She sort of interrupted by asking me, "Do you like it out here?"
"I think so. I mean, it's nice, but I'm not sure I fit."
She informed me, "There are a lot of eccentrics out here."
"I'm not eccentric. I'm nuts."
"There are a lot of those, too." She added, "This is no rural backwater. I know farmers with Ivy League degrees, I know astronomers from the Custer Institute, and there are the vintners who studied in France, and the scientists from Plum Island and Brookhaven labs, plus academics from Stony Brook University, artists, poets, writers, and-"
"Archivists."
"Yes. I get annoyed when people from the city think we're hicks."
"I certainly don't think that."
"I lived in Manhattan for nine years. I got tired of the city. I missed my home."
"I sensed a certain city sophistication about you, coupled with a country charm. You're in the right place."
"Thank you."
I think I passed one of the more important tests on my way to the sack.
We were driving through farm and wine country now, and she said, "The autumn is long and lazy here. The orchards are still heavy with fruit and many of the vegetables haven't been picked yet. It can be snowing in New England around Thanksgiving, and we're still harvesting here." She asked me, "Am I rambling on?"
"No, not at all. You're painting a beautiful word picture."
"Thank you."I was now on the first landing of the staircase leading to the bedroom.
Basically, we both kept it light and airy, the way people do who are really sort of edgy because they know they might be headed for the sheets.
Anyway, we pulled up the long driveway to the big Victorian, and Emma said, "A big painted lady."
"Where?"
"The house. That's what we call the old Victorians."
"Oh. Right. By the way, my aunt used to belong to the Peconic Historical Society. June Bonner."
"Sounds familiar."
"She knew Margaret Wiley." I added, "Actually, my aunt was born here, which is why she talked Uncle Harry into this summer place."
"What was her maiden name?"
"I'm not sure-maybe Witherspoonhamptonshire."
"Are you making fun of my name?"
"No, ma'am."
"Find out your aunt's maiden name."
"Okay." I stopped in front of the painted lady.
She said, "If it's an old family, I can look it up. We have a lot of information on the old families."
"Yeah? Lots of skeletons in the closets?"
"Sometimes."
"Maybe Aunt June's family were horse thieves and whores."
"Could be. There are a lot of those in my family tree."
I chuckled.
She said, "Could be that her family and mine are related. You and I could be related by marriage."
"Could be." I was at the top of the stairs now, the bedroom door was about ten feet away. Actually, I was still in the Jeep. I said, "Here we are," and got out.
She got out, too, and looked at the house. She said, "And this is her house?"
"Was. She's deceased. My Uncle Harry wants me to buy it."
"It's too big for one person."
"I can cut it in half." Okay, into the house, tour of the ground floor, check my answering machine in the den-no messages-into the kitchen for two beers and out onto the back porch and into two wicker chairs.
She said, "I love watching the water."
"This is a good place to do it. I've been sitting here for a few months."
"When do you have to go back to work?"
"I'm not sure. I'm scheduled to see the doc next Thursday."
"How did you get involved in this case?"
"Chief Maxwell."
She said, "I don't see your boat."
I looked out at the rickety dock. "Oh, it must have sunk."
"Sunk?"
"Oh, I remember. It's in for repairs."
"What do you have?"
"A… twenty-four foot… Boston Whaler…?"
"Do you sail?"
"You mean like a sailboat?"
"Yes. A sailboat."
"No. I'm into powerboats. Do you sail?"
"A little."
And so forth.
I'd taken off my jacket and docksiders and rolled up my sleeves. She'd slipped off the thongs, and we both had our bare feet on the rail. Her little beige number had slipped north of the knees.
I got my binoculars, and we took turns looking out at the bay, the boats, the wetlands-which used to be called a swamp when I was a kid-the sky, and all that.
I was up to beer five, and she was going one for one with me. I like a woman who can pound down the suds. She was a little lit by now, but still had a clear head and voice.
She had the binoculars in one hand, and a Bud in the other. She said, "This is a major meeting point on the Atlantic Coastal Flyway, a sort of rest stop for migratory birds." She looked through the binoculars at the distant sky and continued, "I can see flights of Canada geese, long skeins of loons, and a ripply line of old-squaws. They'll all stay around until November, then continue on south. The osprey winds up in South America."
"That's good."
She rested the binoculars in her lap and stared out to sea. She said, "On stormy days, when the wind blows hard out of the northeast, the sky turns silvery gray and the birds act strange. There's a feeling of eerie isolation, an ominous beauty that has to be felt and heard as much as seen."
We stayed silent for a while, then I said, "Would you like to see the rest of the house?"
"Sure."
My first stop on the tour of the second floor was my bedroom, and we didn't get much farther.
It actually took three seconds for her to get out of her things. She had a really beautiful all-over tan, a firm body, everything exactly where it belonged, and exactly as I'd pictured it.
I was still unbuttoning my shirt by the time she was naked. She watched me getting undressed and stared at my ankle holster and revolver.
A lot of women aren't into armed men as I've learned, so I said, "I have to wear this by law," which was true in New York City but not necessarily out here.
She replied, "Fredric carries a gun."
Interesting.
Anyway, I was in the altogether now, and she came up to me and touched my chest. "Is that a burn?"
"No, a bullet hole." I turned around. "See? That's the exit wound."
"My God."
"Just a flesh wound. Here, look at this one." I showed her the entry wound in my lower abdomen, then turned again and showed her the exit on my rump. The grazing wound on my left calf was less interesting.
She said, "You could have been killed."
I shrugged. Aw shucks, ma'am.
Anyway, I was glad the cleaning lady had changed the sheets, glad I had condoms in the night table, and glad Willie Peter responded to Emma Whitestone. I turned the phone ringer off.
I knelt down at the side of my bed to say my prayers, and Emma got into the bed and wrapped her long, long legs around my neck.
Anyway, without going into details, we hit it off pretty well and fell asleep, wrapped in each other's arms. She felt good and didn't snore.
When I awoke, the sunlight was fading from the window, and Emma was sleeping on her side, sort of curled into a ball. I had a sense that I should be doing something more constructive than having afternoon sex. But what? I was being effectively sandbagged, and unless Max or Beth shared things with me like forensics, autopsies, and such, I had to proceed without any of the modern technical advantages of police science. I needed phone records, I needed the fingerprint reports, I needed more Plum Island stuff, and I needed access to the crime scene. But I didn't think I was going to get any of that.
So, I had to fall back on gumshoeing, phone calls, face time with people who might know something. I'd decided to stick this out no matter who didn't like the idea.