“I do.” I asked Aidan, “Where does he live?”
“Oh, he’s got a place down in Southold by Founders Landing. You know where that is?”
“No.”
Aidan gave me directions and said, “Can’t miss it. Big, big.”
“Right. Hey, somebody told me that there’s pirate treasure buried around here.”
Aidan laughed. “Yeah. My old man said there used to be holes dug all over the place when he was a kid. If anybody found anything, they’re not talking.”
“Right. Why share with Uncle Sam?”
“No kidding.”
“Have you heard anything new about the double murder at Nassau Point?”
He said, “Nope. I think, personally, those people stole something dangerous, and the government and the cops are making up a lot of crap about some vaccine. I mean, what are they gonna say? The world’s coming to an end? No. They say, ‘Don’t worry—it can’t hurt you.’ Bullshit.”
“Right.” I think the CIA, the FBI, and the government in general should always try out their bullshit on bartenders, barbers, and taxi drivers before they try to sell it to the country. I mean, I usually bounce things off bartenders or my barber when I need a reality check, and it works.
Aidan said, “Hey, what’s the difference between Mad Cow Disease and PMS?”
“What?”
“There is no difference.” He slapped his rag on the bar and laughed. “Get it?”
“Yup.” I left the OTT, saddled up, and drove to a place called Founders Landing.
CHAPTER 28
It was getting dark when I got to Founders Landing, but I could see a waterfront park at the end of the road. I also saw a stone monument that said, “Founders Landing— 1640.” I deduced that this was where the group from Connecticut first landed. If they had stopped at Foxwoods first, they would probably have arrived here in their skivvies.
To the east of the park was a big, big house, bigger than Uncle Harry’s and more colonial than Victorian. The house was surrounded by a nice wrought iron fence, and I could see cars parked in front of it and some cars up on the side lawn. I could also hear music coming from the rear of the property.
I parked on the street and walked down to the open wrought iron gate. I wasn’t sure of the attire, but I spotted a couple in front of me, and the guy was dressed pretty much as I was—blue blazer, no tie, no socks.
I found my way to the back lawn, which was wide and deep, sloping down to the bay. There were striped tents, colored party lights strung from tree to tree, blazing tonga torches, hurricane candles on the umbrellaed tables, flowers by Whitestone, a six-piece combo playing Big Band stuff, a few bars, and a long buffet table; the very height of East Coast seaside chic, the very best that the old civilization had to offer—and the weather was cooperating. Truly F. Tobin was blessed.
I noticed, too, a big blue and white banner strung between towering oak trees. The banner read, “Peconic Historical Society Annual Party.”
A pretty young woman wearing a period costume came up to me and said, “Good evening.”
“So far.”
“Come and choose a hat.”
“Excuse me?”
“You have to wear a hat to get a drink.”
“Then I want six hats.”
She giggled, took my arm, and led me to a long table on which were about two dozen idiotic hats—tricornered hats of various colors, some with feathers, some with plumes, some with gold braid like navy hats of the period, and some black hats with the white skull and crossbones. I said, “I’ll take the pirate hat.”
She picked one off the table and put it on my head. “You look dangerous.”
“If you only knew.”
Out of a big cardboard box she fetched a plastic cutlass, such as the one Emma had attacked me with, and she slid it into my belt. “There you are,” she said.
I left the young lady so she could greet a group who had just arrived, and I walked farther onto the sweeping lawn, hatted and armed. The band was playing “Moonlight Serenade.”
I looked around and saw that there weren’t too many people yet, about fifty, all hatted up, and I suspected the big crowd would arrive after sundown in about half an hour. I didn’t see Max, Beth, Emma, or anyone I knew for that matter. I did, however, locate the closest bar and asked for a beer.
The bartender, dressed in a pirate costume, said, “Sorry, sir, only wine and soft drinks.”
“What? That’s outrageous. I need a beer. I have my hat.”
“Yes, sir, but there’s no beer. May I suggest a sparkling white? It has bubbles, and you can pretend.”
“May I suggest you find me a beer by the time I get back here?”
I wandered around, beerless, and checked out the acreage. I could see the park from here, the place where the first settlers landed, sort of the local Plymouth Rock, I guess, but virtually unknown outside of this area. I mean, who knew that the Fortune followed the Mayflower? Who cares about second and third place? This is America.
I watched Mr. Tobin’s guests spread out over his broad lawn, standing, walking, sitting at the white round tables, everyone wearing a hat with a feather, glass in hand, chatting. They were a sedate group, or so they appeared at this early hour—no rum and sex on the beach or skinny-dipping or naked volleyball or anything like that. Just social intercourse.
I saw that Mr. Tobin had a long dock, at the end of which was a good-sized boathouse. Also, several boats were tied up at the long dock, and I assumed they belonged to guests. If this party had been held a week earlier, the Spirochetewould have been here.
Anyway, curious sort that I am, I walked the length of the dock toward the boathouse. Right before the opening of the boathouse was a big cabin cruiser, about thirty-five feet long. It was named the Autumn Gold, and I assumed it was Mr. Tobin’s boat, named after his new wine, or named after Mr. Tobin’s as-yet-to-be-discovered treasure. In any case, Mr. T liked his toys.
I entered the boathouse. It was dark, but there was enough light coming from both ends to see two boats, one on either side of the dock. The boat to the right was a small, flat-bottomed Whaler of the type you could take into shallow water or wetlands. The other on the left side of the dock was a speedboat, in fact, a Formula 303, the exact same model as the Gordons’. For a half second, I had the spooky feeling that the Gordons had returned from the dead to crash the party and scare the crap out of Freddie. But it wasn’t the Spirochete—this 303 was named Sondra, presumably after Fredric’s current squeeze. I suppose it was easier to change the name of a boat than to get a tattoo off your arm.
Anyway, neither the cabin cruiser nor the speedboat interested me, but the flat-bottomed Whaler did. I lowered myself into the small boat. It had an outboard motor, and it also had oarlocks. There were two oars lying on the dock. More interesting, there was a pole, about six feet long, of the type used to move a boat through bulrushes and reeds where neither oars nor motor could be used. Also, the Whaler’s deck was a little muddy. In the stern was a plastic crate filled with odds and ends and among them was a compressed-air foghorn.
“Are you looking for something?”
I turned to see Mr. Fredric Tobin standing on the dock, wineglass in hand, wearing a rather elaborate purple tricornered hat with a flowing plume. He was stroking his short beard as he stared at me. Mephistophelian, indeed.
I said, “I was admiring your boat.”
“That boat? Most people notice the speedboat or the Chris-Craft,” he said, indicating the cabin cruiser docked just outside the boathouse.
I said, “I thought that was the Autumn Gold.”
“The make of the boat is a Chris-Craft.”
He was speaking to me with a tiny tone of irritation in his tiny voice which I did not like. I said, “Well, this little guy here is more in my price range.” I smiled disarmingly. I do that before I fuck somebody big-time. I said, “When I saw the Formula 303, I thought the Gordons had returned from the dead.”
He did not l
ike that at all.
I added, “But then I saw it wasn’t the Spirochete—it’s called the Sondra, which is appropriate. You know—fast, sleek, and hot.” I love pissing off assholes.
Mr. Tobin said coolly, “The party is on the lawn, Mr. Corey.”
“I noticed.” I climbed up to the dock and said, “This is some place you have here.”
“Thank you.”
In addition to the fruity hat, Mr. T was wearing white ducks, a blue double-breasted blazer, and an outrageous scarlet ascot. My goodness. I said, “I like your hat.”
He said, “Let me introduce you to some of my guests.”
“That would be terrific.”
And off we went, out of the boathouse and along the dock. I asked him, “How far is the Gordon dock from here?”
“I have no idea.”
“Take a guess.”
“Maybe eight miles. Why?”
“More like ten,” I said. “You have to go around Great Hog Neck. I checked my car map. About ten.”
“What is your point?”
“No point. Just making seaside conversation.”
We were back on the lawn now, and Mr. Tobin reminded me, “You will not question any of my guests about the Gordon murders. I’ve spoken to Chief Maxwell, and he has agreed to that, and he further reiterated that you have no official standing here.”
“You have my word that I won’t bother any of your guests with police questions about the Gordon murders.”
“Or anything to do with the Gordons at all.”
“I promise. But I need a beer.”
Mr. Tobin looked around, saw a young lady with a tray of wine, and said to her, “Please go into the house and get this gentleman a beer. Pour it into a wineglass.”
“Yes, sir.” And off she went. Boy, it must be nice to be rich and to tell people, “I want this, and I want that.”
Mr. Tobin said to me, “You’re not a hat person.” He excused himself and left me standing alone. I was afraid to move lest the serving girl with the beer not find me.
It was deep dusk now, and the colored party lights twinkled, the torches blazed, the candles glowed. A nice gentle land breeze blew the bugs out to sea. The band was playing “Stardust.” The trumpet player was terrific. Life is good. I was glad I wasn’t dead.
I watched Fredric work the party, person by person, couple by couple, group by group, laughing, joking, adjusting their hats, and putting plastic swords in the belts of ladies who had belts. Unlike the most famous Long Island party-giver, Jay Gatsby, Fredric Tobin did not watch his party from afar. Quite the opposite, he was right in there, mixing it up, being the most perfect host ever.
The man had some cool, I’ll give him that. He was near broke, if I could believe Emma Whitestone, and he was a double murderer, if I could believe my instincts, not to mention what I’d just seen in the boathouse. And he must have known that I knew both his secrets, yet he was not ruffled. He was more concerned that I not fuck up his party than that I might fuck up his life. A very cool customer, indeed.
The serving girl returned with the wineglass of beer on a tray. I took the beer and commented, “I don’t like wine.”
She smiled. “Me neither. There’s more beer in the refrigerator.” She winked and moved off.
Sometimes I think I’m blessed with sex appeal, charisma, and animal magnetism. Other times, I think I must have bad breath and body odor. Tonight, I felt I was on, hot as a three-dollar pistol; I tilted my hat rakishly, adjusted my sword, and began working the party.
It was mostly a young and early-middle-age crowd, not too many of the grandes dames and DAR types. I didn’t see Margaret Wiley, for instance. It was mostly couples—the world is mostly couples—but there were a few strays who looked able to make conversation if neither of my one and only true loves showed up.
I noticed a woman in a white, sort of silky dress, wearing the required chapeau from which fell long blonde hair. I recognized her as Lord Freddie’s little thing, who the Gordons had pointed out to me at the wine tasting. She was crossing the lawn, alone, so I set course and intercepted. “Good evening,” I said.
She smiled. “Good evening.”
“I’m John Corey.”
The name obviously meant nothing to her, and she kept smiling. She said, “I’m Sondra Wells. A friend of Fredric Tobin.”
“Yes, I know. We met in July at the vineyard. A wine tasting. I was with the Gordons.”
Her smile dropped, and she said, “Oh, that was terrible.”
“It certainly was.”
“A tragedy.”
“Yes. You were close to the Gordons?”
“Well … Freddie was. I liked them … but I don’t know if they liked me.”
“I’m sure they did. They always spoke highly of you.” Actually, they never spoke of her at all.
She smiled again.
She spoke well and carried herself well as if she’d gone to school to learn how to do those things; it was all too practiced, and I could imagine Tobin sending her off someplace where she had to walk with a book on her head and recite Elizabeth Barrett Browning while sucking on a pencil.
I personally couldn’t see why anyone would trade Emma Whitestone for Sondra Wells. Then again, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that. I said to Ms. Wells, “Do you like boating?”
“No, I don’t. Fredric seems to enjoy it.”
“I have a place on the water west of here. I love to boat.”
“How nice.”
“In fact, I’m sure I saw Mr. Tobin … let’s see, last Monday, about cocktail time, I guess, in his little Whaler. I thought I saw you with him.”
She thought a moment, then said, “Oh … Monday … I was in Manhattan all day. Fredric had a car and driver take me and the housekeeper to the city, and I spent the day shopping.”
I saw her little brain working and a frown passed over her lips. She asked me, “You saw Fredric in the Whaler with a … another person?”
“Perhaps it wasn’t him, or if it was, he may have been alone, or perhaps with a man….”
She frowned again.
I love to stir up the shit. Beyond that, I had now placed Ms. Wells and the housekeeper in Manhattan at the time of the murders. How convenient. I asked her, “Do you share Fredric’s interests in local history and archaeology?”
She replied, “No, I don’t. And I’m glad he’s given it up. Of all the hobbies a man can have, why that one?”
“It might have had something to do with the Peconic Historical Society’s archivist.”
She gave me a very cool look, indeed, and would surely have walked away, except that Fredric himself popped up and said to Ms. Wells, “May I steal you a moment? The Fishers want to say hello.” Fredric looked at me and said, “You’ll excuse us?”
“I guess, unless the Fishers want to say hello to me, too.”
Fredric gave me an unpleasant smile, Ms. Wells gave me a frown, and off they went, leaving their boorish guest to contemplate his gauche behavior.
About 8:30 I saw Max and Beth. Max also had on a pirate hat, and Beth had a sort of silly bonnet on her head. She was wearing white slacks and a blue and white striped boat top. She looked different. I walked over to them at the long buffet. Max was stuffing his face with a plate of pigs in the blanket, my very favorite. We exchanged greetings, and I stole one of his hot dogs.
Beth said, “Nice evening. Thank you for suggesting I come.”
“You never know what you can learn by listening.”
Max said to me, “Beth briefed me on the Suffolk PD’s progress so far. She did a lot of work in the last four days.”
I glanced at Beth to see if she’d said anything to Max about her visit to my house. Beth shook her head slightly.
Max said to me, “Thanks again for your help.”
“No problem. Don’t hesitate to call again.”
Max said to me, “You never returned any of my phone calls.”
“No, and I never will.”
/> “I don’t think you have any reason to be angry.”
“No? Try reversing the situation, Max.” I added, “I should have kicked you off my porch.”
Max replied, “Well … I apologize if I caused you any inconvenience.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Beth interjected and said to Max, “John is in some trouble with his bosses because he helped you.”
Max said again, “Sorry. I’ll make a few calls, if you tell me who to call.”
“No offense, Max, but they don’t want to hear from a rural police chief.”
Actually, I wasn’t that angry with Max and even if I had been, it’s hard to stay angry with Max. Basically, he’s a good egg, and his only real fault is that he always looks out for Number One. Sometimes I make believe I’m angry so the other person thinks they owe me something. Like a small piece of information. I asked Max, “By the way, have there been any other deaths among Plum Island workers that have come to your attention? Say, two or three years ago?”
He thought a moment, then said, “There was a drowning accident, two years ago this summer. A guy … Dr. somebody … a veterinarian … I think.”
“How’d he drown?”
“I’m trying to think … he was in his boat … right, he was night fishing or something, and when he didn’t come home, his wife called us. We got the Coast Guard out, and they found his boat empty about one in the morning. The next day, he washed up from the bay there….” He cocked his head toward Shelter Island.
“Any evidence of foul play?”
“Well, there was a bump on his head, and an autopsy was done, but it appeared he’d slipped in the boat, hit his head on the gunnel, and gone overboard.” Max added, “It happens.” He looked at me. “Why do you ask that?”
I replied, “I promised Mr. Tobin, and so did you, Max, that we wouldn’t discuss any of this at his party.” I added, “I need a beer.” I walked off, leaving Max with a weenie in his hand.