Anyway, attached to and behind the cute restaurant is a bigger catering hall, a nice place to have a wedding, christening, or bar mitzvah, according to the brochure that was signed by Fredric Tobin, proprietor.
I'd been to the hall for one of Mr. Tobin's wine-tasting soirees, back in July. The occasion was to celebrate some new releases, by which I guess he meant wine that was ready to sell and guzzle. I had been a guest of the Gordons, as I may have mentioned, and there were about two hundred people present, the cream of North Fork society — bankers, lawyers, doctors, judges, politicians, a few attendees from Manhattan who had summer places here, successful merchants and realtors, and so forth. Mixed in with the local crème were a smattering of artists, sculptors, and writers who, for various and sundry reasons, didn't do the Hampton scene across the bay. Probably many of them weren't financially successful enough to afford the Hamptons, though, of course, they'd tell you they were more artistically honest than their Hampton colleagues. Barf. Also, Max had been invited, but couldn't attend. According to Tom and Judy, they were the only Plum Island people there. Tom said, "Hosts and hostesses avoid Plum Island people like the plague." We both got a good chuckle out of that. Gosh, I missed Tom. And Judy, too. She was bright.
I recalled that on this occasion of tasting the juice of the grape, Tom introduced me to our host, Fredric Tobin, a single gentleman who at first glance appeared to be a man who wore comfortable shoes, if you get my meaning. Mr. Tobin was dressed in a foppish purple suit, a white silk shirt, and a tie that sported vines and grape clusters. Gag me with a spoon.
Mr. Tobin was polite, but a bit cool toward moi, which always annoys me when I'm in La-Di-Da gatherings. I mean, a homicide detective sort of crosses social lines, and the average host or hostess enjoys a detective or two around to spin a yarn. Everyone loves murder. But Fredric sort of blew me off before I could tell him my theory about wine.
I had mentioned to Tom and Judy that Monsieur didn't even have the courtesy to make a pass at me. Tom and Judy informed me that Freddie (as no one dared call him to his face) was in fact an enthusiastic heterosexual. Some people, according to Judy, mistook Fredric's charm and refined manners as a sign that he was gay or bi. That has never happened to me.
I discovered from the Gordons that the suave and debonair Mr. Tobin had studied viniculture in France and held some grape juice degrees and all that.
Tom had pointed out to me a young lady who was Mr. Tobin's current live-in. She was an absolute knockout — about twenty-five, tall, blonde, blue eyes, and built like she came out of a Jell-O mold. Oh, Freddie, you lucky dog. How could I have misjudged you?
So, that was my sole encounter with the Lord of the Bees. I could see why Tom and Judy had sought this fellow out — for one thing, the Gordons loved wine and Tobin made some of the best. But beyond that, there was a whole social matrix to the wine biz, such as that party, and private dinner parties, and outdoor concerts at the vineyards, extravagant picnics on the beach, and so forth. The Gordons seemed to buy into this whole thing, which surprised me, and though they weren't fawning over Fredric Tobin or sucking up to him, they certainly had little in common with him socially, financially, professionally, or otherwise. Point is, I found it a little out of character for Tom and Judy to be involved with a guy like Fredric. Regarding that name, there's a case of getting rid of an "e" while everyone else around here was trying to tack "e's" onto things. To be succinct, Fredric the Grape seemed like a pompous ass, and I liked the idea of popping his balloons a little. Also, he had a beard, and perhaps a white sports car.
I was now in the gift shop, poking around, trying to find something nice for my lost love, something like a corkscrew whose handle said, "I got screwed on the North Fork." Lacking that, I found a nice hand-painted ceramic tile showing an osprey perching on a pole. This is a very strange-looking bird, but I liked the tile because it had no wine motif.
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."