"Tell you what. I'll call you back in ten or fifteen minutes. I'm in my car, and I have to stop and get a gift for my mother. It's her birthday. Hey, I'll bet you have a gift shop in the museum."
"We do."
"Great. By the way, I spoke to my Uncle Harry and gave him your regards."
"Thank you."
"He said to say hello to you, and he'd like to call you when he gets out here." I didn't mention Uncle Harry's dead dick.
"That would be nice."
"Terrific. Okay, I'd really appreciate it if Mrs. Whitestone or any of the other officers of the society could meet me this morning."
"I'll do what I can. I may have to come myself."
"Don't put yourself out. And thanks for your help yesterday."
"Don't mention it."
I almost didn't. "Fifteen minutes. Call around."
"Is your friend with you today?"
"My partner?"
"Yes, the young lady."
"She'll be along shortly."
"She's a delightful woman. I enjoyed speaking to her."
"We're going to get married."
"How unfortunate." She hung up.
Oh, well. I threw the vehicle into gear, and the female voice was back, telling me, "Release emergency brake," which I did. I messed around with the computer awhile, trying to delete this option, expecting the voice to say, "Why are you trying to kill me? Don't you like me? I'm only trying to help you."
What if the doors locked and the gas pedal went down to the floor? I threw the owner's manual in the glove compartment.
I turned south on the delightfully named Skunk Lane, then across the causeway to Nassau Point again.
I drove to the Gordons' street and noticed Max's white Jeep out front of the crime scene. I pulled into the Murphys' driveway, out of sight of the Gordons' house.
I went directly to the rear of the Murphys' house and saw them in the TV room, known also as the Florida room, a jalousied extension to the original building. The TV was going, and I rapped on the screen door.
Edgar Murphy stood, saw me, and opened the door. "Back again?"
"Yes, sir. I just need a minute of your time."
He motioned me inside. Mrs. Murphy stood and gave me a lukewarm hello. The TV stayed on. For a half second, I was at my parents' house in Florida -same room, same TV show, same people, really. Anyway, I said to them, "Describe the white sports car you saw next door in June."
They both gave it a go, but their descriptive powers were limited. Finally, I took a pen out of my pocket, picked up a newspaper, and asked them to draw an outline of the car, but they said they couldn't. I drew an outline of a Porsche for them. You're not supposed to lead a witness like this, but what the hell. They both nodded. Mr. Murphy said, "Yup, that's it. Big fat car. Like a turned-over washtub." Mrs. Murphy agreed.
I took the Tobin Vineyards brochure from my pocket and folded it so as to show only a small black and white photo of Fredric Tobin, proprietor. I didn't let them see the whole brochure because they would have told everybody that the police thought Fredric Tobin murdered the Gordons.
The Murphys studied the photo. Again, this is really leading the witness, showing only one photo without mixing it up with others, but I had no time or patience for procedure. I did not, however, say, "Is this the man you saw in the sports car?"
Mrs. Murphy, however, did say, "That's the man I saw in the sports car."
Mr. Murphy agreed. He asked me, "Is that a suspect?"
"No, sir. Okay, sorry to bother you again." I asked, "Did anyone try to question you about this case?"
"Nope."
"Remember, don't talk to anyone except Chief Maxwell, me, and Detective Penrose."
Mr. Murphy asked, "Where is she?" 'Detective Penrose? She's home with morning sickness."
"Pregnant?" asked Agnes."
"About a month," I replied. "Okay-"
"I didn't see a wedding ring," observed Agnes.
"You know how these young girls are." I shook my head sadly then said, "Okay, thanks again." I exited quickly, got back into my Jeep, and drove off.
Apparently Mr. Fredric Tobin had been at the Gordons' on at least one occasion. Yet, he didn't seem to recall his June visit. But maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it was another brown-bearded man in a white Porsche.
Maybe I should find out why Mr. Tobin lied.
I tried my answering machine again, and there were two new calls. The first was Max, who said, "John, this is Chief Maxwell. Maybe I didn't make myself clear about your status. You're no longer working for the township. Okay? I got a call from Fredric Tobin's attorneys, and they're not happy people. Understand? I don't know exactly what you and Mr. Tobin discussed, but I think that's the last official conversation you should have with him. Call me."
Interesting. All I'm trying to do is help, and I'm getting home-towned by the local old boys.
The next call was from my ex, whose name is Robin Paine, which fits her, and who also happens to be an attorney. She said, "Hello, John, this is Robin. I want to remind you that our one-year separation ends on October first, at which time we are legally divorced. You'll get a copy of the decree in the mail. There's nothing for you to sign or do. It's automatic." She put a light tone in her voice and said, "Well, you can't commit adultery after October first unless you remarry. But don't get married before you get your decree or it's bigamy. Saw you on the news. Sounds like a fascinating case. Be well."
Right. Robin, by the way, was a Manhattan assistant district attorney once, which is how I met her. We were on the same side. She switched sides and took a high-paying job with a big-name defense attorney who liked her style in court. He may have liked more than her style, but aside from that, our marriage became a conflict of interest. I mean, I'm trying to put scumbags in the slammer, and the woman I'm sleeping with is trying to keep them in business. The last straw was when she took the case of a high-level drug guy who, aside from his American problems, was wanted in Colombia for icing a judge. I mean, Jeez, lady, I know somebody has to do it, and the money is terrific, but I was feeling matrimonially challenged. So I told her, "It's me or your job," to which she replied, "Maybe you should change your job" and she meant it-her firm needed a private investigator and she wanted me to take the job. I pictured doing PI work for her and her idiot boss. Maybe getting their coffee between cases. Right. Divorce, please.
Aside from these little career conflicts, we were actually in love once. Anyway, October first. Then she is officially ex, and I lose the opportunity to be an adulterer or a bigamist. Life just isn't fair sometimes.
Over the causeway and onto Main Road, heading back toward the hamlet of Cutchogue. I called Margaret Wiley.
She said, "I reached Emma at her florist shop, and she's on her way to the Peconic Historical Society house."
"That's very nice of her to give up her time."
"I told her it concerned the Gordon murders."
"Well, I'm not sure it does, Mrs. Wiley. I was just curious about-"
"You can discuss that with her. She's waiting for you."
"Thank you." I think she hung up before I did.
Anyway, I drove back to the Peconic Historical Society house and parked in the small lot beside a van marked "Whitestone Florist."
I went to the front door, and there was a yellow Post-it near the knocker that said, "Mr. Corey, please let yourself in."
So, I did.
The house, as I said, was large, circa about 1850s, typical of the home of a rich merchant or sea captain. The foyer was big, and to the left was a large sitting room, to the right was the dining room. The place was all antiques, of course, mostly junk if you want my opinion, but probably worth a bunch of buckos. I didn't see or hear anyone in the house, so I wandered about from room to room. It wasn't actually a museum in the sense of exhibits; it was just a decorated period house. I couldn't see anything sinister about the place, no paintings of burning churches on the walls, no black candles, no needlepoint pentagrams or black cats, and the kitchen had no bubbling witch's cauldron.