Nelson DeMille - Plum Island

After a minute or so, we moved on from the little grape pluckers, and Mr. Tobin said to me, "I haven't heard the news this morning, but one of my employees told me that she heard on the radio that the Gordons had possibly stolen a new miracle vaccine and were going to sell it. Apparently they were double-crossed and murdered. Is that right?"

"That seems to be what happened."

"There's no danger of a… a plague, or some kind of epidemic — "

"None at all."

"Good. There were a lot of worried people the other night."

"Worry no more. Where were you Monday night?"

"Me? Oh, I was at dinner with friends. In my own restaurant, right here, as a matter of fact."

"What time?"

"About eight. We hadn't even heard the news yet."

"Where were you earlier? Like about five, 5:30."

"I was home."

"Alone?"

"I have a housekeeper and a girlfriend."

"That's nice. Will they recall where you were at 5:30?"

"Of course. I was home." He added, "That was the day of the first pick. I arrived here about dawn. By four I was exhausted and went home to nap. Then I came back here for dinner. A little celebration to mark the harvest. You never know when the first pick will be, so it's always spontaneous. In a week or two, we'll have a big harvest dinner."

"What a life." I asked, "Who was at dinner?"

"My girlfriend, the estate manager, some friends…" He looked at me and said, "This sounds like an interrogation."

It should. It was. But I didn't want to get Mr. Tobin agitated and have him calling his lawyer, or Max. I said to him, "These are just standard questions, Mr. Tobin. I'm trying to get a picture of where everyone was Monday night, what everyone's relationship was to the deceased. That sort of thing. When we have a suspect, then some of the friends and co-workers of the Gordons may become witnesses. You see? We don't know until we know."

"I see."

I let him settle down awhile, and we did grape talk again. The guy was smooth, but like anyone else, he was a little jumpy around the fuzz. I asked him, "When and where did you see the Gordons last week?"

"Oh… let me think… Dinner at my house. I had a few people over."

What was your attraction to the Gordons?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said."

He replied, "I think I indicated it was the other way around, Detective."

"Then why would you invite them to your house?"

"Well… in truth, they told some fascinating tales about Plum Island. My guests always enjoyed that." He added, "The Gordons earned their dinner."

"Did they?" The Gordons rarely spoke about their job to me.

"Also," he said, "they were an exceptionally attractive couple." He asked me, "Did you… I mean, I suppose when you saw them… but she was a rare beauty."

"Indeed she was." I asked, "Were you popping her?"

"Excuse me?"

"Were you sexually involved with Mrs. Gordon?"

"Heavens, no."

"Did you give it a try?"

"Of course not."

"Did you at least think about it?"

He thought about if he thought about it, then said, "Sometimes. But I'm not a wife chaser. I have enough on my plate."

"Do you?" I guess champagne works when you own the vineyard, the château, the fermenting vats, and the bottling plant. I wonder if guys who own microbreweries get laid as much as vintners? Probably not. Go figure.

Anyway, I asked Mr. Tobin, "Have you ever been to the Gordons' house?"

"No. I don't even know where they lived."

"Then where did you send the social invitations?"

"Well… my public relations person does that. But now that I think about it, I recall that they live… lived in Nassau Point."

"Yes, sir. It was in all the news. Nassau Point residents found murdered."

"Yes. And I remember they mentioned they had a place on the water."

"Indeed they do. Did. They commuted to Plum Island often. They probably said that a few dozen times at dinner parties along with the Plum Island stories."

"Yes, they did."

I noticed that Mr. Tobin had little beads of sweat at the base of his hair weave. I had to keep in mind that the most innocent of people got the sweats when they were under the modified and civilized third degree. I mean, we used to talk about sweating information out of people in the old days — you know, the glaring lights, the nonstop interrogations, the third degree, whatever the hell that means. Today, we're very gentle, sometimes, but no matter how gentle you are, some people — innocent and guilty alike — just don't like being questioned.

It was getting a little warmer, and I took off my blue blazer and threw it over my shoulder. My S amp;W was on my ankle so Mr. T was not alarmed.

The bees had found me and I said, "Do these sting?"

"If you annoy them, they do."

"I'm not annoying them. I like bees."

"They're actually wasps. Yellow jackets. You must be wearing some cologne that they like."

"Lagerfeld."

"That's one of their favorites." He added, "Ignore them."

"Right. Were the Gordons invited to dinner Monday night?"

"No, I wouldn't have normally invited them to a small, spontaneous gathering… Monday's gathering was mostly close friends and people involved with the business."

"I see."

"Why do you ask that?"

"Oh, just for the irony of it. You know, if they'd been asked, maybe they'd have come home sooner, gotten dressed… you know, they might have missed their appointment with death."

He replied, "No one misses their appointment with death."

"Yeah, you know, I think you're right."

We were in a row of vines with purple grapes now. I asked Mr. Tobin, "Why do purple grapes make red wine?"

"Why…? Well… I guess you could more properly call it purple wine."

"I would."

Mr. Tobin said, "This is actually called pinot noir. Noir means black."

"I took French. These grapes are called black, they look purple, and the wine is called red. You see why people are confused?"

"It's really not that complicated."

"Sure it is. Beer is easy. There's lager and pilsner. Right? Then you have ale and stout. Forget those and forget dark beer and bock. Basically you have lager and pilsner, light or regular. You go into a bar, and you can see what's on tap because the taps are labeled. You can ask, 'What do you have in bottles?' When they're through rattling it all off, you say, 'Bud.' End of story."

Mr. Tobin smiled. "That's very amusing. Actually, I enjoy a good, cold beer on a hot day." He leaned toward me conspiratorially and said, "Don't tell anyone."

"Your secret is safe with me. Hey, this goes on forever. How many acres do you have here?"

"Here I have two hundred acres. I have another two hundred scattered around."

"Wow. That's big. Do you lease land?"

"Some."

"Do you lease land from Margaret Wiley?"

He didn't reply immediately, and if I'd been facing him across a table, I could have seen his expression the moment I said, "Margaret Wiley." But the hesitation was interesting enough.

Finally, Mr. Tobin replied, "I believe we do. Yes, we do. About fifty acres. Why do you ask?"

"I know she leases land to the vintners. She's an old friend of my aunt and uncle. It's a small world. Small fork." I changed the subject and asked, "So, are you the biggest grape on the fork?"

"Tobin is the biggest vineyard on the North Fork, if that's what you mean."

"How'd you manage that?"

"Hard work, a good knowledge of viniculture, perseverance, and a superior product." He added, "And good luck. What frightens us here is hurricanes. Late August to early October. One year the harvest was very late. About mid-October. No fewer than six hurricanes came up from the Caribbean. But every one of them turned off in another direction. Bacchus was watching over us." He added, "That's the god of wine."