here, I was more convinced than ever that there was no sexual justice in the world. I added, 'Beady eyes.'
'Shifty, too.'
'Right.' I said to her, 'Could I ask a favor of you?'
'You can ask.'
'Would you not tell him of our conversation?'
'I won't go into details. But I'll tell him we spoke.' She added, 'I don't lie. But I can keep things to myself.'
'That's all I ask.'
In Manhattan, there are not that many of these interlocking relationships as there are here. I had to keep this in mind, and I had to deal with it, and I had to adjust my style accordingly. But I'm bright and I can do that. On that subject, I asked Emma Whitestone, 'I assume you know Chief Maxwell.'
'Who doesn't?'
'Did you ever date him?'
'No. But he's asked.'
'You don't like cops?'
She laughed. She wiggled her toes again and crossed her legs again. My goodness.
We went round and round for the next fifteen minutes or so, and Emma Whitestone had a lot of gossip, a lot of insights into people, though not much of it seemed to relate to the case. The problem was that I still didn't know what I was doing here, but it was nice being here. I should say, though, that I was a gentleman. To hit on a female officer is okay because as a peer, she can tell you to take a hike. However, with civilians, especially ones who might wind up in front of the DA, you had to be careful. You didn't want to compromise yourself or the witness. Nevertheless, I was interested.
No, I'm not fickle. I was still pining for Beth. I asked Ms. Whitestone, 'Can I use your phone?'
'Sure. Right in there.'
I went into an adjoining room, which was like going from the nineteenth century into the twentieth. This was the office suite of the historical society, complete with modern office furniture, file cabinets, copy machine, and so forth. I used a phone on one of the desks and called my answering machine. There was one message. A male voice said, 'Detective Corey, this is Detective Collins of the Suffolk County Police. Detective Penrose asked me to call you. She's in a lengthy conference. She says she can't meet you this afternoon, and she'll call you tonight or tomorrow.' End of message. I hung up and looked around the office. Under one of the desks was a pair of leather thongs, most probably Ms. Whitestone's.
I went back to the library, but I didn't sit down.
Emma Whitestone looked at me and asked, 'Anything wrong?'
'No. Where were we?'
'I don't know.'
I looked at my watch, then asked her, 'Can we finish this over lunch?'
'Sure.' She stood. 'First I'll give you a tour of our house.'
And she did. Room by room. Most of the upstairs was used for offices, storage, exhibits, and archives, but there were two bedrooms decorated in ye olde. One, according to Emma, was mid-seventeen hundreds, and the other was contemporary with the house, mid-eighteen hundreds. She said, 'The house was built by a sea merchant who made his fortune in South America.'
'Cocaine?'
'No, silly. Semiprecious stones from Brazil. Captain Samuel Farnsworth.'
I pushed down on the lumpy bed. 'Do you nap here?'
She smiled. 'Sometimes. It's a feather mattress.'
'Osprey feathers?'
'Could be. They used to be all over.'
'They're making a big comeback.',
'Everything's making a big comeback. Damned deer devoured my rhododendrons.' She led me out of the bedroom and said, 'You wanted to see the archives.'
'Yes.'
She showed me into what had probably been a good-sized bedroom, and which was now filled with file cabinets, shelves, and a long oak table. She said, 'We have original books and documents going back as far as the mid-sixteen hundreds. Deeds, letters, wills, legal decisions, sermons, army orders, ships' manifests and logs. Some of it is fascinating.'
'How did you get into this?'
'Well, I suppose it had something to do with growing up here. My own family goes back to the original settlers.'
'You're not related to Margaret Wiley, I hope.'
She smiled. 'We have family connections. Didn't you enjoy Margaret?'
'No comment.'
She went on, 'Archive work must be a little like detective work. You know-mysteries, questions to be answered, things that need to be uncovered. Don't you think so?'
'I do, now that you mention it.' I added, 'To tell you the truth, when I was a kid, I wanted to be an archaeologist. I found a musket ball once. Somewhere out here. Can't remember where.' I added, 'Now that I'm old and infirm, maybe I should take up archive work.'
'Oh, you're not that old. And you might enjoy it. I can teach you to read this stuff.'
'Isn't it in English?'
'Yes, except that seventeenth- and eighteenth-century English can be difficult. The spelling is atrocious and the script is sometimes hard to decipher. Here, take a look at this.' She offered a big looseleaf binder that was on the table. Inside were plastic sleeves and in the plastic were old parchments. She flipped to one of the pages and said, 'Read that.'
I bent over the book and looked at the faded script. I read, 'Dear Martha, Don't believe the rumors about me and Mrs. Farnsworth. I'm loyal and true. How about you? Your loving husband, George.'
She laughed. 'That's not what it says.'
'That's what it looks like.'
'Here, I'll read it.' She pulled the binder toward her, and said, 'This is a letter from a Phillip Shelley to the royal governor, Lord Bellomont, dated 3 August 1698.' She read the letter, which to me had been indecipherable. The letter was full of 'my lords' and 'haths' and 'your humble servant' stuff. The guy was complaining about some injustice regarding a land dispute. I mean, these people came across the ocean to a new continent and had the same gripes they had in Southwold with a 'w.'
I said to Ms. Whitestone, 'Very impressive.'
'There's nothing to it. You can learn it in a few months. I taught Fredric in two months, and he has no attention span.'
'Really.'
'The language isn't as difficult as the script and the spelling.'
'Right.' I asked her, 'Can you give me a list of members?'
'Sure.' We went into the office, and she gave me a paperbound membership directory, then slipped on her sandals.
I asked her, 'How did you get this job?'
She shrugged. 'I don't know… It's a pain in the butt. This was another one of Fredric's stupid social-climbing ideas. I was the archivist here, which I didn't mind doing. Then he proposed me as president, and whatever Fredric wants, Fredric gets. Plus, I'm still the archivist. Flower girl and president and archivist of the Peconic Historical Society.'
'Are you hungry?'
'Sure. Let me call the shop.' She did, and I poked around the office a bit. I heard her say, softly, ''I may not be back this afternoon.'
No, Ms. Whitestone, you may not be if I have anything to say about it.
She hung up, and we went downstairs. She said, 'We have small receptions and parties here. It's nice at
