Nelson DeMille - Plum Island

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 fee-pee in the teepee .

I said, "Archival science. Fascinating."

"It can be. I worked at Stony Brook for a while, then got a job out here in the Cutchogue Free Library. Founded in 1841, and they still pay the same salary. I was raised here, but it's hard to make a living out here unless you're in some sort of business. I own a florist shop."

"Yes, I saw the van."

"That's right. You're a detective." She asked, "So what are you doing out here?"

"Convalescing."

"Oh, right. Now I remember. You look fine."

So did she, but you're not supposed to hit on the witness, so I didn't mention it. She had a nice, soft, breathy voice which I found sexy.

I asked her, "Do you know Fredric Tobin?"

"Who doesn't?"

"He belongs to the Peconic Historical Society."

"He's our largest benefactor. He gives wine and money."

"Are you a wine connoisseur?"

"No. Are you?"

"Yes. I can tell the difference between a Merlot and a Budweiser. Blindfolded."

She smiled.

I said, "I'll bet a lot of people wish they'd gotten into wine years ago. I mean, as a business."

"I don't know. It's interesting, but not that lucrative."

"It is for Fredric Tobin," I pointed out.

"Fredric lives way above his means."

I sat up. "Why do you say that?"

"Because he does."

"Do you know him well? Personally?"

She asked me, "Do you know him personally?"

I really don't like to be interrogated, but I was on thin ice here. How are the mighty fallen. I replied, "I was at one of his wine-tasting things. Back in July. Were you there?"

"I was."

"I was with the Gordons."

"That's right. I think I saw you."

"I didn't see you. I would have remembered." She smiled.

I asked again, "How well do you know him?"

"Actually, we were involved."

"In what?"

"I mean we were lovers, Mr. Corey."

This was disappointing to hear. Nevertheless, I stuck to business and asked, "When was this?"

"It began… oh, about two years ago, and it lasted — Is this relevant?"

"You can refuse to answer any question."

"I know that."

I asked her, "What happened to the relationship?"

"Nothing. Fredric just collects women. It lasted for about nine months. Not a record for either of us, but not bad. We did Bordeaux, the Loire, Paris. Weekends in Manhattan. It was all right. He's very generous."

I mulled this over. I had developed a tiny crush on Emma Whitestone, and I was a little annoyed that Fredric had beat me to the cookie jar. I said, "I'm going to ask you a personal question, and you don't have to answer. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Are you still…? What I mean is — "

"Fredric and I are still friends. He has a live-in now. Sondra Wells. A total phony, including the name."

"Right. You said he lives above his means."

"Yes. He owes the banks and private investors a small fortune. He spends too much. The sad thing is that he's very successful, and he could probably live very well on his profits if it weren't for Foxwoods."

"Foxwoods?"

"Yes, you know. The Indian gambling casino. In Connecticut."

"Oh, right. He gambles?"

"Does he ever. I went with him once. He lost about five thousand dollars in one weekend. Blackjack and roulette."

"My goodness. I hope he had a return ferry ticket."

She laughed.

Foxwoods . You took the Orient Point ferry with your car aboard to New London, or the Foxwoods high-speed ferry and bus to Foxwoods, blew it out, and came back to Orient on Sunday night. A nice diversion from the workaday world of the North Fork, and if you weren't compulsive, you had a nice time, you made a few hundred or you lost a few hundred, you had dinner, saw a show, slept in a nice room. A good date weekend. A lot of the locals, however, didn't like the proximity to sin. Some wives didn't like the boys going over with the grocery money. But, like anything else, it was a matter of degree.

So, Fredric Tobin, cool and dandy viniculturist, a man who seemed in control, was a gambler. But if you, thought about it, was there a bigger gamble than the grape crop every year? The fact was, grapes were still experimental here, and so far, so good. No blight, no diseases, no frosts or heat spells. But one day, Hurricane Annabelle or Zeke was going to blow a billion grapes into the Long Island Sound, sort of like the biggest tub of Kool-Aid ever.

And then there were Tom and Judy, who gambled with little pathogenic bugs. Then they gambled with something else and lost. Fredric gambled with the crop and won, then gambled with cards and roulette and he, too, lost.

I said to Ms. Whitestone, "Do you know if the Gordons ever went with Mr. Tobin to Foxwoods?"

"I don't think so. But I wouldn't know. It's been about a year since Fredric and I parted."

"Right. But you're still friends. You still talk."

"I guess we're friends. He doesn't like it when his ex-lovers are angry with him. He wants to keep them all as friends. This is interesting at parties. He loves to be in a room with a dozen women that he's had sex with."

Who doesn't? I asked her, "And you don't think Mr. Tobin and Mrs. Gordon were involved?"

"I don't know for sure. I don't think so. He wasn't a wife chaser."

"How gallant."

"No, he was chicken. Husbands and boyfriends frightened him. He must have had a bad experience once." She sort of chuckled in her breathy way. She added, "In any case, he'd rather have Tom Gordon as a friend than Judy Gordon as a lover."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know. I never understood Fredric's attachment to Tom Gordon."

"I thought it was the other way around."

"That's what most people thought. It was Fredric who sought Tom out."

"Why?"

"I don't know. At first, I thought it was a way of getting to Judy, but then I came to learn that Fredric doesn't do wives. Then I figured it had to do with the Gordons' attractiveness and their jobs. Fredric is a collector of people. He fancies himself the leading social personage of the North Fork. Maybe he is. He's not the richest man, but the winery gives him some status. You understand?"

I nodded. Sometimes you dig for days and weeks and come up with nothing. Sometimes you hit gold. But sometimes it's fool's gold. I mean, this was fascinating, but was it relevant to the double homicide? Also, was this an exaggeration? A little revenge on Ms. Whitestone's part? This would not be the first ex-lover who sent me sniffing up the wrong tree in order to make life miserable for the party of the second part. So I asked her point-blank, "Do you think Fredric Tobin could have killed the Gordons?"