We went out back and walked down to the water. She said, "This is very nice."
"I'm beginning to appreciate it." I picked up a flat stone and skimmed it across the water. It made three skims before it sank.
Beth found a nice skimmer, cocked her arm, and let loose, throwing her whole body into the motion. The stone did four hits before it sank.
I said, "Hey, nice arm."
"I pitch. Homicide softball team." She took another stone and threw it at the piling at the end of the pier. It missed the piling by inches and she tried again.
I watched her chucking stones at the piling. What had turned me on, still turned me on. It was her looks, for sure — but also her aloofness. I love it when they're aloof. I think. Anyway, I was fairly sure that finding Emma in the house had embarrassed her and annoyed her. More important, she was surprised at how she felt, and maybe what she felt was competition. I said, "I missed your company. Absence makes the heart grow fonder."
She glanced at me between throws and said, "Then you're absolutely going to love me because this will probably be the last time you'll ever see me."
"Don't forget the party tomorrow."
She ignored that and said, "If I suspected one person out of all the people we spoke to, it would be Paul Stevens."
"Why?"
She aimed a stone at the piling again and this time hit it. She said to me, "I called him at Plum Island yesterday, and they said he was out. I pressed and they said he was home sick. I called his home, but no one answered." She added, "Another disappearing Plum Islander."
We walked along the stony shore.
I, too, was not satisfied with Mr. Stevens' last performance. He was a possible murder suspect. As I said, I could very well be wrong about Fredric Tobin, or it could be that Tobin was in cahoots with Stevens, or it could be neither. I had thought that when I had the motive, I'd have the murderer. But the motive had turned out to be money, and when the motive is money, the suspects are everybody and anybody.
We walked east along the shore, past my neighbors' houses. The tide was coming in and the water lapped over the stones. Beth had her hands tucked in the side pockets of her jacket, and she walked with her head down as if in deep thought. Every now and then, she'd kick at a stone or seashell. She saw a small starfish stranded on the beach, bent down, picked it up, and threw it back into the bay.
We walked in silence for a while longer, then she said, "Regarding Dr. Zollner, we had a pleasant chat on the phone."
"Why don't you call him in?"
"I would, but he's in Washington. He was summoned to give a statement to the FBI, the Department of Agriculture, and others. Then, he's on a traveling schedule — South America, England, a lot of other places that need his expertise." She said, "They're keeping him out of my reach."
"Get a subpoena."
She didn't reply.
I asked, "Are you getting interference from Washington?"
She replied, "Not me, personally. But people I work for are… You know how it is when your calls are not returned, things you ask for take too long, meetings you want are put off."
"I worked a case like that once." I advised her, "Politicians and bureaucrats will run you around until they figure out if you can help them or hurt them."
She asked me, "What are they really afraid of, and what are they covering up?"
"Politicians are afraid of anything they don't understand, and they don't understand anything. Just keep working the case."
She nodded.
I said, "You've done a very good job."
"Thanks." We turned around and began walking back to my house.
Beth, I reflected, seemed to enjoy the paperwork, the details, the little building blocks that made up the case. There were detectives who believed that you could solve a case by working with the known elements of forensics, ballistics, and so forth. Sometimes, that was true. In this case, however, the answers started coming out of left field, and you had to be there to catch them.
Beth said, "The lab has done a complete job on the Gordons' two vehicles and their boat. All fingerprints were theirs, except mine, yours, and Max's on the boat. Also, on the deck of the boat, they found something strange."
"Yes?"
"Two things. First, soil, which we know about. But also they found small, very small, slivers of wood that were decayed, rotted. Not driftwood. There was no salt in the wood. This was buried wood, still showing some soil." She looked at me. "Any ideas?"
"Let me think about it."
" Okay."
Beth continued, "I contacted the county sheriff, a fellow named Will Parker, regarding pistol permits he's issued in Southold Township.
"Good."
"I also checked with the county pistol license section, and I have a computer printout that shows that there are 1,224 pistol permits issued by the sheriff and by the county to residents of Southold Township."
"So, out of the twenty-some thousand residents of this township, we have about twelve hundred registered pistol license holders. That's a big number, a lot of people to call on, but not an impossible task."
"Well," Beth informed me, "the irony is that when the subject was plague, no task was impossible. But we're no longer pledging the whole police budget to solve this case."
"The Gordons are important to me. Their murder is important to me.
"I know that. And to me. I'm just explaining reality."
"Why don't I call your boss so I can explain reality to him?"
"Let it go, John. I'll take care of it."
"All right." In truth, while the county PD was turning down the flame on this one, the Feds were secretly working very hard looking for the wrong type of perp. But that wasn't my problem. I asked, "Is Mr. Tobin on the pistol license list?"
"Actually, yes. I scanned the list and pulled a few names I knew. Tobin was one."
"Who else?"
"Well, Max." She added, "He has an off-duty.45."
"There's your perp," I said, half jokingly. I asked her, "What does Tobin pack?"
She glanced at me and said, "Two pieces — a 9mm Browning and a Colt.45 automatic."
"My goodness. Is he afraid of grape rustlers?"
"I suppose he carries cash or something. You don't need a lot of reasons to get a pistol permit in this township if you're tight with the sheriff and the chief."
"Interesting." Concealed weapons were closely regulated in New York State, but there were places where it was a wee bit easier to get a permit. Anyway, having two pistols didn't make F. Tobin a killer, but it was suggestive of certain personality types. Freddie, I thought, fit into the mild-mannered type who, as Emma suggested, was not physically or verbally violent, but who would put a bullet through your head if he felt in the least bit threatened by you.
As we approached my piece of the shoreline, Beth stopped and turned toward the water. She stood there, looking at the bay — a classical pose, I thought, like some oil painting titled, Woman Gazes at the Sea. I wondered if Beth Penrose was a spontaneous' skinny-dipper, and decided she was definitely not the type.
Beth asked me, "Why does Fredric Tobin interest you?"
"I told you… well, it turns out he was closer to the Gordons than even I realized."
"So what?"
"I don't know. Please continue."
She glanced at me again, then turned from the bay and continued walking. She said, "Okay. Next, we searched the wetlands to the north of the Gordons' house, and found a place where a boat may have been dragged into the bulrushes."
"Really? Good work."
"Thank you." She said, "It's quite possible someone came that way in a shallow draft craft. High tide Monday was at 7:02 p.m., so at about 5:30, it was near high, and there was almost two feet of water in the wetlands beside the Gordon house. You could pole a shallow-draft boat in through the reeds, and no one would see you on the boat."
"Very good. Why didn't I think of that?"
"Because you're spending time thinking of wiseass remarks."
"I actually don't think about them."
She continued, "I'm not saying for certain that a boat was in those reeds, though it appears there was. There are recently broken bulrushes." She added, "The muck shows no signs of compression, but we've had eight tides since the murder, and that may have erased any marks in the mud."
I nodded. "Boy, this is not like a Manhattan homicide. I mean, bulrushes, wetlands, muck, tides, big deep bays with bullets at the bottom. This is like Sergeant Preston of the Yukon."
"You see what I mean? You're a total wiseass."
"Sorry -
"Okay, I spoke to Max on the phone, and he's very annoyed at you for putting Fredric Tobin through the wringer."
"Fuck Max."
She said, "I have smoothed things over for you with Max."
"Thank you so much."
She asked me, "Did you learn anything from Fredric Tobin?"
"Did I ever. Leaf spread. Maceration of the skins with the juice in the barrels. What else…?"
"Should I interview him?"
I thought a moment, then replied, "Yes, you should."
"Are you going to give me any clues about why I should interview him?"
"I will. But not right now. You should, however, forget drugs, bugs, vaccines, and anything to do with the Gordons' work."
She stayed silent for a really long time as we walked. Finally, she asked, "Are you certain?"
"I kid you not." Get it?
"Then what is the motive? Tell me."
"I think I'm getting your goat a little." Get it?
She looked at me, sort of funny, then asked, "Romance? Sex? Jealousy?"
"Nope."
"The Wiley land?"
"That's part of it."
She seemed deep in thought.
We were back at my uncle's property now, and we stopped near the dock. We sort of faced one another, both of us with our hands in our jacket pockets. I was trying to figure out how I felt about this woman in light of Emma, and Beth was trying to figure out who killed the Gordons. It occurred to me that maybe after the case was solved, then we'd all have to resolve how we felt, and who we felt it for.
Beth said, "Pick a rock and give it your best shot."
"Is this a contest?"
"Of course."
"What's the prize?"
"Don't worry about it. You're not going to win."
"Well, aren't we a little overconfident?" I found a really great skimmer — round, flat on the bottom, and concave on the top — a perfect airfoil. I wound up like it was the final pitch of a three and two count and let loose. The rock hit, skipped, hit, skipped, hit, skipped, hit, skipped, and sank. Wow. "Four," I said, just in case she wasn't counting.
She'd already found her skimmer — round, a little bigger than mine, and concave on both sides. That's another theory. She took off her jacket and handed it to me. She hefted the stone in her hand like she was considering braining me with it, then, probably psyched up at the mental image of my head bobbing out there on the water, she let loose.
The stone hit and skipped four times and would have sunk, but it caught a small ripple wave and went airborne one more time before disappearing.
Beth wiped her hands and took her jacket from me.
"Very good," I said.
"You lose," she said. She put her jacket back on and said, "Tell me what you know."
"You're such a great detective, I'll just give you the clues, and you can figure it out. Okay, listen up — the rented house on the water with the speedboat, the acre of Wiley land, the Peconic Historical Society, the history of Plum Island and surrounding islands, the lost week in England… what else… the numbers 44106818… what else?"
"Paul Stevens?"
"Possibly."
"Fredric Tobin?"
"Possibly."
"How does he fit? Suspect? Witness?"
"Well, Mr. Tobin and his winery may be dead broke. Or so I heard. So he may be a desperate man. And desperate men do desperate things."
Beth replied, "I'll check out his financials. Meanwhile, thanks for the great clues."
I replied, "It's all there, kid. Look for a common denominator, a thread that runs through those clues."
She didn't like this game and said, "I have to go. I'll tell Max you solved the case, and he should give you a call." She started back across the lawn toward the house. I followed.
Back in the kitchen, she began gathering her papers.
"By the way," I asked, "what do those two signal flags mean?"
She continued packing her briefcase and said, "The flags are the letters B and V. In the phonetic alphabet, they are Bravo Victor." She looked at me.
I asked, "How about the other meaning? The word meaning?"
"The Bravo flag also means dangerous cargo. The Victor flag means require assistance."
"So, the two flags could mean dangerous cargo, require assistance."
She replied, "Yes, which would make sense if the Gordons were carrying dangerous micro-organisms. Or even illegal drugs. This could have been a signal to their partner. But you say this has nothing to do with bugs or drugs."
"That's what I say."
She informed me, "According to a guy in my office who's a sailor, a lot of people on land run up pennants as nothing more than a decoration or a joke. You couldn't do that on the water, but on the land, no one takes it seriously."
"True enough. That's what the Gordons often did." But this time… dangerous cargo, need assistance… I said, "Go with the assumption it was a signal to someone." I added, "It's a terrific signal. No telephone record, no cell phone, just an old-fashioned flag signal. Probably pre-arranged. The Gordons are saying, 'We got the goods on board, come help us unload this stuff"
"What stuff?"
"Ah. That is the question."
She looked at me and said, "If you have information or evidence that you're holding back — and I suppose you do — then you may have a legal problem, Detective."
"Now, now. No threats."
"John, I'm investigating a double murder. They were your friends, and this is not a game — "
"Hold on. I don't need a lecture. I was sitting on my back porch minding my own business when Max comes calling with his hat in his hand. By the same time the next evening, I'm standing in an empty parking lot at the ferry after a day in biocontainment with my thumb up my nose. And now — "
"You hold on. I've treated you very well — "
"Oh, come on. You took a two-day walk on me — "
"I was working. What were you doing?"
And so on. After about two minutes of this, I said, "Truce. This is not productive."
She got herself under control and said, "I'm sorry."
"You should be." I added, "I'm also sorry."
And so we made up, without kissing.
She said, "I'm not pressing you for what you know, but you did indicate that after I told you about what I knew, you'd do the same."
"I will. But not this morning."
"Why not?"
"Speak to Max first. It would be much better if you just briefed him from your notes and not from my theories."
She thought about that and nodded, "Okay. When can I hear your theories?"
"I just need a little more time. Meanwhile, think about those clues I gave you and see if you come up with what I came up with."
She didn't reply.
I added, "What I will promise you is that if I get it all together, I'll hand it to you on a silver platter."
"That's very generous of you. What would you like in return?"
"Nothing. You need the career boost. I'm at the top of my career."
"You're actually in trouble and solving this case won't get you out of it — it'll get you further into it."
"Whatever."
She looked at her watch and said, "I have to meet Max."
"I'll walk you to your car."
We walked outside, and she got into her car. She said, "I'll see you tomorrow night at the Tobin party, if not sooner."
"Right. You can be Max's date." I smiled. "Thanks for stopping by."
She drove around the circle, but instead of heading down the driveway, she came tearing around again to the front door, jammed on her brakes, and said, almost breathlessly, "John! You said the Gordons were digging for buried treasure. Like an important archaeological find — on Plum Island — government land — they had to steal it from Plum Island and bury it on their own land — the Wiley property. Right?"
I smiled and gave her a thumbs-up, then turned and went inside.
The phone was ringing, and I answered it. It was Beth. She asked, "What did they dig up?"
"The phone is not secure."
"John, when can I meet you? Where?"
She sounded excited, as well she should.
I said, "I'll get in touch with you."
"Promise."
"Sure. Meanwhile, you'd be well advised to keep that to yourself."
"I understand."
"Bye — "
"John."
"Yes?"
"Thanks."
I hung up. "You're welcome."
I went out the back kitchen door and walked out to the end of the dock. I've found that this is a good place to think.
A morning mist hung over the water, and I saw a small skiff making its way through the gray vapor. A cabin cruiser was going to cross its path, and the man in the skiff picked something up, then I heard a loud horn, a foghorn, and I recalled seeing these aerosol cans that emitted a foghorn sound, a sort of poor man's version of an electric foghorn or a brass bell. It was a common enough sound on the water, so much so that you'd never notice it, probably not even if you heard it on a clear sunny day because I recalled the big boats also used it to signal for a tender to pick up the crew after they moored in the deep water. And if you heard it close by, you might not hear the sound of two gunshots in quick succession. A poor man's silencer. Very clever, actually.
It was, indeed, all coming together now, even the tiny details. I was satisfied that I had the motive for murder — Captain Kidd's treasure. But I couldn't quite connect Tobin, Stevens, or anybody else to the murders. In fact, in my more paranoid moments, I thought that Max and Emma could also be in on it.
Given the milieu out here, it really could be a wide-ranging conspiracy. But who actually pulled the trigger? I tried to picture Max, Emma, Tobin, and Stevens, and maybe even Zollner, all on the back deck of the Gordons' house… Or maybe someone else, someone I hadn't even met or thought about. You have to be very careful and damned sure before you start calling someone a murderer.
What I also needed to do — not because I gave a damn about it, but everyone else would — was to find the treasure. Little Johnny goes treasure hunting. But he must outwit some evil pirates and get the treasure and turn it over to the government. Now there's a depressing thought.
I wondered if a few million in gold and jewels would make me happy. Saint-seducing gold. Before I got too deep into that one, I thought about all the people who'd died because of that gold — presumably the men whose ship it was on when Kidd attacked them then some of Kidd's own men, then Kidd himself when they hanged him at the execution dock, then who knew how many men and women died or were ruined over the last three centuries looking for Captain Kidd's fabled treasure. Then, finally, Tom and Judy Gordon. I had an uneasy premonition that the chain of death wasn't going to stop there.