Plum Island

by Nelson DeMille

  Mr. Tobin was a man of about fifty, perhaps younger, less than medium height, which might account for his Napoleon complex. He was of medium build, had a full head of short brown hair, though not all his own, and a neatly trimmed beard. His teeth, also not his own, were pearly white, and his skin was suntanned. All in all, he was a well-groomed fellow, well spoken, and he carried himself well. However, all the cosmetics and grooming couldn’t change his beady, dark eyes which moved all over the place, like they were loose in their sockets.

  Mr. Tobin wore a pine-scented aftershave lotion which I suspected did not attract bees.

  He asked me, “Do I understand that you want to question me?”

  “Just a few routine questions.” There are no routine questions in a homicide investigation, by the way.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t … I mean, I have absolutely no knowledge of what could have happened to the Gordons.”

  “Well, they were murdered.”

  “I know … I meant—”

  “I just need some background.”

  “Perhaps I should call my attorney.” My eyebrows rose at that. I said, “That’s your right.” I added, “We can do this down at the station house with your attorney present. Or we can do this here in about ten minutes.”

  He seemed to mull this over. “I don’t know…. I’m not used to this….”

  I spoke in my most engaging tone. “Look, Mr. Tobin, you’re not a suspect. I’m just interviewing friends of the Gordons. You know—background.”

  “I see. Well … if you think I can help, I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have.”

  “There you go.” I wanted to get this guy away from a phone, so I said, “Hey, I’ve never walked though a vineyard. Can we do that?”

  “Of course. Actually, I was about to do that when you arrived.”

  “This really works out for everyone.”

  I followed him out the glass-paneled door into the sunlight. Two small dump trucks were parked nearby, filled with grapes.

  Mr. Tobin informed me, “We began harvesting two days ago.”

  “Monday.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a big day for you.”

  “It’s a fulfilling day.”

  “You were here all day, I guess.”

  “I was here early.”

  I nodded. “Good harvest?”

  “Very good, so far, thank you.”

  We walked across the back lawn into the closest vineyard, between two rows of unpicked grapes. It really smelled good out here, and the bees hadn’t located me yet, thank goodness.

  Mr. Tobin indicated my little bag with his logo on it and inquired, “What did you buy?”

  “A painted tile for my girlfriend.”

  “Which one?”

  “Beth.”

  “I mean, which painted tile?”

  “Oh. The osprey.”

  “They’re making a comeback.”

  “Painted tiles?”

  “No. Ospreys. Look, Detective—”

  “They’re weird. I read that they mate for life. I mean, they’re probably not Catholic. Why do they mate for life?”

  “Detective—”

  “But then I read another version of that. The females willmate for life if the male comes back to the same nest. You know, the wildlife people put these big poles up with platforms on them, and they build their nests there. The ospreys. Not the wildlife people.”

  “Detective—”

  “What it comes down to is that the female is not really monogamous. She’s attached to the nest. She goes back to the same nest every year, and she’ll screw for the first male who shows up. Sort of like Southampton ladies in their summer houses. You know? They never want to give up the Hampton house. I mean, okay, the guy may be dead, or he took a powder, and he’ll never show up. But sometimes he’s just late getting a train. You know? Meanwhile, she’s balling the pool guy. But anyway, back to ospreys—”

  “Excuse me, Detective … what was—?”

  “Just call me John.”

  He glanced at me, and I could see he was trying to place me, but wasn’t quite getting it. In any case, after my little Columbo routine, Tobin had decided I was a simpleton, and he was a little more relaxed. He said to me, “I was shocked to hear the news.” He added, “What a tragedy. They were so young and vibrant.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Do you know anything about the funeral arrangements?”

  “No, sir, I don’t. I think the Gordons are still in the ME’s office—the medical examiner. They’re all, like, in pieces now, and then they get put back together later. Like a jigsaw puzzle except the ME saves the organs. I mean, how would anyone know the organs are missing?”

  Mr. Tobin didn’t comment.

  We walked awhile in silence through the vineyards. Sometimes if you don’t ask questions, the person you’re interviewing gets fidgety and starts to babble to fill in the silence. After a minute or so, Mr. Tobin said, “They seemed like such nice people.”

  I nodded.

  He let a few seconds pass, then added, “They couldn’t have had an enemy in the world. But there are some strange goings-on at Plum Island. Actually, what happened sounds like a burglary. That’s what I heard on the radio. Chief Maxwell said it was a burglary. But some of the media are trying to connect it to Plum Island. I should call Chief Maxwell. He and I are friends. Acquaintances. He knew the Gordons.”

  “Really? Everyone seems to know everyone else out here.”

  “It seems that way. It’s the geography. We’re bounded by water on three sides. It’s almost like a small island. Eventually, everyone’s paths cross. That’s why this is so disturbing. It could have been one of us.”

  “You mean the killer or the victims?”

  “Well, either,” Mr. Tobin replied. “The killer could be one of us, and the victims could have been … Do you think the killer will strike again?”

  “Oh, I hope not. I have enough to do.”

  We kept walking along this really long row of vines, but Mr. T had stopped running at the mouth, so I asked him, “How well did you know the Gordons?”

  “We were social acquaintances. They were enamored with the glamour and romance of wine making.”

  “Really?”

  “Are you interested in wine, Detective?”

  “No, I’m a beer guy, myself. Sometimes I drink vodka. Hey, how does this sound?” I pitched him Krumpinski’s real potato vodka, flavored and natural. “What do you think? A sister industry, right? There are potatoes all over the place here. This whole end of Long Island could be swimming in alcohol. Some people see grape jelly and mashed potatoes. We see wine and vodka. What do you think?”

  “Interesting concept.” He pulled a bunch of white grapes from the vine and squeezed one in his mouth. “Very nice. Firm, sweet, but not too sweet. Just enough sun and rain this year. This is going to be a vintage year.”

  “Terrific. When was the last time you saw the Gordons?”

  “About a week ago. Here, try this.” He put a few grapes in my hand.

  I put one into my mouth, chewed, and spit out the skin. “Not bad.”

  “The skins have been sprayed. You should squeeze the pulp into your mouth. Here.” He handed me half the bunch. We walked along like old buds, squeezing grape pulp into our mouths—but not each other’s mouths. We weren’t that close yet. Mr. Tobin went on about the weather, the vines, and all that. He said, “We have the same moderate annual rainfall as Bordeaux.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “But our reds are not as dense as Bordeaux-classed growths. Our texture is different.”

  “Of course.”

  “In Bordeaux, they let the skins macerate with the new wine for a long time after fermentation. Then they age the wine in the barrel for perhaps two or three years. That won’t work for us. Our grapes and theirs are separated by an ocean. They are the same species, but they’ve developed their own character. Just like us.”

 
“Good observation.”

  “We also have to handle the wine more gently when racking than they do in Bordeaux. I made some mistakes in the early years.”

  “We all do.”

  “Here, protecting the fruit is more important, for instance, than worrying about a tannic taste. We don’t get the tannin they do in Bordeaux.”

  “That’s why I’m proud to be an American.”

  “When making wine, one can’t be too dogmatic or too theoretical. You have to discover what works.”

  “Same with my job.”

  “But we can learn from the old masters. In Bordeaux, I learned the importance of leaf spread.”

  “That’s the place to learn it.” This wasn’t as bad as a history lesson, but it was a damned close second. Nonetheless, I let him babble. I stifled a yawn.

  He said, “Leaf spread lets you capture sunlight at this northern latitude. They don’t have that problem in southern France, or Italy or California. But here on the North Fork, as in Bordeaux, you have to strike a balance between leaf cover and sun on the grapes.”

  He went on. And on.

  And yet, I found myself almost liking the guy, my first impression notwithstanding. I don’t mean we were ever going to be big pals, but Fredric Tobin was a man of some charm, though a wee bit intense. You could tell he loved what he did; he seemed very much at home among the vines. I was beginning to understand why the Gordons might like him.

  He said to me, “The North Fork is a microclimate. Different from the surrounding areas. Do you know that we get more sunlight than they do right across the bay in the Hamptons?”

  “You’re kidding. Do the rich people in the Hamptons know that?”

  He continued, “More sunlight than right across the Sound in Connecticut?”

  “You don’t say? Why is that?”

  “It has to do with the bodies of water and the prevailing winds around us. We have a maritime climate. Connecticut has a continental climate. It can be ten degrees colder over there in the winter. That would damage the vines.”

  “Goes without saying.”

  “Also, it never gets too hot here, which can also stress the vines. The bodies of water all around us have a moderating influence on the climate.”

  “Warmer, sunnier, ospreys coming back. That’s great.”

  “And the soil is very special. This is very rich glacial soil, just the right nutrients, and it’s drained by the sand stratum below.”

  “Boy, I’ll tell you, when I was a kid, if anyone had said to me, ‘Hey, John, this will all be vineyards someday,’ you know, I’d have laughed in his face and kicked him in the balls.”

  “Does this interest you?”

  “Very much.” Not a bit.

  We turned into another row where a mechanical harvester was beating the crap out of the vines, and the grape bunches were getting sucked into this contraption. Jeez. Who invents these things?

  We got into another row where a couple of nubile young things in shorts and Tobin T-shirts were doing it by hand. Baskets of grapes sat in the row. The Lord of the Vines stopped and bantered with them. He was on his game today, and the nubes were responding well. He was probably old enough to be their father, but girls paid attention to money, pure and simple. I had to use all my charm and wit to get the little undies off, but I know rich guys who say less clever and charming things to young ladies—things like, “Let’s fly Concorde to Paris this weekend.” Works every time.

  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 chateau, 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&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.”