I should have also been thinking that when you corner an animal or a man, he can become dangerous-that the game is played by both hunter and hunted, and that the hunted had a lot more to lose.

But I forgot to consider Tobin as a thinking, cunning animal because he struck me as such a fop, the same way I'd struck him as a simpleton. We both knew better, but we'd both been lulled a little bit by each other's act. In any event, I blame myself for what happened.

CHAPTER 29

It was raining Monday morning when I woke up, the first rain we'd had in weeks, and the farmers were happy even if the vintners were not. I knew at least one vintner who had bigger problems than a heavy rain.

As I dressed, I listened to the radio and heard that a hurricane named Jasper was off the coast of Virginia, causing unsettled weather conditions as far north as New York 's Long Island. I was glad I was driving back to Manhattan today.

I hadn't been to my Seventy-second Street condo in over a month, and I hadn't accessed my answering machine messages either, partly because I didn't want to, but mostly, I guess, because I forgot my access code.

Anyway, at about nine a.m., I went downstairs dressed in designer jeans and polo shirt and made coffee. I was sort of waiting for Beth to call or come by.

The local weekly was on the kitchen counter, unread from Friday, and I was not too surprised to see last Monday's murder on the front page. I took the paper out on the back porch with a mug of coffee and read the local hotshot reporter's version of the double murder story. The guy was imprecise enough, opinionated-enough, and was a bad enough stylist to write for Newsday or the Times.

I noticed an article about Tobin Vineyards in which Mr. Fredric Tobin was quoted as saying, "We will begin the harvest any day now, and this promises to be a vintage year, perhaps the best in the last ten years, barring a heavy rain."

Well, Freddie, it's raining. I wondered if condemned men are allowed to request wine with their last meal.

Anyway, I threw the local weekly aside and picked up Emma's gift, The Story of Pirate Treasure. I flipped through it, looked at the pictures, saw a map of Long Island, which I studied for a minute or so, then found the chapters on Captain Kidd and read at random a deposition of Robert Livingston, Esq., one of Kidd's original financial backers. The deposition read in part,

That hearing Capt. Kidd was come into these parts to apply himself unto his Excellency, the Earl of Bellornont, the said Narrator came directly from Albany ye nearest way through the woods to meet the said Kidd here and wait upon his Lordship. And at his arrival at Boston, Capt. Kidd informed him there was on board his Sloop then in Port, forty bales of Goods, and some Sugar, and also said he had about eighty pound weight in Plate. And further the said Kidd said he had Forty pound weight in Cold which he hid and secured in some place in the Sound betwixt this and New York, not naming any particular place, which nobody would find but himself.

I did a little math in my head and figured that forty pounds of gold would be worth about three hundred thousand dollars, on the hoof, so to speak, not counting whatever historical value or numismatic value it would have, which could easily quadruple the value according to what Emma had said.

I spent the next hour reading and the more I read, the more I was convinced that nearly every narrator in this episode, from Lord Bellornont to the lowest seaman, was a liar. No two stories were alike, and the value and amount of the gold, silver, and jewels were all over the lot. The only thing everyone agreed on is that treasure had been put ashore in various spots around the Long Island Sound. Not once was Plum Island mentioned, but what better place to hide something? As I'd learned on my trip to Plum, the island had no harbor then, so it was unlikely to be visited by random ships looking for food or water. It was owned by white settlers and therefore off-limits to Indians, but was apparently uninhabited by anyone. And if Kidd dropped off a valuable treasure with John Gardiner, a man he didn't know, why wouldn't he sail the five or six miles across the bay to Plum Island and bury more treasure there? It made sense to me. I wondered, though, how Fredric Tobin had figured it out. He would be happy to tell us at his press conference when he announced his discovery. He'd probably say, "Hard work, a good knowledge of viniculture, perseverance, and a superior product. And good luck."

Anyway, I dawdled on the back porch for a long time, reading, watching the weather, working the case in my mind, waiting for Beth, who I thought should have arrived by now.

Finally, I went inside through the French doors that led to the den and played the seven messages on my answering machine.

Number one was from Uncle Harry saying he had a friend who wanted to rent the house, so would I mind buying it or leaving. Two, Detective Lieutenant Wolfe, who said simply, "You're pissing me off." Three, Emma's old unplayed message, a little before midnight on Friday just saying hello; four, Max on Saturday morning with the particulars on the Tobin party and saying he had a nice chat with Beth and would I call him. Five, Dom Fanelli, who said, "Hey, paisano, you missed a good time. What a night. The wine was flowing, we picked up four Swedish tourists in Taormina's, two of them airline stewardesses, one model, one actress. Anyway, I called our friend, Jack Rosen at the Daily News, and he's going to do a story on your return to New York after convalescing in the country. Wounded hero comes home. Beautiful. Give him a call Monday a.m. and the story will run Tuesday, so the humps at Police Plaza can read it before they bust your cajones. Am I good, or what? Call me Monday, and we'll have a drink p.m., and I'll tell you about the Swedes. Ciao."

I smiled. Four Swedes, my ass. Number six was Beth on Sunday morning asking where I'd disappeared to Saturday night, and when could we meet. And number seven was Beth on Sunday afternoon, acknowledging my message to her office and saying she'd be at my house on Monday morning.

So, when the doorbell rang a little before noon, I wasn't too surprised to see Beth there. I said, "Come in."

She left her umbrella on the porch and came in. She was wearing another tailored suit, this one sort of a rust color.

I thought I should say I was alone, so I said, "I'm alone."

She said, "I know."

We looked at each other for some very long seconds. I knew what she was going to say, but I didn't want to hear it. She said it anyway. "Emma Whitestone was found in her house by one of her employees this morning, dead, apparently murdered."

I said nothing. What could I say? I just stood there.

Beth took my arm and led me into the living room to the couch. "Sit down," she said. I sat.

She sat beside me and took my hand. She said, "I don't know how you feel… I mean, I know you must have been fond of her…"

I nodded. For the second time in my life, I wasn't the one giving the bad news. I was the one hearing about the murder of someone I cared about. It was mind-numbing. I couldn't quite grasp it because it didn't seem real. I said to Beth, "I was with her until about ten last night."

Beth said, "We have no time of death yet. She was found in her bed… apparently killed by blows to the head with a fireplace poker that was found on the floor… there was no sign of forced entry… the back door was unlocked."

I nodded. He would have had a key which he never returned, and she never thought to change the lock. He knew there was a poker handy.

Beth continued, "There was the appearance of a burglary… pocketbook emptied, cash gone, jewelry box emptied. That sort of thing."