Plum Island (34 page)

As the cashier wrapped it, I asked her, “Is Mr. Tobin in?” The attractive young lady glanced at me and replied, “I’m not sure.”

“I thought I saw his car. White sports car. Right?”

“He may be around. That will be ten-ninety-seven with tax.”

I paid ten-ninety-seven with tax and collected my change and package.

“Have you done the wine tour?” she asked me.

“No, but I saw beer made once.” I took my shield case out of my jacket and held it up to her. “Police department, miss. What
I’d like you to do is press whatever button on your phone there that will connect you with Mr. Tobin’s office and have him
come here chop, chop. Okay?”

She nodded and did as she was told. She said into the phone, “Marilyn, there’s a policeman here who wants to see Mr. Tobin.”

“Chop, chop.”

“Without delay,” she translated. “Okay … yes, I’ll tell him.” She hung up and said to me, “He’ll be right down.”

“Where’s up?”

She pointed to a closed door in the far wall and said, “That leads to the tower suites—the business offices.”

“Right. Thanks.” I went to the door and opened it, finding myself in a large, round wood-paneled common area, sort of a lobby,
that was the base of the tower. One door led to the fermenting vats, and one back to the reception area from which I’d entered.
A glass-paneled door led outside to the rear of the winery. There was also a staircase leading up, and to the right of that,
an elevator.

The elevator door opened, and Mr. Tobin strode out, barely giving me a glance in his haste to get to the gift shop. I noted
that the expression on his face was one of concern. I said, “Mr. Tobin?”

He turned toward me. “Yes?”

“Detective Courtney.” I sometimes mispronounce my own name.

“Oh…. Yes, what can I do for you?”

“I just need some of your time, sir.”

“What is this about?”

“I’m a homicide detective.”

“Oh … the Gordons.”

“Yes, sir.” He apparently didn’t remember my face, which is the same one I had in July when I met him. True, my name had changed
slightly, but anyway, I wasn’t going to prompt him. Regarding my status, jurisdiction, and all that technical crap, I simply
had not heard Max’s message on my machine. I said to the proprietor, “I understand you were a friend of the victims.”

“Well … we were social acquaintances.”

“I see.” Regarding Fredric Tobin, he was dressed, I’m chagrined to say, somewhat like I was dressed: a bunch of designer labels
and docksiders. He had no grape tie, but sported a silly lilac-colored puff in the breast pocket of his blue blazer.

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
will
mate 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.”