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 sons 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'tsee 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 toidytoid 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 ram, 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,