"Why?"
"They wouldn't be allowed to keep anything they found on Plum Island. It's government land. So they had to create a legend of their own. The legend of how Tom and Judy Gordon saw something in the archives-here or in London-that mentioned Captain Kidd's Trees, or Captain Kidd's Ledges, and, they would later claim, this got them to thinking about hunting for the treasure." I added, "In reality, they already knew the treasure was on Plum Island."
"Incredible."
"Yes, but you have to work the problem backwards. Start with an authentic map or written directions that pinpoint a treasure on Plum Island. Let's say you had this information in your possession. What would you, Emma Whitestone, do?"
She didn't think about it long before she said, "I'd simply turn the information over to the government. This is an important historical document, and the treasure, if any, is historically important. If it's located on Plum Island, then it should be found on Plum Island. To do otherwise is not only dishonest, it's also a historical hoax."
"History is full of lies, deceit, and hoaxes. That's how the treasure got there to begin with. Why not just pull off another hoax? Finders keepers. Right?"
"No. If the treasure is on anyone else's land-even the government's-then they own it. If I discovered its whereabouts, I would accept a reward."
I smiled.
She looked at me. "What would you do?"
"Well… in the spirit of Captain Kidd, I'd try to cut a deal. I wouldn't just turn the location over to the person whose land is represented on the map. It would be fair to trade the secret for a share. Even Uncle Sam will make a deal."
She thought about that and said, "I suppose." She added, "Only that's not what the Gordons did."
"No. The Gordons had a partner or partners who I believe was more larcenous than they were. And probably murderous, too. Really, we don't know what the Gordons were up to, or what they intended, because they wound up dead. We can assume they began with hard information about the location of a treasure on Plum Island, and everything we see them do after that is simply a deliberate and clever ruse-the Peconic Historical Society, the archaeological digs, the archive work, even the week in the Public Records Office in London-it's all in preparation for the transportation and reburial of the treasure from Uncle Sam land to Gordon land."
Emma nodded. "And that's why the Gordons bought that land from Mrs. Wiley-a place to rebury the treasure… Captain Kidd's Ledges."
"That's right. Does it make sense to you or am I crazy?"
"You're crazy, yet it makes sense."
I ignored this and continued, "If there's ten or twenty million bucks at stake, you do it right. You take your time, you cover your tracks before anyone even knows you're making tracks, you anticipate problems with historians, archaeologists, and the government. You're going to be not only rich, you're going to be famous, and you're going to be in the spotlight for better or worse. You're young, handsome, bright, and in the money. And you don't want any problems."
She stayed silent awhile, then said, "But something went wrong."
"It must have-they're dead."
Neither of us spoke for a while. I now had a lot of answers, and I still had a lot more questions. Some of them might never be answered, since Tom and Judy Gordon, like William Kidd, had taken some secrets to the grave with them.
Emma finally asked me, "Who do you think killed them?"
"Probably their partner or partners."
"I know… but who?"
"I don't know yet. Do you have any suspects in mind?"
She shook her head, but I think she had a suspect in mind.
I'd confided a lot of information to Emma Whitestone, who I really didn't know. But I have a good sense of who to trust. On the chance that I'd misjudged, that she was part of the plot, then it didn't matter because she knew all of this anyway. And if she went and told Fredric Tobin or someone else that I'd figured it out, so much the better. Fredric Tobin lived very high in the tower, and it would take a lot of smoke to reach him up there. And if someone else were involved that I didn't know about, then the smoke might reach him or her, too. There comes a time in an investigation where you just let it rip. Especially when time is running out.
I pondered my next question, then decided to go for broke. I said to her, "I understand that some people from the Peconic Historical Society were on Plum Island to do a survey of possible digs."
She nodded.
"Was Fredric Tobin one of those people?"
She actually hesitated, which I guess was out of an old habit of loyalty. Finally, she said, "Yes. He was on the island once."
"With the Gordons as guides?"
"Yes." She looked at me and asked, "Do you think… I mean…?"
I said to her, "I can speculate about motive and method, but I never speculate out loud about suspects." I added, "It's important that you keep all of this to yourself."
She nodded.
I looked at Emma. She seemed to be what she appeared to be-an honest, intelligent, and pleasantly crazy woman. I liked her. I took her hand, and we played hand squeezies.
I said, "Thank you for your time and knowledge."
"It was fun."
I nodded. My mind went back to William Kidd. I said, "So they hanged him?"
"They did. They kept him in chains in England for more than a year before he was tried at Old Bailey. He was allowed no legal counsel, no witnesses, and no evidence. He was found guilty and hanged at Execution Dock on the Thames. His body was covered with tar and hung in chains as a warning to passing seamen. Crows ate the rotting flesh for months."
I stood. "Let's get that drink."
CHAPTER 23
I needed a major pasta fix so I suggested dinner at Claudio's and Emma agreed.
Claudio's is in Greenport, which as I said has a population of about two thousand, which is fewer than the number of people in my condo building.
We traveled east along Main Road. It was about seven p.m. when we entered the village, and it was getting dark.
The village itself is not as quaint or ye olde as the hamlets; it was, and still is, a working port and a commercial fishing town. There has been some gentrification in recent years, boutiques, trendy restaurants, and all that, but Claudio's remains pretty much the same as it was when I was a kid. At a time where there were very few places to dine on the North Fork, there was Claudio's, sitting on the bay at the end of Main Street, near the wharf, just as it had been since the last century.
I parked, and we walked out on the long wharf. A big, old three-master was permanently moored at the wharf, and there was a clam bar nearby, people strolling, and a few motor vessels tied up whose passengers were probably in Claudio's. It was another nice evening, and I commented on the fair weather.
Emrna said, "There's a tropical depression forming in the Caribbean."
"Would Prozac help?"
"A baby hurricane."
"Oh, right." Like a baby lion. Hurricanes were nice to watch in your condo in Manhattan. They weren't nice out on this spit of land less than fifty feet above sea level. I remembered an August hurricane out here when I was a kid. It started as fun, then got scary.
So, we strolled, we talked. There's an excitement in the early stages of a relationship-like the first three days-after that, you sometimes realize you don't like each other. It's usually something the other person says, like, "I hope you're a cat lover."
But with Emma Whitestone, so far, so good. She seemed to enjoy my company, too. In fact, she said, "I enjoy being with you."
"Why is that?"
"Well, you're not like most of the men I date-all they want to do is hear about me, talk about me, discuss art, politics, and philosophy, and get my opinion on everything. You're different. You just want sex."