I looked around and saw that there weren't too many people yet, about fifty, all hatted up, and I suspected the big crowd would arrive after sundown in about half an hour. I didn't see Max, Beth, Emma, or anyone I knew for that matter. I did, however, locate the closest bar and asked for a beer.
The bartender, dressed in a pirate costume, said, "Sorry, sir, only wine and soft drinks."
"What! That's outrageous. I need a beer. I have my hat."
"Yes, sir, but there's no beer. May I suggest a sparkling white? It has bubbles, and you can pretend."
"May I suggest you find me a beer by the time I get back here?"
I wandered around, beerless, and checked out the acreage. I could see the park from here, the place where the first settlers landed, sort of the local Plymouth Rock, I guess, but virtually unknown outside of this area. I mean, who knew that the Fortune followed the Mayflower? Who cares about second and third place? This is America
I watched Mr. Tobin's guests spread out over his broad lawn, standing, walking, sitting at the white round tables, everyone wearing a hat with a feather, glass in hand, chatting. They were a sedate group, or so they appeared at this early hour-no rum and sex on the beach or skinny-dipping or naked volleyball or anything like that. Just social intercourse.
I saw that Mr. Tobin had a long dock, at the end of which was a good-sized boathouse. Also, several boats were tied up at the long dock, and I assumed they belonged to guests. If this party had been held a week earlier, the Spirocbete would have been here.
Anyway, curious sort that I am, I walked the length of the dock toward the boathouse. Right before the opening of the boathouse was a big cabin cruiser, about thirty-five feet long. It was named the Autumn Gold, and I assumed it was Mr. Tobin's boat, named after his new wine, or named after Mr. Tobin's as-yet-to-be discovered treasure. In any case, Mr. T liked his toys.
I entered the boathouse. It was dark, but there was enough light coming from both ends to see two boats, one on either side of the dock. The boat to the right was a small, flat-bottomed Whaler of the type you could take into shallow water or wetlands. The other on the left side of the dock was a speedboat, in fact, a Formula 303, the exact same model as the Gordons'. For a half second, I had the spooky feeling that the Gordons had returned from the dead to crash the party and scare the crap out of Freddie. But it wasn't the Spirochete-this 303 was named Sandra, presumably after Fredric's current squeeze. I suppose it was easier to change the name of a boat than to get a tattoo off your arm.
Anyway, neither the cabin cruiser nor the speedboat interested me, but the flat-bottomed Whaler did. I lowered myself into the small boat. It had an outboard motor, and it also had oarlocks. There were two oars lying on the dock. More interesting, there was a pole, about six feet long, of the type used to move a boat through bulrushes and reeds where neither oars nor motor could be used. Also, the Whaler's deck was a little muddy. In the stern was a plastic crate filled with odds and ends and among them was a compressed-air foghorn.
"Are you looking for something?"
I turned to see Mr. Fredric Tobin standing on the dock, wineglass in hand, wearing a rather elaborate purple tricornered hat with a flowing plume. He was stroking his short beard as he stared at me. Mephistophelian, indeed.
I said, "I was admiring your boat."
"That boat? Most people notice the speedboat or the Chris-Craft," he said, indicating the cabin cruiser docked just outside the boathouse.
I said, "I thought that was the Autumn Gold."
"The make of the boat is a Chris-Craft."
He was speaking to me with a tiny tone of irritation in his tiny voice which I did not like. I said, "Well, this little guy here is more in my price range." I smiled disarmingly. I do that before I fuck somebody big-time. I said, "When I saw the Formula 303, I thought the Gordons had returned from the dead."
He did not like that at all.
I added, "But then I saw it wasn't the Spirochete-it's called the Sondra, which is appropriate. You know-fast, sleek, and hot." I love pissing off assholes.
Mr. Tobin said coolly, "The party is on the lawn, Mr. Corey."
"I noticed." I climbed up to the dock and said, "This is some place you have here."
"Thank you."
In addition to the fruity hat, Mr. T was wearing white ducks, a blue double-breasted blazer, and an outrageous scarlet ascot. My goodness. I said, "I like your hat."
He said, "Let me introduce you to some of my guests."
"That would be terrific."
And off we went, out of the boathouse and along the dock. I asked him, "How far is the Gordon dock from here?"
"I have no idea."
"Take a guess."
"Maybe eight miles. Why?"
"More like ten," I said. "You have to go around Great Hog Neck. I checked my car map. About ten."
"What is your point?"
"No point. Just making seaside conversation."
We were back on the lawn now, and Mr. Tobin reminded me, "You will not question any of my guests about the Gordon murders. I've spoken to Chief Maxwell, and he has agreed to that, and he further reiterated that you have no official standing here."
"You have my word that I won't bother any of your guests with police questions about the Gordon murders."
"Or anything to do with the Gordons at all."
"I promise. But I need a beer."
Mr. Tobin looked around, saw a young lady with a tray of wine, and said to her, "Please go into the house and get this gentleman a beer. Pour it into a wineglass."
"Yes, sir." And off she went. Boy, it must be nice to be rich and to tell people, "I want this, and I want that."
Mr. Tobin said to me, "You're not a hat person." He excused himself and left me standing alone. I was afraid to move lest the serving girl with the beer not find me.
It was deep dusk now, and the colored party lights twinkled, the torches blazed, the candles glowed. A nice gentle land breeze blew the bugs out to sea. The band was playing "Stardust." The trumpet player was terrific. Life is good. I was glad I wasn't dead.
I watched Fredric work the party, person by person, couple by couple, group by group, laughing, joking, adjusting their hats, and putting plastic swords in the belts of ladies who had belts. Unlike the most famous Long Island party-giver, Jay Gatsby, Fredric Tobin did not watch his party from afar. Quite the opposite, he was right in there, mixing it up, being the most perfect host ever.
The man had some cool, I'll give him that. He was near broke, if I could believe Emma Whitestone, and he was a double murderer, if I could believe my instincts, not to mention what I'd just seen in the boathouse. And he must have known that I knew both his secrets, yet he was not ruffled. He was more concerned that I not fuck up his party than that I might fuck up his life. A very cool customer, indeed.
The serving girl returned with the wineglass of beer on a tray. I took the beer and commented, "I don't like wine."
She smiled. "Me neither. There's more beer in the refrigerator." She winked and moved off.
Sometimes I think I'm blessed with sex appeal, charisma, and animal magnetism. Other times, I think I must have bad breath and body odor. Tonight, I felt I was on, hot as a three dollar pistol; I tilted my hat rakishly, adjusted my sword, and began working the party.
It was mostly a young and early-middle-age crowd, not too many of the grandes dames and DAR types. I didn't see Margaret Wiley, for instance. It was mostly couples-the world is mostly couples-but there were a few strays who looked able to make conversation if neither of my one and only true loves showed up.