Plum Island (30 page)

“No, ma’am.”

“It’s a small observatory in Southold. The Gordons had taken an interest in astronomy.”

That was news to me. You’d think that people who looked at bugs through a microscope all day wouldn’t want another lens in
their eye at night. But you never know. I asked, “And boating?”

“You can’t launch any boat from there, except maybe a canoe. The land is on a high bluff, and you couldn’t get anything except
a canoe up there, then down to the beach.”

“But you could land a boat on the beach?”

“Maybe at high tide, but there are treacherous rocks along that stretch. You could probably anchor and swim or walk to the
beach at low tide.”

I nodded, then asked, “Did they mention any agricultural interest in the land?”

“No. It’s not good for much. Didn’t I tell you that?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Well, I did.” She explained, “Whatever’s growing on that bluff took a long time to get used to the wind and the salt air.”
She added, “You might try root vegetables on the landward side.”

“Right.” I tried another tack and inquired, “What was your impression of the Gordons?”

She looked at me, thought a moment, then replied, “A nice couple. Very pleasant.”

“Happy?”

“They seemed happy.”

“Were they excited about their purchase?”

“You could say so.”

“Did they approach you about selling your land?”

“Yes. They made some inquiries first—I heard about that long before they came to me. When they asked me, I told them I wasn’t
interested.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I don’t like to sell land.”

“Why not?”

“Land should be held and passed on to the family.” She added, “I’ve inherited some parcels through my mother’s side. This
piece of land that the Gordons were interested in was from my husband’s side.” She seemed to reflect a moment, then added,
“Thad made me promise not to sell any of it. He wanted it to go to the children. But this was only an acre. I didn’t really
need the money, of course, but the Gordons seemed to have been heart-set on this bluff….” She glanced at me and Beth, and
said, “I asked the children, and they thought that their father would approve.”

It always amazed me that widows and children, who were entirely clueless about what to get the old boy for Christmas or Father’s
Day, knew exactly what the late great Pop would want after he popped off.

Mrs. Wiley continued, “The Gordons understood that the land couldn’t be developed.”

“You mentioned that.” I asked pointedly, “And for that reason, wouldn’t you agree that twenty-five thousand dollars was above
market price?”

She leaned forward in the deep Adirondack chair and informed me, “I also gave them an easement through my land to theirs.”
She added, “Let’s see what the land goes for when the estate sells it.”

“Mrs. Wiley, I’m not faulting you for making a good deal for yourself. I’m wondering why the Gordons wanted or needed that
land so badly.”

“I told you what they told me. That’s all I know.”

“The view must be breathtaking for twenty-five big ones.”

“It is.”

I said, “You mentioned that you lease your farmland.”

“Yes. My children aren’t interested in farming or in grape-growing for the wineries.”

“Did that ever come up with the Gordons? I mean, about you leasing your farmland?”

“I suppose it did.”

“And they never asked you if they could
lease
a part of the bluffs?”

She thought a moment, then said, “No, now that you mention it.”

I glanced at Beth. Clearly this made no sense. Two government employees who could be transferred at any time rent a house
on the south bay, then buy an acre on the north shore for twenty-five large to have another water view. I asked Mrs. Wiley,
“If they’d offered to lease an acre or so of that bluff, would you have said yes?”

She nodded. “I might have preferred that.”

“How much would you have asked by the year?”

“Oh … I don’t know … the land has no use…. I suppose a thousand would be fair.” She added, “A very nice view.”

I said, “Would you be good enough to show us this land?”

“I can give you directions. Or you can look up the survey in the county clerk’s office.”

Beth said, “We would really appreciate it if you would come with us.”

Mrs. Wiley looked at her watch, then at Beth. “All right.” She stood. “I’ll be right back.”

She went inside through the rear screen door.

I said to Beth, “Tough old duck.”

“You bring out the worst in people.”

“I was being very nice this time.”

“That’s what you call nice?”

“Yes, I’m being
nice
.”

“Scary.”

I changed the subject and said, “The Gordons had to
own
the property.”

She nodded. “Why?”

“I don’t know…. You tell me.”

“Think about it.”

“Okay….”

Mrs. Wiley came out of the back door, which she left unlocked. She was carrying her pocketbook and car keys. She walked toward
her car, a basic gray Dodge about five years old. If Thad were alive, he’d approve.

Beth and I got in her car, and we followed Mrs. Wiley. We made a right on Middle Road, a four-lane road that ran east-west,
parallel to the old colonial-era Main Road. Middle Road passed through the heart of the farmland and vineyards, with sweeping
vistas in all directions. The sunshine on the windshield felt good, the air smelled of grapes, a copper-haired babe was driving,
and if I wasn’t investigating the murder of two friends, I’d be whistling.

On my left, about a mile away to the north, I could see where the flat tillable land suddenly rose up, like a wall, so steep
it couldn’t be farmed, and the slope was covered with trees and bush. This was, in fact, the bluff whose north slope fell
into the sea, but from here, you couldn’t see the water, and the sharp rise appeared to be a range of low hills.

Mrs. Wiley had a heavy foot, and we scooted past tractors and pickup trucks.

A sign told us we were in the hamlet of Peconic. There were a good number of vineyards on both sides of the road, all identified
by wooden signs with gilded and lacquered logos, very upscale, promising expensive wines. I said to Beth, “Potato vodka. That’s
it. I need only twenty acres and a still. Corey and Krumpinski, fine potato vodka, natural and flavored. I’ll get Martha Stewart
to do cookbooks and suggested accompaniments to the vodka—clams, scallops, oysters. Very upscale. What do you think?”

“Who’s Krumpinski?”

“I don’t know. A guy. Polish vodka. Stanley Krumpinski. He’s a marketing creation. He sits on his porch and says cryptic things
about vodka. He’s ninety-five years old. His twin brother, Stephen, was a wine drinker and died at thirty-five. Yes? No?”

“Let me think about it. Meanwhile, the overpriced acre seems more odd when you consider the Gordons could have had the same
acre on a lease for a thousand dollars. Is this relevant to the murders or not?”

“Maybe. On the other hand, it could be nothing more than bad judgment on the Gordons’ part, or even a land scam.” I said,
“The Gordons could have figured out a way to reverse the sale of the development rights. Therefore, they have a waterfront
acre for twenty-five Gs that as a building plot is worth maybe a hundred. Neat profit.”

She nodded. “I’ll talk to the county clerk about comparative sale prices.” She glanced at me as she drove and said, “You have
formed another theory, obviously.”

“Maybe. Not obviously.”

She stayed silent awhile, then said, “They needed to
own
the land. Right? Why? Development? Right of way? Some big state park project in the works? Oil, gas, coal, diamonds, rubies
… ? What?”

“There are no minerals on Long Island, no precious metals, no gems. Just sand, clay, and rock. Even I know that.”

“Right … but you’re on to something.”

“Not anything specific. I have this like … feeling … like I know what’s relevant and what’s not, sort of like one of those
image association tests. You know? You see four pictures—a bird, a bee, a bear, and a toilet bowl. Which one doesn’t belong?”

“The bear.”

“The bear? Why the bear?”

“It doesn’t fly.”

“The toilet bowl doesn’t fly either,” I pointed out.

“Then the bear
and
the toilet bowl don’t belong.”

“You’re not…. Anyway, I can sense what belongs in the sequence and what doesn’t.”

“Is this like the pings?”

“Sort of.”

Mrs. Wiley’s brake lights went on, and she swung off the highway onto a dirt farm road. Beth, not paying attention, almost
missed the turn and two-wheeled it behind Margaret.

We headed north, toward the bluffs on the dirt road that ran between a potato field to the left and a vineyard to the right.
We bumped along at about thirty miles an hour, dust flying up all over the place, and I could actually taste it on my tongue.
I rolled up my window and told Beth to do the same.

She did and said, apropos of nothing, “We’re approaching toidy-toid and toid.”

“I do
not
speak with that kind of accent. I do
not
find that amusing.”

“I hear ya.”

Mrs. Wiley swung off onto a smaller rutted track that ran parallel to the bluff, which was only about fifty yards away now.
After a few hundred yards, she stopped in the middle of the track, and Beth pulled up behind her.

Mrs. Wiley got out, and we followed suit. We were covered with dust and so was the car, inside and out.

We approached Mrs. Wiley, who was standing at the base of the bluff. She said, “Hasn’t rained in two weeks. The grape growers
like it that way this time of year. They say it makes the grape sweeter, less watery. Ready for harvest.”

I was brushing dust off my T-shirt and eyebrows and really didn’t give a damn.

Mrs. Wiley went on, “The potatoes don’t need the rain either this time of year. But the vegetables and fruit trees could use
a good soaking.”

I really,
really
didn’t care, but I didn’t know how to convey this without sounding rude. I said, “I guess some folks are praying for rain,
and some are praying for sun. That’s life.”

She looked at me and said, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No, ma’am. But my uncle has a place here. Harry Bonner. My mother’s brother. Has a farm bay estate down in Mattituck. Or
is it a bay farm estate? Anyway—”

“Oh, yes. His wife, June, passed away about the same time as my Thad.”

“That would be about right.” I wasn’t totally blown away that Margaret Wiley knew Uncle Harry—I mean, the full-time population
out here is, as I said, about twenty thousand, which is five thousand fewer people than work in the Empire State Building.
I don’t mean that all twenty-five thousand people who work in the Empire State Building know one another, but—anyway, Margaret
and, I guess, the late Thad Wiley knew Harry and the late June Bonner. I had this bizarre thought that I’d get Margaret and
crazy Harry together, they’d marry, she’d die, Harry would die, and leave me thousands of acres of North Fork real estate.
I’d have to first bump off my cousins, of course. This sounded a little too Shakespearean. I had the strong feeling I’d been
out here too long in the seventeenth century.

“John? Mrs. Wiley is speaking to you.”

“Oh, sorry. I was badly wounded, and I have some residual consciousness lapses.”

“You look awful,” Mrs. Wiley informed me.

“Thank you.”

“I was saying, how is your uncle?”

“Very fine. He’s back in the city. Makes a lot of money on Wall Street. But very lonely since Aunt June died.”

“Give him my regards.”

“I will.”

“Your aunt was a fine woman.” She said it with that inflection that means, “How’d she get such a dork of a nephew?”

Margaret continued, “June was a good amateur archaeologist and historian.”

“Right. Peconic Historical Society. Are you a member?”

“Yes. That’s how I met June. Your uncle was not interested, but he did finance a few digs. We excavated the foundation of
a farmhouse that dated to 1681. You ought to see our museum if you haven’t.”

“In fact, I was going to see it today, but this other thing came up.”

“We’re only open weekends after Labor Day. But I have a key.”

“I’ll give you a call.” I looked up at the bluff rising out of the flat earth. I asked Mrs. W, “Is this the Gordons’ land?”

“Yes. You see that stake over there? That’s the southwest corner. Down the trail here about a hundred yards is the southeast
corner. The land starts here and rises to the top of the bluff, then down the other side, and ends at the high-water mark.”

“Really? Doesn’t sound too accurate.”

“Accurate enough. It’s custom and law. High-water mark. The beach belongs to everyone.”

“That’s why I love this country.”

“Do you?”

“Absolutely.”

She looked at me and said, “I’m a Daughter of the American Revolution.”

“I thought you might be.”

“My family, the Willises, have been here in this township since 1653.”

“My goodness.”

“They came to Massachusetts on the ship after the
Mayflower,
the
Fortune.
Then they came here to Long Island.”

“Incredible. You just missed being a
Mayflower
descendant.”

She replied, “I’m a
Fortune
descendant.” She looked around, and I followed her gaze. South of us stretched the potato field to the right and the vineyard
to the left. She said, “It’s hard to imagine what life was like in the sixteen hundreds. Thousands of miles from England,
woods where those fields are now, cleared by ax and ox, unknown climate, unknown soil, few domestic animals, an unreliable
source of clothing, tools, seed, gunpowder, and musket balls, and hostile Indians all around.”

“Sounds worse than Central Park after midnight in August.”

Margaret Wiley ignored me and said, “It’s very difficult for people like us—I mean my people—to part with even an acre of
land.”

“Right.” But for twenty-five large, we can talk. I said, “I found a musket ball once.”