Kate said, "You're not supposed to say things like that."

"What?"

"You know what." She laughed, which she wouldn't have done before 9/11 or six months after. Now, as I said, she was a different woman, and she'd loosened up a lot and finally appreciated my rapier wit and sophisticated humor. She noted, "You are so fucking immature."

That wasn't exactly what I was thinking. We both got into the Jeep, and off we went.

She spoke in a deep bass voice, which I guess was an imitation of me. "There's, like, eight liters of anthrax missing."

"Do you have a cold?"

She continued, "That could be nasty if a crop duster sprays it over the vineyards." She coughed twice. "Excuse me. I think I have anthrax."

"I didn't say that."

"Where do you get this stuff?"

"I don't know. It just pops into my head."

"Scary."

"Anthrax is very scary."

"I mean, your head."

"Right. So, where to?" I asked.

"I know a great antique store in Southold."

"Let's go to church. It's cheaper."

"Southold. Make a left here."

So, we spent Sunday morning antiquing. I'm not a huge fan of antiques, which I think are mostly verminous chunks of rotten wood and unsanitary scraps of germ-infested fabric. I'd take my chances with anthrax before antiques.

Needless to say, we didn't buy anything. In fact, Kate commented, "Why do I need to buy an antique? I'm married to one."

We had lunch in a diner where I finally got my bagel, plus the sausages and eggs I'd missed at breakfast.

After lunch, we hit a few more wineries, where we picked up a dozen bottles of wine that we could have bought in Manhattan for the same price, and then we stopped at a farm stand.

We rarely eat at home-she can't cook and neither can I, and I don't eat fruit or vegetables-but we bought a ton of this stuff with leaves and dirt on it, plus a fifty-pound bag of Long Island potatoes. I asked, "What are we going to do with all this crap?"

"You run over a deer, and I'll make hunter's stew."

That was actually funny. Why didn't I think of it?

We collected our belongings from the B&B, settled the bill, and started back to the city.

She asked me, "Did you have a good weekend?"

"I did. Except for breakfast."

"You need to talk to people with opposing views."

"I do. I'm married."

"Very funny." She asked, "Why don't we go upstate next weekend?"

"Good idea." Which reminded me to ask her, "What do you know about the Custer Hill Club? I didn't buy your last response."

She considered the question and the statement, then replied, "I know that you almost spent this weekend there."

"Meaning what?"

"Well ... Tom Walsh asked me if I'd have an objection to him sending you there on a surveillance."

"Really? And you said?"

"I said, yes, I would object." She asked me, "How did you know about the Custer Hill Club?"

"From Harry Muller, who got the assignment."

"What did he tell you?"

"I'm asking the questions. Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"Tom asked me not to. But I was going to tell you."

"When?"

"Now. On the trip home."

"Yeah. Right. Why didn't you want me to go?"

"I was looking forward to getting away with you this weekend."

"I didn't know about that either, until about four-thirty, Friday."

"I'd been thinking about it."

"You were actually scrambling to find a place to stay on short notice." I informed her, "You're talking to me, darling. You can't bullshit a bullshitter who's also a brilliant detective."

She considered that. "Well ... I just didn't like the sound of the assignment ... so I told Tom we had plans, and then I needed to make plans."

I digested all of this and asked her, "What do you mean you didn't like the sound of the assignment?"

"I don't know ... just instinct ... something about Tom's demeanor ..."