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?"