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."
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."