not good, and that Mr. Tobin was
not home.

Beth said to her, “His cars are in the garage.”

“He come home, then he go.”

“Go where?” Beth asked.

“He take the boat.”

“The
boat?”

“Yes.”

“When? How long ago?”

“Not long,” Eva replied.

“Are you sure?” Beth asked.

“Yes. I watch him.” She pointed to the window. “The boat goes out there.”

“He was alone?”

“Yes.”

I said to Eva, “Stand here at the window.”

She stood up and went to the window.

I said, “The boat—which way did the boat go? Which way?” I motioned with my hands.

She pointed to the left. “Go that way.”

I looked at the bay. The Chris-Craft, the
Autumn Gold
, had headed east from the boathouse, but I couldn’t see anything on the water except waves.

Beth asked me, “Why did he take the boat out?”

I replied, “Maybe to ditch the murder weapon.”

“I think he could have picked a better day.” She turned to Eva and asked, “
When
did he leave? Ten minutes? Twenty?”

“Maybe ten. Maybe more.”

“
Where
was he going?”

She shrugged. “He say he be back tonight. Tell me to stay here. To not be afraid. But I am afraid.”

“It’s just a tropical storm,” I informed her.

Beth took Eva by the hand and led her out of the bedroom, then down the stairs into the kitchen. I followed. Beth said to
her, “You must stay on the ground floor. Stay away from the windows. Okay?”

Eva nodded.

Beth said, “Find candles, matches, and a flashlight. If you are afraid, go to the basement. Okay?”

Eva nodded again and went to one of the cupboards to get candles.

Beth thought a moment, then asked me, “Where is he
going
in this weather?”

I said, “He should be at the winery doing what he can to protect his property. But he’s not going to the winery by boat.”
I said to Eva, “Did you see him walk to the boat? You understand?”

“Yes. I see him go to boat.”

“Was he carrying anything?” I did a little pantomime. “In his hands?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

She decided to clam up.

Beth said, “What did he carry?”

“Gun.”

“Gun?”

“Yes. Big gun. Long gun.”

“Rifle?” Beth pantomimed aiming a rifle.

“Yes, rifle.” She held up two fingers and said, “Two.”

Beth and I looked at each other.

Eva said, “And to dig.” It was her turn to pantomime, and she made a digging motion. “To dig.”

“Shovel?”

“Yes. Shovel. In garage.”

I thought a moment and said to Eva, “And box? To carry? Bag? Box?”

She shrugged.

Beth said to me, “What do you think?”

I said, “Well, what I don’t think is that Fredric Tobin went fishing with two rifles and a shovel.” I said to Eva, “Keys.
Where are keys?”

She led us to the wall phone, beside which was a key board. Tobin, compulsive neat-freak that he was, had tagged all the keys.
I saw that the keys for the Chris-Craft were missing, but the Formula key was still there.

While I was contemplating my next rash move, Eva said, “Downstairs. Down to cellar.”

We both looked at her. She was pointing to a door at the far end of the kitchen. She said, “He go downstairs. Something downstairs.”

Beth and I looked at each other.

Clearly, Mr. Tobin was not Employer of the Year, and Eva was happy for the opportunity to rat him out—though I could see fear
in her eyes, and I knew it was more than the hurricane that frightened her. I had no doubt Tobin would have murdered her if
it weren’t for the inconvenience of having a dead body on the property.

I walked to the door and turned the knob, but it was locked. I retrieved the fire ax and took up a batting stance.

Beth said, “Wait! We need probable cause to do that.”

I said to Eva, “Do we have your consent to search?”

“Please?”

“Thank you.” I swung the steel-cut ax at the door knob and smashed it right through the wood. I opened the door, revealing
a narrow, dark staircase leading down to the basement. I said to Beth, “You’re free to leave anytime.”

Ms. Do-Right seemed to have an epiphany, an understanding that we were both in so deep, we might as well break any laws we
may have missed. She got a flashlight from Eva and handed it to me. “You first, hero. I’ll cover.”

“Right.” I went first, carrying the flashlight in one hand and the fire ax in the other. Beth drew her 9mm and followed.

It was a very old cellar with less than a seven-foot clearance. The foundation was stone and so was the floor. At first glance,
it seemed that there wasn’t much down there—it was too damp for storage and too grim and spooky for even a laundry room. Basically,
it seemed to have only a furnace and hot water tank. I couldn’t imagine what Eva was trying to tip us off to.

Then the flashlight beam rested on a long brick wall at the far end of the cellar, and we moved toward it.

The brick and mortar wall was of newer construction than the ancient stone foundation. The wall was basically a partition
that bisected the cellar from front to rear and all the way up to the old oak beams.

In the dead center of the wall was a very nice carved oak door. My flashlight picked out a brass sign on the door that read,
“His Lordship’s Private Wine Cellar.”

Since His Lordship was lacking a sense of humor, I assumed the sign was a gift from an admirer, or perhaps even Emma.

Beth whispered, “Should we go in?”

I replied, “Only if the door is unlocked. Rules of search and seizure.” I handed her the flashlight and tried the big brass
handle, but the door was locked and I noticed a brass keyhole above the handle. I said, “It’s not locked, it’s just stuck.”
I swung the ax at the keyhole and the oak door split, but held. I gave it a few more whacks and eventually it swung open.

Beth had switched off the flashlight as soon as the door swung in, and we were standing on either side of the door now with
our backs to the brick wall, pistols drawn.

I called out, “Police! Come out with your hands up!”

No reply.

I pitched my ax in through the door and it landed with a metallic clank. But no one fired at it.

I said to Beth, “You go first. I’ve already been shot this year.”

“Thanks.” She got into a crouch and said, “I’m going right.” She moved quickly through the door and I followed. I broke left,
and we stayed motionless in a crouch with our pistols up and out.

I couldn’t see a thing, but I felt that the room was cooler and maybe dryer than the rest of the basement. I called out, “Police!
Hands up!”

We waited another half minute, then Beth snapped on the flashlight. The beam traveled across the room illuminating a row of
wine racks. She moved the light around the room. There was a table in the center of the room on which were two candelabra
and some candlesticks. There were packs of matches on the table, and I lit about ten candles, which cast a flickering glow
around the wine cellar and which danced off the bottles.

There were wooden racks all over the place as you’d expect in a wine cellar. There were also wooden crates and cardboard wine
boxes, opened and unopened, piled here and there. There were six barrels of wine in cradles, each one tapped. I could see
refrigeration coils on the walls protected by Plexiglas. The ceiling looked like cedar and the rough stone floor had been
covered with smooth slates set in concrete. I remarked to Beth, “I keep my two bottles of wine in a kitchen cupboard.”

Beth took the flashlight from me and examined some of the dust-covered bottles in one of the racks. She said, “These are vintage
French wines.”

I replied, “He probably keeps his own stuff in the garage.”

She shone the light on the foundation wall where a few dozen cardboard boxes were stacked. She said, “There’s some of his
stuff there. And the barrels have his wine labels on them.”

“Right.”

We poked around awhile, noting a cabinet that held glasses, corkscrews, napkins, and such. We found thermometers hung here
and there, all reading about 60 degrees Fahrenheit.

Finally, I said, “What was Eva trying to tell us?”

Beth shrugged.

I looked at Beth in the candlelight. She looked back at me. She said, “Maybe we should look at those crates and boxes.”

“Maybe we should.”

So, we started moving wooden crates and cardboard boxes. We ripped open a few of them, but there was only wine inside. Beth
asked, “What are we looking for?”