Mr. Tobin smiled. "That's very amusing. Actually, I enjoy a good, cold beer on a hot day." He leaned toward me conspiratorially and said, "Don't tell anyone."
"Your secret is safe with me. Hey, this goes on forever. How many acres do you have here?"
"Here I have two hundred acres. I have another two hundred scattered around."
"Wow. That's big. Do you lease land?"
"Some."
"Do you lease land from Margaret Wiley?"
He didn't reply immediately, and if I'd been facing him across a table, I could have seen his expression the moment I said, "Margaret Wiley." But the hesitation was interesting enough.
Finally, Mr. Tobin replied, "I believe we do. Yes, we do. About fifty acres. Why do you ask?"
"I know she leases land to the vintners. She's an old friend of my aunt and uncle. It's a small world. Small fork." I changed the subject and asked, "So, are you the biggest grape on the fork?"
"Tobin is the biggest vineyard on the North Fork, if that's what you mean."
"How'd you manage that?"
"Hard work, a good knowledge of viniculture, perseverance, and a superior product." He added, "And good luck. What frightens us here is hurricanes. Late August to early October. One year the harvest was very late. About mid-October. No fewer than six hurricanes came up from the Caribbean. But every one of them turned off in another direction. Bacchus was watching over us." He added, "That's the god of wine."
"And a hell of a composer."
"That's Bach."
"Right."
"By the way, we have concerts here and sometimes operas. I can put you on our mailing list, if you'd like."
We found ourselves heading back into the big shingled complex. I said, "That would be great. Wine, opera, good company. I'll send you my card. I'm out at the moment."
As we approached the winery, I looked around and said, "I don't see your house."
"I don't actually live here. I do have an apartment on the top of that tower, but my house is south of here."
"On the water?"
"Yes."
"Do you boat?"
"A little."
"Motor or sail?"
"Motor."
"And the Gordons were guests in your house?"
"Yes. A few times."
"They arrived by boat, I guess."
"I believe they did once or twice."
"And did you ever visit them in your boat?"
"No."
I was going to ask him if he owned a white Formula, but sometimes it's a good idea not to ask a question about something you can discover another way. Questions tend to tip people off, to spook them. Fredric Tobin, as I said, was not a murder suspect, but I had the impression he was hiding something.
Mr. Tobin showed me in through the entrance that we'd come out of. He said, "If I can be of any further help, please let me know."
"Okay… hey, I have a date tonight, and I'd like to get a bottle of wine."
"Try our Merlot. The '95 is incomparable. But a little pricey."
"Why don't you show me? I have a few more things to cover anyway."
He hesitated a moment, then led me into the gift shop, which was attached to a spacious wine-tasting room. It was a very handsome room with a thirty-foot-long oak tasting bar, a half dozen booths to one side, boxes and racks of wine all over the place, stained glass windows, a quarry tile floor, and so on. About a dozen wine lovers meandered around the room, commenting on the labels or slurping up freebies at the wine bar, making stupid talk with the young men and women who were pouring and trying to smile.
Mr. Tobin said hello to one of the pourers, Sara, by name, an attractive young lady in her mid-twenties. I assumed that Fredric picked the furniture himself, and he had a good eye for clean-cut pretties. The boss said, "Sara, pour Mr…"
"John."
"Pour John some of the '95 Merlot."
And she did, with a steady hand into a small glass.
I swirled the stuff around to show I was into this. I sniffed it and said, "Nice bouquet." I held it up to the light and said, "Good color. Purple."
"And nice fingers."
"Where?"
"The way it clings to the glass."
"Right." I sipped a little. I mean, it's okay. It's an acquired taste. It's actually not bad with a steak. I said, "Fruity and friendly."
Mr. Tobin nodded enthusiastically. "Yes. And forward."
"Very forward." Forward? I said, "This is a bit heavier and more robust than a Napa Merlot."
"Actually, it's a bit lighter."
"That's what I meant." I should have quit while I was ahead. "Good." I put the glass down.
Mr. Tobin said to Sara, "Pour the '95 Cabernet."
"That's all right."
"I want you to see the difference."
She poured. I sipped and said, "Good. Less forward."
We chitchatted a bit, and Mr. Tobin insisted I try a white.
He said, "This is my blend of Chardonnay and other whites which I won't reveal. It has a beautiful color, and we call it Autumn Gold."
I sampled the wine. "Friendly, but not too forward."
He didn't reply.
I said, "Did you ever think of calling one of your wines the Grapes of Wrath?"
"I'll take that up with my marketing people."
I commented, "Nice labels."
Mr. Tobin informed me, "All my reds have labels with a piece of Pollock art, and my whites are de Kooning."
"Is that so?"
"You know — Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning. They both lived on Long Island and created some of their best works here."
"Oh, the painters. Right. Pollock is the splatter guy."
Mr. Tobin didn't reply, but glanced at his watch, clearly tired of my company. I looked around and spotted an empty booth, away from the wine pourers and customers. I said, "Let's sit over there a minute."
Mr. Tobin followed reluctantly and sat opposite me in the booth. I sipped at the Cabernet and said to him, "Just a few more routine questions. How long did you know the Gordons?"
"Oh… about a year and a half."
"Did they ever discuss their work with you?"
"No."
"You said they liked to tell Plum Island stories."
"Oh, yes. In a general way. They never gave away government secrets." He smiled.
"That's good. Did you know they were amateur archaeologists?"
"I… yes, I did."
"Did you know they belonged to the Peconic Historical Society?"
"Yes. In fact, that's how we met."
"Everyone seems to belong to the Peconic Historical Society."
"There are about five hundred members. That's not everyone."
"But everyone I come across seems to belong. Is this like a front for something else? Like a witches' coven or something?" Not as far as I know. That could be fun, though."
We both smiled. He seemed to mull something over; I can tell when a man is mulling, and I never interrupt a muller. Finally, he said, As a matter of fact, the Peconic Historical Society is having a party Saturday night. I am hosting it on my back lawn. Last outdoor party or the season, weather permitting. Why don't you and a guest join us?"
I guess he had room for two more now that the Gordons couldn't make it. I replied, "Thanks. I'll try." Actually, I wouldn't miss it.
He said, "Chief Maxwell may be there. He has all the particulars."
"Great. Can I bring something? Wine?"
He smiled politely. "Just bring yourself."
"And a guest," I reminded him.
"Yes, and a guest."
I asked Mr. Tobin, "Did you ever hear anything… any gossip about the Gordons?"
"Such as?"
"Well, sexual, for instance."
"Not a word."
"Financial problems?"
"I wouldn't know."
And round and round we went for another ten minutes. Sometimes you catch a person in a lie, sometimes you don't. Any he, no matter how small, is significant. I didn't exactly catch Mr. Tobin in any lies, but I was fairly certain he knew the Gordons more intimately than he was letting on. In and of itself, this was not significant. I asked Mr. Tobin, "Can you name any of the Gordons' friends?"