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datatime: 2022-12-08 14:30:41 Author:SCweUrSy

Well, I'm not sure it does, Mrs. Wiley. I was just curious about-

You know how these young girls are. I shook my head sadly then said, "Okay, thanks again." I exited quickly, got back into my Jeep, and drove off.

Aside from these little career conflicts, we were actually in love once. Anyway, October first. Then she is officially ex, and I lose the opportunity to be an adulterer or a bigamist. Life just isn't fair sometimes.

Aside from these little career conflicts, we were actually in love once. Anyway, October first. Then she is officially ex, and I lose the opportunity to be an adulterer or a bigamist. Life just isn't fair sometimes.

I told her it concerned the Gordon murders.

Remember, don't talk to anyone except Chief Maxwell, me, and Detective Penrose.

Anyway, I drove back to the Peconic Historical Society house and parked in the small lot beside a van marked "Whitestone Florist."

Pregnant? asked Agnes."

Remember, don't talk to anyone except Chief Maxwell, me, and Detective Penrose.

I wasn't sure why I was here, but something had drawn me here. On the other hand, I think I had geriatric overload, and the thought of talking to one more septuagenarian was more than I could handle. I should have opened the bottle of Tobin wine and chugged it before meeting Mrs. Whitestone.

Apparently Mr. Fredric Tobin had been at the Gordons' on at least one occasion. Yet, he didn't seem to recall his June visit. But maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it was another brown-bearded man in a white Porsche.

Interesting. All I'm trying to do is help, and I'm getting home-towned by the local old boys.

The house, as I said, was large, circa about 1850s, typical of the home of a rich merchant or sea captain. The foyer was big, and to the left was a large sitting room, to the right was the dining room. The place was all antiques, of course, mostly junk if you want my opinion, but probably worth a bunch of buckos. I didn't see or hear anyone in the house, so I wandered about from room to room. It wasn't actually a museum in the sense of exhibits; it was just a decorated period house. I couldn't see anything sinister about the place, no paintings of burning churches on the walls, no black candles, no needlepoint pentagrams or black cats, and the kitchen had no bubbling witch's cauldron.

Apparently Mr. Fredric Tobin had been at the Gordons' on at least one occasion. Yet, he didn't seem to recall his June visit. But maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it was another brown-bearded man in a white Porsche.

The next call was from my ex, whose name is Robin Paine, which fits her, and who also happens to be an attorney. She said, "Hello, John, this is Robin. I want to remind you that our one-year separation ends on October first, at which time we are legally divorced. You'll get a copy of the decree in the mail. There's nothing for you to sign or do. It's automatic." She put a light tone in her voice and said, "Well, you can't commit adultery after October first unless you remarry. But don't get married before you get your decree or it's bigamy. Saw you on the news. Sounds like a fascinating case. Be well."

You can discuss that with her. She's waiting for you.

Presently, I found the gift shop-Gift Shoppe-which had once been a summer kitchen, I think, and I went in. The lights were off, but sunlight came in through the windows.

About a month, I replied. "Okay-"

Anyway, I drove back to the Peconic Historical Society house and parked in the small lot beside a van marked "Whitestone Florist."

Interesting. All I'm trying to do is help, and I'm getting home-towned by the local old boys.

I went to the front door, and there was a yellow Post-it near the knocker that said, "Mr. Corey, please let yourself in."

Anyway, I drove back to the Peconic Historical Society house and parked in the small lot beside a van marked "Whitestone Florist."

I told her it concerned the Gordon murders.

The house, as I said, was large, circa about 1850s, typical of the home of a rich merchant or sea captain. The foyer was big, and to the left was a large sitting room, to the right was the dining room. The place was all antiques, of course, mostly junk if you want my opinion, but probably worth a bunch of buckos. I didn't see or hear anyone in the house, so I wandered about from room to room. It wasn't actually a museum in the sense of exhibits; it was just a decorated period house. I couldn't see anything sinister about the place, no paintings of burning churches on the walls, no black candles, no needlepoint pentagrams or black cats, and the kitchen had no bubbling witch's cauldron.

Anyway, I drove back to the Peconic Historical Society house and parked in the small lot beside a van marked "Whitestone Florist."

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