Nelson DeMille - Plum Island

"How did you get into this?"

"Well, I suppose it had something to do with growing up here. My own family goes back to the original settlers."

"You're not related to Margaret Wiley, I hope."

She smiled. "We have family connections. Didn't you enjoy Margaret?"

"No comment."

She went on, "Archive work must be a little like detective work. You know — mysteries, questions to be answered, things that need to be uncovered. Don't you think so?"

"I do, now that you mention it." I added, "To tell you the truth, when I was a kid, I wanted to be an archaeologist. I found a musket ball once. Somewhere out here. Can't remember where." I added, "Now that I'm old and infirm, maybe I should take up archive work."

"Oh, you're not that old. And you might enjoy it. I can teach you to read this stuff."

"Isn't it in English?"

"Yes, except that seventeenth- and eighteenth-century English can be difficult. The spelling is atrocious and the script is sometimes hard to decipher. Here, take a look at this." She offered a big looseleaf binder that was on the table. Inside were plastic sleeves and in the plastic were old parchments. She flipped to one of the pages and said, "Read that."

I bent over the book and looked at the faded script. I read, "Dear Martha, Don't believe the rumors about me and Mrs. Farnsworth. I'm loyal and true. How about you? Your loving husband, George."

She laughed. "That's not what it says."

"That's what it looks like."

"Here, I'll read it." She pulled the binder toward her, and said, "This is a letter from a Phillip Shelley to the royal governor, Lord Bellomont, dated 3 August 1698." She read the letter, which to me had been indecipherable. The letter was full of "my lords" and "haths" and "your humble servant" stuff. The guy was complaining about some injustice regarding a land dispute. I mean, these people came across the ocean to a new continent and had the same gripes they had in Southwold with a "w."

I said to Ms. Whitestone, "Very impressive."

"There's nothing to it. You can learn it in a few months. I taught Fredric in two months, and he has no attention span."

"Really."

"The language isn't as difficult as the script and the spelling."

"Right." I asked her, "Can you give me a list of members?"

"Sure." We went into the office, and she gave me a paperbound membership directory, then slipped on her sandals.

I asked her, "How did you get this job?"

She shrugged. "I don't know… It's a pain in the butt. This was another one of Fredric's stupid social-climbing ideas. I was the archivist here, which I didn't mind doing. Then he proposed me as president, and whatever Fredric wants, Fredric gets. Plus, I'm still the archivist. Flower girl and president and archivist of the Peconic Historical Society."

"Are you hungry?"

"Sure. Let me call the shop." She did, and I poked around the office a bit. I heard her say, softly, ''I may not be back this afternoon."

No, Ms. Whitestone, you may not be if I have anything to say about it.

She hung up, and we went downstairs. She said, "We have small receptions and parties here. It's nice at Christmas."

"That reminds me — are you going to Mr. Tobin's soiree on Saturday?"

"Maybe. Are you?"

"I thought I would. In the line of duty."

She suggested, "Why don't you arrest him in front of everyone and take him away in handcuffs?"

"That sounds like fun, only I don't think he's done anything wrong."

"I'm sure he's done something wrong." She led me to the front door and we went outside. It was getting warmer. She locked the door and took the Post-it note off. I said, "I'll drive."

I started my vehicle with the remote. She said, "That's a nice feature."

I said, "It's good to detonate car bombs from a distance."

She laughed. I was not joking.

We got into my sport utility vehicle, and I threw it into reverse, purposely leaving my door ajar. The female voice said, "The driver's side door is ajar."

Emma said, "That's a silly feature."

"I know. It sounds like my ex-wife. I'm trying to kill it. The voice, not my ex-wife."

Emma played with the computer buttons as she asked me, "How long have you been divorced?"

"Actually, it's not official until October first. In the meantime, I'm trying to avoid adultery and bigamy."

"That should be easy."

I wasn't sure how to take that. I pulled out of the parking area and said, "What do you like? You pick."

"Why don't we continue the mood and go to a historic inn? How about the General Wayne Inn? Do you know it?"

"I think so. Isn't that John Wayne's place?"

"No, silly. Mad Anthony Wayne. He slept there."

"Is that what made him mad? Lumpy mattress?"

"No… are you historically challenged?"

"Totally clueless."

"Mad Anthony Wayne was a Revolutionary War general. He was the leader of the Pennsylvania Volunteers."

"Right. Their big single was 'My Heart's on Fire and You're Sit-tin' on My Hose.'"

Emma Whitestone stayed silent awhile, wondering, I'm sure, if she'd made the right decision. Finally, she said, "It's on Great Hog Neck. I'll direct you."

"Okay." And off we went to a place called the General Wayne Inn, located in a place called Great Hog Neck. I mean, could I get into this scene? Did I miss Manhattan? Hard to say. If I had big bucks, I could do both. But I don't have big bucks. Which got me to thinking about Fredric Tobin, who, as it turns out, also doesn't have big bucks, and there I was envying him, figuring he was on top of the world — grapes, babes, bucks — turns out he's broke. Worse, he's in debt. For a man like Fredric Tobin, to lose it all would be the equivalent of losing his life. He might as well be dead. But he wasn't. Tom and Judy were dead. Connection? Maybe. This was getting interesting.

But time was running out for me. I could play cop for maybe forty-eight more hours before I was shut down by the Southold PD, the NYPD, and the Suffolk County PD.

Ms. Whitestone was giving me directions as I ruminated. Finally, she asked me, "Are they leveling with us about the vaccine?"

"I think so. Yes."

"This had nothing to do with germ warfare?"

"No."

"Or drugs?"

"Not that I can determine."

"Burglary?"

"It looks that way, but I think it has to do with a stolen vaccine." Who says I'm not a team player? I can put out the official bullshit as well as anyone else. I asked Ms. Whitestone, "You have another theory?"

"No, I don't. I just have this feeling that they were killed for some reason we don't yet understand."

Which is exactly what I thought. Bright woman.

I asked her, "Have you ever been married?"

"Yes. I married young, sophomore year in college. Lasted seven years." She added, "And I've been divorced seven years. Add it up."

"You're twenty-five."

"How did you get twenty-five?"

"Forty-two?"

She said, "Turn right here. Right is toward me."

"Thanks."

It was a pleasant drive, and we soon found ourselves on Great Hog Neck — which is yet another peninsula that juts into the bay, lying somewhat east and north of Nassau Point, sometimes called Little Hog Neck.

I've noticed that around here there are three main sources of place names — Native Americans, English settlers, and realtors. The latter have maps with nice names that they make up to replace yucky names like Great Hog Neck.

We passed a small observatory called the Custer Institute, which Mrs. Wiley had mentioned, and I got a briefing on that and on the American Indian Museum across from the observatory.

I asked Emma, "Were the Gordons interested in astronomy?"

"Not that I knew about."

"You know they bought an acre of land from Mrs. Wiley."

"Yes." She hesitated, then said, "That was not a good deal."