Our table was ready, and we went to this sort of enclosed patio that looked out toward the bay. It was getting noticeably colder, and I was sorry to see summer coming to an end. I had tasted my own mortality-literally tasted it when my blood came running out of my mouth-and I suppose the shorter days and the chilly wind reminded me of the fact that my summer was over, that little Johnny, who'd been so bug-eyed over the musket ball, had finally grown up as he lay in the gutter of West 102nd Street, with three musket ball holes in him.

America is a country of second and third chances, a place of multiple resuscitations, so that, given enough retakes, only a total idiot can't eventually get it right.

Emma said, "You seem distracted."

"I'm trying to decide if I want to start with the fried calamari or the scungili."

"Fried is not good for you."

"Do you miss the city?" I asked her.

"Now and then. I miss the anonymity. Here, everyone knows who you're sleeping with."

"I suppose so, if you parade all your boyfriends in front of your employees."

She asked me, "Do you miss the city?"

"I don't know… I won't know till I get back." I excused myself saying, "I have to go to the potty." I went to my car and got the potty, which I brought back in the gift bag.

I put the bag down in front of her, and she asked, "Is that for me?"

"Yes."

"Oh, John, you didn't have to… Should I open it now?"

"Please."

She reached inside the bag and pulled out the pot, which was swathed in pink tissue paper. "What is…?"

I had this sudden panic attack. What if the old bird in the antique store was wrong? What if she'd confused Emma Whitestone with someone else? "Wait," I said, "maybe you shouldn't open it-"

Other diners were looking now, curious, nosy, smiling.

Emma unfolded the tissue paper, revealing the white chamber pot with pink roses. She held it up by its jug handle.

A gasp arose from the crowd. Or at least it sounded that way. Someone laughed.

Emma said, "Oh, John! It's beautiful. How did you know?"

"I'm a detective." Aw, shucks.

She admired the chamber pot, turning it, looking at the potter's mark and all that.

The waiter came by and said, "There are rest rooms in the rear if you'd prefer."

Well, anyway, we all got a nice chuckle, and Emma said she'd plant miniature roses in it, and I said that would definitely keep people from sitting on it, and so forth. We ran out of potty humor and ordered dinner.

We had a pleasant meal, talking and watching the harbor. She asked me if I'd like her to spend the night again, which I did. She opened her purse and pulled out a toothbrush and a pair of panties. She said, "I'm prepared."

The stand-up comic waiter happened by at that moment, and said, "Can I get you more coffee, or are you in a real hurry to get home?"

On the drive back to my digs in Mattituck, I had this strange feeling again that none of this was going to end well, not this case, not this thing with Emma, not the thing with Beth, whatever that was, and not my career. It felt to me like the eerie silence and clear skies of an approaching hurricane before it hits.

CHAPTER 24

The next morning while I was dressing, the doorbell rang, and I assumed that Emma, who was downstairs, would answer it.

I finished dressing-tan slacks, striped oxford shirt, blue blazer, and docksiders, sans socks: standard outfit of the maritime provinces. In Manhattan, people who didn't wear socks often carried tin cups; here it was très chic.

I came downstairs about ten minutes later and found Emma Whitestone at the kitchen table having coffee with Beth Penrose. Ub-oh.

It was one of those moments that called for savoir faire, and I said to Beth, "Good morning, Detective Penrose."

Beth replied, "Good morning."

I said to Emma, "This is my partner, Beth Penrose. I guess you've met."

Emma replied, "I guess so. We're having coffee."

I said to Beth pointedly, "I thought I'd see you later."

Beth replied, "I had a change of plans. I left a message on your machine last night."

"I didn't check it."

Emma stood. "I have to get to work."

"Oh… I'll drive you," I said.

Beth stood also and said to me, "I have to go, too. I just stopped by to pick up those financial printouts. If you have them, I can take them now."

Emma said to both of us, "Sit. You must have work to do." She moved toward the door. "I'll call Warren for a ride. He lives close by. I'll be in the den." She didn't make eye contact with me on her way out of the kitchen.

I said to Beth, "She's the president of the Peconic Historical Society."

"Really? A bit young for the job."

I poured myself a cup of coffee.

Beth said, "I thought I would brief you, as a courtesy."

"You don't owe me any courtesies."

"Well, you were very helpful."

"Thank you."

We both remained standing, me drinking my coffee, Beth cleaning up her coffee mug, spoon, and napkin, as if she were ready to leave. I noticed a briefcase beside her chair. I said, "Sit."

"I should go."

"Let's have one cup of coffee together."

"Okay." She poured herself another cup of coffee and sat opposite me. She said, "You look very dapper this morning."

"I'm trying to change my image. No one was taking me seriously." She was wearing another tailored suit, this one navy blue with a white blouse. She looked yummy this morning, fresh and bright-eyed. I said, "You look very good yourself."

"Thank you. I dress well."

"Right." A little severe, but that's my opinion. I couldn't tell what she thought about my house guest, if in fact she thought anything at all. Aside from a small emotional rush that I'd felt for Beth, I reminded myself that she'd cut me loose professionally. Now she was back.

I wasn't sure if I should tell her that I'd made some significant progress in her absence; that, indeed, I believed I'd found the motive for the double murders, and that Fredric Tobin needed to be checked out. But why should I stick my neck out? I might be wrong. In fact, having slept on it, I was less certain that Fredric Tobin was the actual murderer of Tom and Judy Gordon. He might very well know more than he was saying, but it seemed more likely that someone else pulled the trigger-someone like Paul Stevens.

I decided to see what she had that I might need, and what she wanted that I might have. This was going to be a sparring match. Round One-I said, "Max terminated my career with the Township of Southold."

"I know."

"So, I don't think I should be privy to any police information."

"Do you mean that? Or are you sulking?"

"A little of both."

She played with her coffee spoon awhile, then said, "I really respect your opinions and your insights."

"Thank you."

She looked around the kitchen. "This is some house."

"A big painted lady."

"Your uncle owns it?"

"Yes. He's Wall Street. There's lots of money on the Street. I'm mentioned in his will. He's a heavy smoker."

"Well, it's nice that you were able to have a place to convalesce."

"I should have gone to the Caribbean."

She smiled. "You wouldn't have had this much fun." She asked, "How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Oh, fine. I'm good until I try to exert myself."

"Don't exert yourself."

"I won't."

"So, what have you been up to the last few days? Have you followed up on anything?"

"A little. But, as I said, I had the plug pulled on me by Max, and my boss saw me on TV the night of the homicide. Also, I think your friend, Mr. Nash, put in a bad word for me with my superiors. Very petty."

"You gave him a very hard time, John. I'll bet he's a little annoyed at you."