Plum Island

by Nelson DeMille

  Beth caught up to me and said, “That was rude.”

  “He deserved it.”

  “Remember, I have to work with him.”

  “Then work with him.” I saw my favorite server, and she saw me. She had a glass of beer on her tray and handed it to me. Beth took a glass of wine.

  Beth said, “I want you to tell me about the archaeological digs, about Fredric Tobin, about everything you’ve found out, and all your conclusions. In return, I’ll get you an official status, and you’ll have all the resources of the county PD behind you. What do you say?”

  “I say, keep your official status, I’m in enough trouble, and I’ll tell you all I know tomorrow. Then I’m outta here.”

  “John, stop playing hard to get.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Do you want me to make an official call to your boss? What’s his name?”

  “Chief Inspector Asshole. Don’t worry about that.” The band was playing “As Time Goes By,” and I asked her, “Want to dance?”

  “No. Can we talk?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you think the drowning of that other Plum Island employee is related to this case?”

  “Maybe. We might never know. But I see a pattern.”

  “What pattern?”

  “You look good in that hat.”

  “I want to talk about the case, John.”

  “Not here, and not now.”

  “Where and when?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tonight. You said tonight. I’ll go back to your place.”

  “Well … I don’t know if I can do that….”

  “Look, John, I’m not offering to have sex with you. I just need to talk to you. Let’s go to a bar or something.”

  “Well … I don’t think we should leave together….”

  “Oh … right. You’re in love.”

  “No … well … maybe I am … in any case, this can wait until tomorrow. If I’m right about this, then our man is right over there, and he’s hosting a party. If I were you, I’d keep him under loose surveillance tomorrow. Just don’t spook him. Okay?”

  “Okay, but—”

  “We’ll meet tomorrow, and I’ll give you the whole thing, then I’m through with it. Monday I’m heading back to Manhattan. I have medical and professional appointments all day Tuesday. Okay? Tomorrow. Promise.”

  “Okay.” She touched glasses with me, and we drank.

  We chatted awhile, and while we were doing that, I saw Emma in the distance. She was speaking with a group of people among whom was Fredric Tobin, ex-lover and suspected murderer. I don’t know why it annoyed me to see them chatting. I mean, get sophisticated, John. When my wife took long business trips with her Randy Dan boss, did I get bent up? Not too much.

  Beth followed my gaze and said, “She seems very nice.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Beth went on, “I happened to mention her to Max.”

  I definitely didn’t respond to that.

  Beth said, “She used to be Fredric Tobin’s … girlfriend. I guess you know that. I only mention it in case you don’t. I mean, you should be careful of pillow talk if Tobin is a suspect. Or is that why you’ve befriended her? To find out more about Tobin? John? Are you listening to me?”

  I looked at her and said, “You know, Beth, I sometimes wish one of those bullets really had neutered me. Then I’d be completely free of the control of women.”

  She observed, “Next time you’re having sex, you won’t be thinking like that.” She turned and walked off.

  I looked around, realizing again that Tom and Judy would have been here tonight. I wondered if the treasure was supposed to be discovered on the bluff this week. Would they have announced it to the press by now? Or would they have announced it here tonight?

  In any case, the Gordons were in cold storage tonight, the treasure was hidden somewhere, and their probable killer was about fifty feet from me, talking to a woman I’d become very fond of. In fact, I noticed that Tobin and Emma were alone now, talking tête-à-tête.

  I’d had enough of this and made my way around the side of the house, discarding my hat and sword on the way. About halfway across the front lawn, I heard my name called, but I kept walking.

  “JOHN!”

  I turned.

  Emma hurried across the lawn. “Where are you going?”

  “Someplace where I can get a beer.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, I don’t need the company.”

  She informed me, “You need lots of company, my friend. That’s your problem. You’ve been alone too long.”

  “Do you write a lovelorn column for the local weekly?”

  “I will not let you bait me, and I will not let you leave alone. Where are you going?”

  “Ye Olde Towne Taverne.”

  “My favorite dive. Have you had their nacho platter?” She took my arm and off we went.

  I got in her old car and within twenty minutes, we were ensconced in a booth at the Olde Towne Taverne, beers in hand, nachos and chicken wings on the way. The Saturday night regulars didn’t look as if they were on their way to, or back from, Freddie’s fabulous fete.

  Emma said, “I called you last night.”

  “I thought you went out with the girls.”

  “I called you when I got back. About midnight.”

  “No luck with the hunt?”

  “No.” She said, “I guess you were sleeping.”

  “Actually, I went to Foxwoods. You can lose your drawers there.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  We talked awhile, and I said to her, “I’m assuming you didn’t say anything to Fredric about what we’ve been discussing.”

  She hesitated a half second too long, then replied, “I didn’t … but I did tell him … I said that you and I were dating.” She smiled. “Are we dating?”

  “Archivists are always dating—July 4, 1776, December 7, 1941—”

  “Be serious.”

  “Okay, I seriously wish you hadn’t mentioned me at all.”

  She shrugged. “I’m happy, and I want everyone to know it. He wished me luck.”

  “What a gentleman.”

  She smiled. “Are you jealous?”

  “Not at all.” I’m going to see him fry. “I think you should not discuss us with him and certainly not discuss pirate treasure.”

  “Okay.”

  And so we had a pleasant dinner and then went to her place, a little cottage in a residential section of Cutchogue. She showed me her chamber pot collection, ten of them, all used as planters and placed in a big bay window. My gift was now filled with soil and held miniature roses.

  She disappeared for a moment and returned with a wrapped gift for me. She said, “I got it at the historical society gift shop. I didn’t lift it, but I took forty percent off for myself.”

  “You didn’t have to—”

  “Just open it.”

  And I did. It was a book titled The Story of Pirate Treasure.

  She said, “Open to the flyleaf.”

  I opened it and read, “To John, my favorite buccaneer, Love, Emma.” I smiled and said, “Thank you. This is what I’ve always wanted.”

  “Well, not always. But I thought you might want to look it over.”

  “I will.”

  Anyway, the cottage was cute, it was clean, there was no cat, she had scotch and beer, the mattress was firm, she liked the Beatles and the Bee Gees, and she had two pillows for me. What more could I ask? Well, whipped cream. She had that, too.

  The next morning, Sunday, we went out for breakfast at the Cutchogue Diner, then without asking me, she drove to church, a nice clapboard Methodist church. She explained, “I’m not a fanatic about it, but it gives me a lift sometimes. It’s not bad for business either.”

  So I attended church, ready to dive under the pew if the ceiling caved in.

  After church, we retrieved my car in front of Mr. Tobin’s mansion, and Emma fol
lowed me back to my mansion.

  While Emma made tea for herself, I called Beth at her office. She wasn’t in so I left a message with a guy who said he was working the Gordon case. I said to him, “Tell her I’ll be out all day. I’ll try to speak to her tonight. If not, she should come to my place tomorrow morning for coffee.”

  “Okay.”

  I called Beth’s house and got her answering machine. I left the same message.

  Feeling that I’d done what I could to keep my promise, I went into the kitchen and said, “Let’s take a Sunday drive.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  She drove her car home and I followed, then we went to Orient Point in my Jeep and took the New London ferry. We spent the day in Connecticut and Rhode Island, visiting the mansions in Newport, having dinner in Mystic, then taking the ferry back.

  We stood on the deck of the ferry and watched the water and the stars.

  The ferry passed through Plum Island Gut, and I could see the Orient Point Lighthouse on the right. To the left, the old stone Plum Island Lighthouse was dark and forbidding against the night sky.

  The Gut was choppy, and Emma remarked, “That storm’s tracking this way. The seas get rough long before the weather moves in.” She added, “Also, the barometer drops. Can you feel it?”

  “Feel what?”

  “The falling air pressure.”

  “Uh….” I stuck my tongue out. “Not yet.”

  “I can feel it. I’m very weather sensitive.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “I think it’s a good thing.”

  “So do I.”

  “Are you sure you can’t feel it? Don’t your wounds ache a little?”

  I focused on my wounds and sure enough, they did ache a little. I said to Emma, “Thanks for bringing it to my attention.”

  “It’s good to get in touch with your body, to understand the relationships between the elements and your body and mind.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “For instance, I get a little crazy during a full moon.

  ”“Crazier,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, crazier. How about you?”

  “I get very horny.”

  “Really? During a full moon?”

  “Full moon, half-moon, quarter-moon.”

  She laughed.

  I glanced at Plum Island as we passed by. I could see a few channel lights and, on the horizon, a glow from where the main lab would be behind the trees. Otherwise, the island was as dark as it had been three hundred years ago, and if I squinted I could imagine William Kidd’s sloop, the San Antonio, reconnoitering the island one July night in 1699. I could see a boat being lowered off the side with Kidd and maybe one or two others aboard, and I could see someone in the boat rowing toward the shore….

  Emma interrupted my thoughts and asked me, “What are you thinking?”

  “Just enjoying the night.”

  “You were staring at Plum Island.”

  “Yes…. I was thinking about … the Gordons.”

  “You were thinking about Captain Kidd.”

  “You must be a witch.”

  “I’m a good Methodist and a bitch. But only once a month.”

  I smiled. “And you’re weather sensitive.”

  “That’s right.” She asked me, “Are you going to tell me any more about this … this murder?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “All right. I understand. If you need anything from me, just ask. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  “Thanks.”

  The ferry approached the slip, and she asked me, “Do you want to stay at my place tonight?”

  “Well … I do, but … I should go home.”

  “I can stay at your place.”

  “Well … to tell you the truth, I was supposed to talk or to meet with Detective Penrose today, and I should see if I can still do that.”

  “All right.”

  And we left the matter there.

  I dropped her off at her home. I said to her, “I’ll see you tomorrow after work.”

  “Good. There’s a nice restaurant on the water that I’d like to take you to.”

  “Looking forward to it.” We kissed on her doorstep, and I got into my Jeep and drove home.

  There were seven messages for me. I was in no mood for them and went to bed without playing them. They’d be there in the morning.

  As I drifted off, I tried to figure out what to do about Fredric Tobin. There’s sometimes this situation when you have your man, yet you don’t have your man. There is a critical moment when you have to decide if you should keep stalking him, confront him, smoke him out, or pretend to lose interest in him.

  I should have also been thinking that when you corner an animal or a man, he can become dangerous—that the game is played by both hunter and hunted, and that the hunted had a lot more to lose.

  But I forgot to consider Tobin as a thinking, cunning animal because he struck me as such a fop, the same way I’d struck him as a simpleton. We both knew better, but we’d both been lulled a little bit by each other’s act. In any event, I blame myself for what happened.

  CHAPTER 29

  It was raining Monday morning when I woke up, the first rain we’d had in weeks, and the farmers were happy even if the vintners were not. I knew at least one vintner who had bigger problems than a heavy rain.

  As I dressed, I listened to the radio and heard that a hurricane named Jasper was off the coast of Virginia, causing unsettled weather conditions as far north as New York’s Long Island. I was glad I was driving back to Manhattan today.

  I hadn’t been to my Seventy-second Street condo in over a month, and I hadn’t accessed my answering machine messages either, partly because I didn’t want to, but mostly, I guess, because I forgot my access code.

  Anyway, at about nine A.M., I went downstairs dressed in designer jeans and polo shirt and made coffee. I was sort of waiting for Beth to call or come by.

  The local weekly was on the kitchen counter, unread from Friday, and I was not too surprised to see last Monday’s murder on the front page. I took the paper out on the back porch with a mug of coffee and read the local hotshot reporter’s version of the double murder story. The guy was imprecise enough, opinionated enough, and was a bad enough stylist to write for Newsday or the Times.

  I noticed an article about Tobin Vineyards in which Mr. Fredric Tobin was quoted as saying, “We will begin the harvest any day now, and this promises to be a vintage year, perhaps the best in the last ten years, barring a heavy rain.”

  Well, Freddie, it’s raining. I wondered if condemned men are allowed to request wine with their last meal.

  Anyway, I threw the local weekly aside and picked up Emma’s gift, The Story of Pirate Treasure.I flipped through it, looked at the pictures, saw a map of Long Island, which I studied for a minute or so, then found the chapters on Captain Kidd and read at random a deposition of Robert Livingston, Esq., one of Kidd’s original financial backers. The deposition read in part,

  That hearing Capt. Kidd was come into these parts to apply himself unto his Excellency, the Earl of Bellomont, the said Narrator came directly from Albany ye nearest way through the woods to meet the said Kidd here and wait upon his Lordship. And at his arrival at Boston, Capt. Kidd informed him there was on board his Sloop then in Port, forty bales of Goods, and some Sugar, and also said he had about eighty pound weight in Plate. And further the said Kidd said he had Forty pound weight in Gold which he hid and secured in some place in the Sound betwixt this and New York, not naming any particular place, which nobody would find but himself.

  I did a little math in my head and figured that forty pounds of gold would be worth about three hundred thousand dollars, on the hoof, so to speak, not counting whatever historical value or numismatic value it would have, which could easily quadruple the value according to what Emma had said.

  I spent the next hour reading and the more I read, the more I was convinced that nearly every na
rrator in this episode, from Lord Bellomont to the lowest seaman, was a liar. No two stories were alike, and the value and amount of the gold, silver, and jewels were all over the lot. The only thing everyone agreed on is that treasure had been put ashore in various spots around the Long Island Sound. Not once was Plum Island mentioned, but what better place to hide something? As I’d learned on my trip to Plum, the island had no harbor then, so it was unlikely to be visited by random ships looking for food or water. It was owned by white settlers, and therefore off-limits to Indians, but was apparently uninhabited by anyone. And if Kidd dropped off a valuable treasure with John Gardiner, a man he didn’t know, why wouldn’t he sail the five or six miles across the bay to Plum Island and bury more treasure there? It made sense to me. I wondered, though, how Fredric Tobin had figured it out. He would be happy to tell us at his press conference when he announced his discovery. He’d probably say, “Hard work, a good knowledge of viniculture, perseverance, and a superior product. And good luck.”

  Anyway, I dawdled on the back porch for a long time, reading, watching the weather, working the case in my mind, waiting for Beth, who I thought should have arrived by now.

  Finally, I went inside through the French doors that led to the den and played the seven messages on my answering machine.

  Number one was from Uncle Harry saying he had a friend who wanted to rent the house, so would I mind buying it or leaving. Two, Detective Lieutenant Wolfe, who said simply, “You’re pissing me off.” Three, Emma’s old unplayed message, a little before midnight on Friday just saying hello; four, Max on Saturday morning with the particulars on the Tobin party and saying he had a nice chat with Beth and would I call him. Five, Dom Fanelli, who said, “Hey, paisano, you missed a good time. What a night. The wine was flowing, we picked up four Swedish tourists in Taormina’s, two of them airline stewardesses, one model, one actress. Anyway, I called our friend, Jack Rosen at the Daily News, and he’s going to do a story on your return to New York after convalescing in the country. Wounded hero comes home. Beautiful. Give him a call Monday A.M. and the story will run Tuesday, so the humps at Police Plaza can read it before they bust your cajones. Am I good, or what? Call me Monday, and we’ll have a drink P.M., and I’ll tell you about the Swedes. Ciao.”