I said, "I thought that was the Autumn Gold."
"The make of the boat is a Chris-Craft."
He was speaking to me with a tiny tone of irritation in his tiny voice which I did not like. I said, "Well, this little guy here is more in my price range." I smiled disarmingly. I do that before I fuck somebody big-time. I said, "When I saw the Formula 303, I thought the Gordons had returned from the dead."
He did not like that at all.
I added, "But then I saw it wasn't the Spirochete — it's called the Sondra, which is appropriate. You know — fast, sleek, and hot." I love pissing off assholes.
Mr. Tobin said coolly, "The party is on the lawn, Mr. Corey."
"I noticed." I climbed up to the dock and said, "This is some place you have here."
"Thank you."
In addition to the fruity hat, Mr. T was wearing white ducks, a blue double-breasted blazer, and an outrageous scarlet ascot. My goodness. I said, "I like your hat."
He said, "Let me introduce you to some of my guests."
"That would be terrific."
And off we went, out of the boathouse and along the dock. I asked him, "How far is the Gordon dock from here?"
"I have no idea."
"Take a guess."
"Maybe eight miles. Why?"
"More like ten," I said. "You have to go around Great Hog Neck. I checked my car map. About ten."
"What is your point?"
"No point. Just making seaside conversation."
We were back on the lawn now, and Mr. Tobin reminded me, "You will not question any of my guests about the Gordon murders. I've spoken to Chief Maxwell, and he has agreed to that, and he further reiterated that you have no official standing here."
"You have my word that I won't bother any of your guests with police questions about the Gordon murders."
"Or anything to do with the Gordons at all."
"I promise. But I need a beer."
Mr. Tobin looked around, saw a young lady with a tray of wine, and said to her, "Please go into the house and get this gentleman a beer. Pour it into a wineglass."
"Yes, sir." And off she went. Boy, it must be nice to be rich and to tell people, "I want this, and I want that."
Mr. Tobin said to me, "You're not a hat person." He excused himself and left me standing alone. I was afraid to move lest the serving girl with the beer not find me.
It was deep dusk now, and the colored party lights twinkled, the torches blazed, the candles glowed. A nice gentle land breeze blew the bugs out to sea. The band was playing "Stardust." The trumpet player was terrific. Life is good. I was glad I wasn't dead.
I watched Fredric work the party, person by person, couple by couple, group by group, laughing, joking, adjusting their hats, and putting plastic swords in the belts of ladies who had belts. Unlike the most famous Long Island party-giver, Jay Gatsby, Fredric Tobin did not watch his party from afar. Quite the opposite, he was right in there, mixing it up, being the most perfect host ever.
The man had some cool, I'll give him that. He was near broke, if I could believe Emma Whitestone, and he was a double murderer, if I could believe my instincts, not to mention what I'd just seen in the boathouse. And he must have known that I knew both his secrets, yet he was not ruffled. He was more concerned that I not fuck up his party than that I might fuck up his life. A very cool customer, indeed.
The serving girl returned with the wineglass of beer on a tray. I took the beer and commented, "I don't like wine."
She smiled. "Me neither. There's more beer in the refrigerator." She winked and moved off.
Sometimes I think I'm blessed with sex appeal, charisma, and animal magnetism. Other times, I think I must have bad breath and body odor. Tonight, I felt I was on, hot as a three dollar pistol; I tilted my hat rakishly, adjusted my sword, and began working the party.
It was mostly a young and early-middle-age crowd, not too many of the grandes dames and DAR types. I didn't see Margaret Wiley, for instance. It was mostly couples — the world is mostly couples — but there were a few strays who looked able to make conversation if neither of my one and only true loves showed up.
I noticed a woman in a white, sort of silky dress, wearing the required chapeau from which fell long blonde hair. I recognized her as Lord Freddie's little thing, who the Gordons had pointed out to me at the wine tasting. She was crossing the lawn, alone, so I set course and intercepted. "Good evening," I said.
She smiled. "Good evening."
"I'm John Corey."
The name obviously meant nothing to her, and she kept smiling. She said, "I'm Sondra Wells. A friend of Fredric Tobin."
"Yes, I know. We met in July at the vineyard. A wine tasting. I was with the Gordons."
Her smile dropped, and she said, "Oh, that was terrible."
"It certainly was."
"A tragedy."
"Yes. You were close to the Gordons?"
"Well…Freddie was. I liked them…but I don't know if they liked me."
"I'm sure they did. They always spoke highly of you." Actually, they never spoke of her at all.
She smiled again.
She spoke well and carried herself well as if she'd gone to school to learn how to do those things; it was all too practiced, and I could imagine Tobin sending her off someplace where she had to walk with a book on her head and recite Elizabeth Barrett Browning while sucking on a pencil.
I personally couldn't see why anyone would trade Emma Whitestone for Sondra Wells. Then again, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that. I said to Ms. Wells, "Do you like boating?"
"No, I don't. Fredric seems to enjoy it."
"I have a place on the water west of here. I love to boat."
"How nice."
"In fact, I'm sure I saw Mr. Tobin… let's see, last Monday, about cocktail time, I guess, in his little Whaler. I thought I saw you with him."
She thought a moment, then said, "Oh… Monday… I was in Manhattan all day. Fredric had a car and driver take me and the housekeeper to the city, and I spent the day shopping."
I saw her little brain working and a frown passed over her lips. She asked me, "You saw Fredric in the Whaler with a… another person?"
"Perhaps it wasn't him, or if it was, he may have been alone, or perhaps with a man…"
She frowned again.
I love to stir up the shit. Beyond that, I had now placed Ms. Wells and the housekeeper in Manhattan at the time of the murders. How convenient. I asked her, "Do you share Fredric's interests in local history and archaeology?"
She replied, "No, I don't. And I'm glad he's given it up. Of all the hobbies a man can have, why that one?"
"It might have had something to do with the Peconic Historical Society's archivist."
She gave me a very cool look, indeed, and would surely have walked away, except that Fredric himself popped up and said to Ms. Wells, "May I steal you a moment? The Fishers want to say hello." Fredric looked at me and said, "You'll excuse us?"
"I guess, unless the Fishers want to say hello to me, too."
Fredric gave me an unpleasant smile, Ms. Wells gave me a frown, and off they went, leaving their boorish guest to contemplate his gauche behavior.
About 8:30 I saw Max and Beth. Max also had on a pirate hat, and Beth had a sort of silly bonnet on her head. She was wearing white slacks and a blue and white striped boat top. She looked different. I walked over to them at the long buffet. Max was stuffing his face with a plate of pigs in the blanket, my very favorite. We exchanged greetings, and I stole one of his hot dogs.
Beth said, "Nice evening. Thank you for suggesting I come."
"You never know what you can learn by listening."
Max said to me, "Beth briefed me on the Suffolk PD's progress so far. She did a lot of work in the last four days."
I glanced at Beth to see if she'd said anything to Max about her visit to my house. Beth shook her head slightly.
Max said to me, "Thanks again for your help."
"No problem. Don't hesitate to call again."
Max said to me, "You never returned any of my phone calls."
"No, and I never will."