“Where can I reach you?”
“Tell you what. I’ll call you back in ten or fifteen minutes. I’m in my car, and I have to stop and get a gift for my mother. It’s her birthday. Hey, I’ll bet you have a gift shop in the museum.”
“We do.”
“Great. By the way, I spoke to my Uncle Harry and gave him your regards.”
“Thank you.”
“He said to say hello to you, and he’d like to call you when he gets out here.” I didn’t mention Uncle Harry’s dead dick.
“That would be nice.”
“Terrific. Okay, I’d really appreciate it if Mrs. Whitestone or any of the other officers of the society could meet me this morning.”
“I’ll do what I can. I may have to come myself.”
“Don’t put yourself out. And thanks for your help yesterday.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I almost didn’t. “Fifteen minutes. Call around.”
“Is your friend with you today?”
“My partner?”
“Yes, the young lady.”
“She’ll be along shortly.”
“She’s a delightful woman. I enjoyed speaking to her.”
“We’re going to get married.”
“How unfortunate.” She hung up.
Oh, well. I threw the vehicle into gear, and the female voice was back, telling me, “Release emergency brake,” which I did. I messed around with the computer awhile, trying to delete this option, expecting the voice to say, “Why are you trying to kill me? Don’t you like me? I’m only trying to help you.”
What if the doors locked and the gas pedal went down to the floor? I threw the owner’s manual in the glove compartment.
I turned south on the delightfully named Skunk Lane, then across the causeway to Nassau Point again.
I drove to the Gordons’ street and noticed Max’s white Jeep out front of the crime scene. I pulled into the Murphys’ driveway, out of sight of the Gordons’ house.
I went directly to the rear of the Murphys’ house and saw them in the TV room, known also as the Florida room, a jalousied extension to the original building. The TV was going, and I rapped on the screen door.
Edgar Murphy stood, saw me, and opened the door. “Back again?”
“Yes, sir. I just need a minute of your time.”
He motioned me inside. Mrs. Murphy stood and gave me a lukewarm hello. The TV stayed on. For a half second, I was at my parents’ house in Florida—same room, same TV show, same people, really. Anyway, I said to them, “Describe the white sports car you saw next door in June.”
They both gave it a go, but their descriptive powers were limited. Finally, I took a pen out of my pocket, picked up a newspaper, and asked them to draw an outline of the car, but they said they couldn’t. I drew an outline of a Porsche for them. You’re not supposed to lead a witness like this, but what the hell. They both nodded. Mr. Murphy said, “Yup, that’s it. Big fat car. Like a turned-over washtub.” Mrs. Murphy agreed.
I took the Tobin Vineyards brochure from my pocket and folded it so as to show only a small black and white photo of Fredric Tobin, proprietor. I didn’t let them see the whole brochure because they would have told everybody that the police thought Fredric Tobin murdered the Gordons.
The Murphys studied the photo. Again, this is really leading the witness, showing only one photo without mixing it up with others, but I had no time or patience for procedure. I did not, however, say, “Is this the man you saw in the sports car?”
Mrs. Murphy, however, did say, “That’s the man I saw in the sports car.”
Mr. Murphy agreed. He asked me, “Is that a suspect?”
“No, sir. Okay, sorry to bother you again.” I asked, “Did anyone try to question you about this case?”
“Nope.”
“Remember, don’t talk to anyone except Chief Maxwell, me, and Detective Penrose.”
Mr. Murphy asked, “Where is she?”
“Detective Penrose? She’s home with morning sickness.”
“Pregnant?” asked Agnes.
“About a month,” I replied. “Okay—”
“I didn’t see a wedding ring,” observed Agnes.
“You know how these young girls are.” I shook my head sadly, then said, “Okay, thanks again.” I exited quickly, got back into my Jeep, and drove off.
Apparently Mr. Fredric Tobin had been at the Gordons’ on at least one occasion. Yet, he didn’t seem to recall his June visit. But maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was another brown-bearded man in a white Porsche.
Maybe I should find out why Mr. Tobin lied.
I tried my answering machine again, and there were two new calls. The first was Max, who said, “John, this is Chief Maxwell. Maybe I didn’t make myself clear about your status. You’re no longer working for the township. Okay? I got a call from Fredric Tobin’s attorneys, and they’re not happy people. Understand? I don’t know exactly what you and Mr. Tobin discussed, but I think that’s the last official conversation you should have with him. Call me.”
Interesting. All I’m trying to do is help, and I’m getting hometowned by the local old boys.
The next call was from my ex, whose name is Robin Paine, which fits her, and who also happens to be an attorney. She said, “Hello, John, this is Robin. I want to remind you that our one-year separation ends on October first, at which time we are legally divorced. You’ll get a copy of the decree in the mail. There’s nothing for you to sign or do. It’s automatic.” She put a light tone in her voice and said, “Well, you can’t commit adultery after October first unless you remarry. But don’t get married before you get your decree or it’s bigamy. Saw you on the news. Sounds like a fascinating case. Be well.”
Right. Robin, by the way, was a Manhattan assistant district attorney once, which is how I met her. We were on the same side. She switched sides and took a high-paying job with a big-name defense attorney who liked her style in court. He may have liked more than her style, but aside from that, our marriage became a conflict of interest. I mean, I’m trying to put scumbags in the slammer, and the woman I’m sleeping with is trying to keep them in business. The last straw was when she took the case of a high-level drug guy who, aside from his American problems, was wanted in Colombia for icing a judge. I mean, Jeez, lady, I know somebody has to do it, and the money is terrific, but I was feeling matrimonially challenged. So I told her, “It’s me or your job,” to which she replied, “Maybe you should change yourjob” and she meant it—her firm needed a private investigator and she wanted me to take the job. I pictured doing PI work for her and her idiot boss. Maybe getting their coffee between cases. Right. Divorce, please.
Aside from these little career conflicts, we were actually in love once. Anyway, October first. Then she is officially ex, and I lose the opportunity to be an adulterer or a bigamist. Life just isn’t fair sometimes.
Over the causeway and onto Main Road, heading back toward the hamlet of Cutchogue. I called Margaret Wiley.
She said, “I reached Emma at her florist shop, and she’s on her way to the Peconic Historical Society house.”
“That’s very nice of her to give up her time.”
“I told her it concerned the Gordon murders.”
“Well, I’m not sure it does, Mrs. Wiley. I was just curious about—”
“You can discuss that with her. She’s waiting for you.”
“Thank you.” I think she hung up before I did. Anyway, I drove back to the Peconic Historical Society house and parked in the small lot beside a van marked “Whitestone Florist.”
I went to the front door, and there was a yellow Post-it near the knocker that said, “Mr. Corey, please let yourself in.”
So, I did.
The house, as I said, was large, circa about 1850s, typical of the home of a rich merchant or sea captain. The foyer was big, and to the left was a large sitting room, to the right was the dining room. The place was all antiques, of course, mostly junk if you wa
nt my opinion, but probably worth a bunch of buckos. I didn’t see or hear anyone in the house, so I wandered about from room to room. It wasn’t actually a museum in the sense of exhibits; it was just a decorated period house. I couldn’t see anything sinister about the place, no paintings of burning churches on the walls, no black candles, no needlepoint pentagrams or black cats, and the kitchen had no bubbling witch’s cauldron.
I wasn’t sure why I was here, but something had drawn me here. On the other hand, I think I had geriatric overload, and the thought of talking to one more septuagenarian was more than I could handle. I should have opened the bottle of Tobin wine and chugged it before meeting Mrs. Whitestone.
Presently, I found the gift shop—Gift Shoppe—which had once been a summer kitchen, I think, and I went in. The lights were off, but sunlight came in through the windows.
The gifts ran the gamut from locally published books to local handicrafts, Indian crafts, needlepoint, dried herbs, pressed flowers, herbal teas, floral scents, candles (none black), watercolors, more painted tiles, seed packets, and so on. What do people do with all this crap?
I picked up a piece of weathered barn siding on which someone had painted an old sailing ship. As I studied the painting, I felt that someone was watching me.
I turned toward the entrance of the gift shop and a good-looking woman of about thirty-something was standing there, staring at me. I said, “I’m looking for Emma Whitestone.”
“You must be John Corey.”
“I must be. Do you know if she’s in?”
“I’m Emma Whitestone.”
The day was turning around. “Oh,” I said. “I expected someone older.”
“I expected someone younger.”
“Oh….”
“Margaret said you were a young man. But you’re closer to middle age, I think.”
“Uh….”
She walked up to me and extended her hand. She said, “I’m president of the Peconic Historical Society. How can I help you?”
“Well … I don’t know.”
“Neither do I.”
Okay, here’s the deal: she was tall—only an inch or so shorter than I am—thin but shapely, shoulder-length brown hair that was washed but not ironed, light makeup, no nail polish, no jewelry, no earrings, no wedding or engagement ring. And she wasn’t wearing much clothing either. She had on a knee-length, beige cotton summer dress with itty-bitty shoulder straps holding it up. Beneath this scanty number was little in the way of underwear. Certainly no bra, but I could see bikini panty lines. Also, she was barefoot. If I pictured Ms. Whitestone dressing this morning, she had slipped on the panties and the dress, put on a touch of lipstick, sort of combed her hair, and that was it. She could conceivably get out of that outfit in four seconds. Less with my help.
“Mr. Corey? Are you thinking about how I can help you?”
“Yes, I am. Just a second.” She was not overly built, but was designed for speed and perhaps endurance. She had nice gray-green eyes and her face, aside from being pretty, was, at first glance, innocent. She reminded me of photos I’d seen of 1960s flower children, but maybe I thought that because she was a florist. On second look, there was a quiet sexuality in her features. Really.
I should mention, too, that she had a nice, even tan, giving her skin a café au lait color. This was one good-looking and sensual woman. Emma Whitestone.
“This has to do with the Gordons?”
“Yes.” I put down the piece of barn siding and asked, “Did you know them?”
“Yes. We were friendly, but not friends.” She added, “It was awful.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any … leads?”
“No.”
“I heard on the radio that they may have stolen a vaccine.”
“Looks that way.”
She thought a moment, then said to me, “You knew them.”
“That’s right. How do you know?”
“Your name came up a few times.”
“Did it? In a nice way, I hope.”
“Very nice.” She added, “Judy had a little crush on you.”
“Really?”
“Didn’t you know?”
“Maybe.” I wanted to change this subject, so I said, “Do you have, like, a list of members here?”
“Sure. The office is upstairs. I was doing some paperwork there when you arrived. Follow me.”
I followed her. She had on a lavender scent. As we made our way through the mansion, I said, “Beautiful house.”
She glanced back at me and said, “I’ll give you a personal tour later.”
“Terrific. Wish I had my camera.”
We went up the wide, sweeping stairs, me still slightly behind her. Her panties really were skimpy. Also, she had nice feet, if you’re into that.
On the second floor, she led me into a room that she described as the upstairs parlor. She invited me to sit in a wingback chair near the fireplace, which I did.
She said, “Can I offer you a cup of herbal tea?”
“I’ve had several cups already, thank you.” She sat in a wooden rocker opposite me and crossed her long, long legs. She asked, “What exactly do you need, Mr. Corey?”
“John. Please call me John.”
“John. Please call me Emma.”
“Well, Emma,” I began, “I’d first like to ask you a few questions about the Peconic Historical Society. What’s it all about?”
“It’s about history. The North Fork has a number of local historical societies, most housed in historic buildings. This is the largest of all the societies and is named Peconic, an Indian name for this region. We have about five hundred members. Some are very prominent, some are simple farmers. We are dedicated to preserving, recording, and passing on our heritage.”
“And discovering more about that heritage.”
“Yes.”
“Through archaeology.”
“Yes. And research. We have some interesting archives here.”
“Could I see them later?”
“You can see whatever you’d like later.” She smiled.
Oh, my heart. I mean, was this a tease, or was this for real? I smiled at her. She smiled again.
Back to the job. I asked her, “Were the Gordons active members?”
“They were.”
“When did they join?”
“About a year and a half ago. They’d moved here from Washington, D.C. They were from the Midwest, but they’d worked for the government in Washington. I suppose you know that.”
“Did they ever discuss their work with you?”
“Not really.”
“Have you ever been to their house?”
“Once.”
“Did you socialize with them?”
“Now and then. The Peconic Historical Society is very social. That’s one of the reasons they enjoyed us.”
I asked, with some subtlety, “Did Tom have the hots for you?”
Instead of being insulted or shocked, she replied, “Probably.”
“But you were not sexually involved with him?”
“No. He never asked.”
I cleared my throat. “I see….”
“Look, Mr. Corey—John. You’re wasting your time and my time with those kinds of questions. I don’t know why or who murdered the Gordons, but it had nothing to do with me or with a sexual triangle involving me.”
“I didn’t say it did. I’m just exploring any sexual angles as part of the larger investigation.”
“Well, I wasn’t sleeping with him. I think he was faithful. She was faithful, too, as far as I know. It’s hard to have an affair around here without everyone knowing about it.”
“That may be your perception.”
She regarded me a moment, then asked me, “Were you and Judy involved?”
“No, we weren’t, Ms. Whitestone. This is not the afternoon soaps. This is a murder investigation, and I’ll ask the questions.”
“Don’t be so touchy.”
&n
bsp; I took a deep breath and said, “I apologize.”
“I want you to find the murderer. Ask your questions.”
“Right. Okay … let me ask you this … what was your first thought when you heard they’d been murdered?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I thought it had to do with their jobs.”
“Okay. What do you think now?”
“I have no opinions.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Let’s come back to that.”
“Okay.” I still wasn’t sure where I wanted to go with this interview, or what I was specifically seeking. But I had this mental image in my mind, sort of a map, and on it was Plum Island, Nassau Point, the bluffs above Long Island Sound, Tobin Vineyards, and the Peconic Historical Society. If you connected these points with a line, you had a five-sided geometric shape with no meaning. But if you connected these points in a metaphysical way, maybe the shape made sense. I mean, what was the common element of these five points? Maybe there wasn’t any; but somehow they seemed connected, they seemed to share something. What?
I thought about whatever it was that had pinged in my head on Plum Island. History. Archaeology. That was it. What was it?
I asked Ms. Whitestone, “Do you know any of the people who work on Plum Island?”
She thought a moment, then replied, “Not really. A few of my customers work there. Other than Tom and Judy, I don’t know any of the scientists and none of them belong to the historical society.” She added, “They’re a close-knit group. Keep to themselves.”
“Do you know anything about the proposed digs on Plum Island?”
“Only that Tom Gordon had promised the historical society a chance to root around on the island.”
“You’re not into archaeology?”
“Not really. I prefer archive work. I have a degree in archival science. Columbia University.”
“Is that so? I teach at John Jay,” which is actually about fifty blocks due south of Columbia. Finally, we had something in common.
“What do you teach?” she asked.
“Criminal science and ceramics.”
She smiled. Her toes wiggled. She recrossed her legs. Beige. The panties were beige like the dress. I was at a point where I almost had to cross my legs lest Ms. Whitestone notice that Lord Pudly was stirring from his nap. Keep your pee-pee in the teepee.