Beth said, "John?"
"In here."
Beth came into the kitchen. I said, "I thought you were leaving."
"The Southold police arrived on a phone call from a watchman. I told them it was under control."
"Thanks."
She looked out at the living room and said, "This place is wrecked."
"Hurricane John."
"Feel better?"
"No."
"What do you have there?"
"A treasure map. It was in plain view, in this gold frame."
She looked at it. "Plum Island?"
"No. The Plum Island map or whatever led them to the treasure is long destroyed. This is a map of Founders Landing and what is now Tobin's property."
She said, "And?"
"Well, I'm sure it's a forgery. In my archival studies, I learned that you can buy authentic blank parchment from any time period in the last few centuries. Then, there are people in the city who will mix a little lamp carbon and oil or whatever, and write anything you ask them to write."
She nodded. "So, Tobin had this map made showing that there was treasure buried on his property."
"Yes. If you look hard, you can see that the writing seems to give directions. And if you look real hard… see that X?'
She held the parchment up and said, "I see it." She put it down and said, "He never intended to have the Gordons bury the treasure on the bluff."
"No. He intended to get the treasure from them, kill them, and bury it on his property."
"So, is the treasure now buried on Tobin's property?"
"Let's go find out."
"Another burglary?"
"Worse. If I find him home, I'm going to break his legs with this ax, then threaten to really hurt him if he doesn't talk." I added, "I can drop you off somewhere."
"I'll come along. You need taking care of, and I have to look for Grandma's locket on the lawn."
I put the parchment in my shirt under the poncho and grabbed the fire ax. On my way to the staircase, I flung a table lamp through one of the tall, arched windows. A gust of wind blew in through the shattered glass, whipping some magazines off the coffee table. "Sixty-five knots yet?"
"Getting there."
CHAPTER 32
The ride from Tobin Vineyards to Founders Landing, usually about twenty minutes, took an hour because of the storm. The roads were strewn with branches and the rain was so hard on the windshield, I had to crawl along with my headlights on, though it was only five p.m. Every once in a while, a gust of wind blew the Jeep off course.
Beth turned on the radio, and the weather guy said the storm had not been upgraded to a hurricane, but it was close. Jasper was still tracking north at fifteen miles per hour, and the edge of the storm was about sixty miles from the Long Island coast. The storm was picking up lots of moisture and strength over the open Atlantic. I commented, "These guys try to scare everyone."
"My father said the hurricane of September 1938 totally destroyed large areas of Long Island."
"My father told me about that one. Old people tend to exaggerate."
She changed the subject and said, "If Tobin is home, I'm going to handle it."
"Fine."
"I mean it. You'll play this my way, John. We're not going to do anything to compromise this case." "We already did. And don't worry about perfecting a case."
She didn't respond. I tried to call my answering machine, but the phone kept ringing. I said, "The power's out in my house."
"Probably out all over by now."
"This is awesome. I think I like hurricanes."
"Tropical storm."
"Right. Those, too."
It occurred to me that I wasn't going to get back to Manhattan tonight, and therefore I wasn't going to make my mandatory meeting, and thus, I was in deep doo-doo on the job. I realized I didn't care.
I thought again of Emma, and it occurred to me that had she lived, my life would have gotten happier. For all my waffling about town or country living, I'd actually pictured myself here with Emma Whitestone, fishing, swimming, collecting chamber pots, or whatever people did out here. It occurred to me, too, that all my North Fork connections were now ended-Aunt June was dead, Uncle Harry was selling his place, Max and I would never repair whatever relationship we'd once had, the Gordons were dead, and now Emma was gone, too. Add to this, things didn't look too good in Manhattan either. I glanced at Beth Penrose.
She sensed my glance and looked back at me. Our eyes met and she said, "The sky is very beautiful after a storm passes."
I nodded. "Thanks."
The area around Founders Landing had a lot of old-growth trees, and unfortunately, big pieces of them were on the road and lawns. It took another fifteen minutes of weaving around to get to the Tobin property.
The wrought iron gates were shut, and Beth said, "I'll get out and see if they're locked," but in the interest of time, I drove through them.
Beth said, "Why don't you see if you can get your adrenaline level down?"
"I'm trying."
As we moved up the long drive, I could see that the lawn where we'd had our party not so long ago was now covered with broken limbs, garbage cans, lawn furniture, and all sorts of debris.
The bay at the end of the lawn was wild, big waves breaking past the stone beach and onto the grass itself. Tobin's dock was holding up all right, but the boathouse had a lot of missing shingles. I said, "That's funny."
"What?"
"The Chris-Craft is missing."
Beth said, "Well, it must be in dry dock somewhere. No one would go out on the water on a night like this."
"Right."
I didn't see any cars in the driveway and the house was completely dark. I drove to the two-car garage, which was a separate building to the side and rear of the house. I veered right and drove the Jeep into the garage door, which crashed down in sections. I peered out the windshield and saw the white Porsche in front of me with a section of the garage door on top of it and a Ford Bronco on the other side of the garage. I said to Beth, "Two cars here-maybe the bastard's home."
"Let me handle him."
"Of course." I whipped the Jeep around and drove toward the rear of the house, across the back lawn to the patio where I stopped among some wind-scattered lawn furniture.
I got out, carrying the fire ax, and Beth rang the doorbell. We stood under the door canopy, but no one answered, so I opened the door with the ax. Beth said, "John, for God's sake, calm down."
We entered the kitchen. The electricity was off, and it was dark and quiet. I said to Beth, "Cover this door."
I went into the center hall and called up the stairs, "Mr. Tobin!" No one answered. "Are you home, Fredric? Hey, buddy!" I'm going to chop your fucking head off.
I heard a creak on the floor overhead, and I dropped the ax, drew my.38, and charged up the stairs, taking them four at a time. I swung around the newel post and headed for the area where I'd heard the creak. I shouted, "Hands up! Police! Police!"
I heard a noise in one of the bedrooms, and I charged in just in time to see the closet door close. I pulled it open, and a woman screamed. And screamed again. She was about fifty, probably the housekeeper. I said, "Where is Mr. Tobin?"
She covered her face with her hands.
"Where is Mr. Tobin?"
Beth was in the bedroom now, and she brushed past me and took the woman's arm. She said, "Everything is okay. We're the police." She led the woman out of the closet and sat her on the bed.
After a minute of nice talk, we learned that the woman's name was Eva, that her English was not good, and that Mr. Tobin was not home.
Beth said to her, "His cars are in the garage."
"He come home, then he go."
"Go where?" Beth asked.
"He take the boat."
"The boat?"