Stranger on the Shore Page 11

  “Who do you think the mastermind was?”

  Griff threw it out there. He wasn’t really expecting an answer, so it was a surprise to hear Copper’s prompt, “The youngest girl, Michaela.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Copper shook his head. “No, my friend, I’m not. The girl was up to her ears in it. It didn’t get into the papers—that was Mather Senior’s good work again—but she had something going on with the chauffeur. And afterwards they couldn’t ship her out west fast enough. My theory is either she put Johnson up to it, or Johnson knew what she was after and tried to cash in on it. And maybe cover for her. Or maybe not.”

  “What would be in it for her though? She can’t have been short of cash.”

  “She didn’t have access to her trust fund yet, so I think cash could have been a motive. I think she wanted out from under the old man’s thumb. Which she did get after the fact. She had that kid Chloe out of wedlock. Kloppel was the name of her first husband, but he wasn’t Chloe’s father. That was all afterwards.”

  “I’m getting lost here,” Griff said. “You think Michaela arranged for Brian to be kidnapped in order to finance her escape from the family compound?”

  “Pretty much, yeah. I doubt she intended any harm to come to Brian. I’m not saying she’s a monster. But back then she was as wild as they come. Sex, drugs and rock and roll. She wanted out, but old man Arlington wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted she learn to be a good mother and a responsible citizen.” Copper grimaced. “So much for that.”

  “So the local theory is Michaela was behind the kidnapping?”

  “It’s more like the alternative version. The people who don’t believe Johnson had the brains to plot something like that believe Michaela was the driving force. Like I said, I’m inclined to agree. Needless to say it wasn’t the view of the Arlingtons or the police.”

  “That’s some theory.”

  “If you really are going to interview Johnson, you’ll have a chance to decide for yourself. See if you don’t agree.”

  As hard to believe as Copper’s theory was, it was one explanation for why Brian had been grabbed rather than Chloe.

  “Did you know Mather’s two kids were in the room next to the nursery that night?”

  Copper stared at him. “No. Where did you hear that?”

  “Pierce Mather told me himself. They were watching TV and eating shrimp puffs or something. He claims they didn’t see or hear anything, but I thought it was strange it was never mentioned anywhere.”

  Copper thought it over. “I’ll guarantee you no one ever knew. Or at least I never got a whiff of that. They were minors. I guess in a way it makes sense their folks scrambled to keep their names out of the papers.”

  “Out of the papers, sure,” Griff said. “I’m just wondering what else they were kept out of.”

  * * *

  The cops at the Second Precinct were cooperating, but it was clearly as a courtesy to the Arlingtons.

  Griff didn’t take it personally. He understood that an unsolved, high-profile crime, especially one in which a child was the victim, was always going to be a sore spot for law enforcement. He pored over reports and crime scene photos, drank several cups of bad coffee, and found himself no further ahead.

  Benjamin Copper’s memory was accurate. The initial call had come in as a 10-31 missing/lost child. The assumption had been that Brian had woken during the night, heard the music and had wandered off in search of his mother. The only items missing from his room—his robe, his slippers and a small stuffed bear known as Tiny Teddy—seemed to support that theory. Brian’s parents described him as “smart and self-reliant.” Hope had been high that the child would be swiftly and safely recovered.

  By breakfast, optimism had given way to dread, and the ponds and streams on the estate were being dragged.

  In Griff’s opinion it was typical that from the instant the ransom note had arrived, police had focused their attention on the Arlington household—meaning The Help. The lead investigating officer had been a Detective Woody Hinder. Hinder had retired and moved to Florida in 2000. According to the stout female sergeant who brought Griff the storage box of files on the Arlington case, at one time Hinder had considered writing a book about his experiences investigating the Arlington kidnapping, but once again Thomas Mather had acted to convince the former detective otherwise.

  Under Hinder’s directive the domestic staff had been thoroughly investigated, financial records checked, and all possible connections—family and friends and business acquaintances—followed to trail’s end.

  Griff had to give Hinder credit. Even before the FBI arrived, Hinder and his team had uncovered several promising lines of inquiry including Mr. Tuppalo’s poor credit rating and bounced checks, Mr. Newland’s fondness for betting on the ponies, and Mrs. Cameron’s faked references. Mrs. Truscott—known then as Miss Wilma Truscott—had a younger sister who had died in a mental institution. Mrs. Woolly, the cook, had been widowed twice in household accidents. And of course there was Johnson’s criminal record, which a week earlier had resulted in his losing his position as chauffeur. According to Johnson it was this injustice that had triggered the ransom demand after Brian had gone missing.

  The Arlingtons, with the exception of Muriel, agreed that Johnson had been a good employee. But when he had been hired, he had neglected to mention a youthful conviction for attempted robbery, and Jarrett Arlington was quoted as saying, “Robbery, attempted or otherwise, is a violent crime and not like writing a bad check.”

  Even without Muriel’s helpful suggestion, Johnson was an immediate and obvious suspect.

  As far as Griff could tell, the family had never come under the shadow of suspicion. Wherever Copper had picked up that nugget about Michaela, it hadn’t been through the police investigation. But then Copper was a local. The Nassau police were...the police. People, even innocent people, tended to close ranks against the police. So while Michaela’s wild-child reputation might be common knowledge among the good folks of Muttontown, it was possible no one had shared their suspicions with Hinder or the FBI.

  Griff studied the crime scene photos—in ‘93 most police departments were still using crime scene stills, not video—prepared for another strange reaction like he’d had earlier that day standing in the nursery. But he felt nothing. Maybe it had been low blood sugar. Maybe he was just tired.

  The transcript of Johnson’s interrogation was interesting but not particularly enlightening. Though Johnson stuck to his story that he had only thought of sending the ransom note after he’d heard that Brian was missing, he contradicted himself and changed his mind about all kinds of nonessential details.

  Not a credible witness.

  And there were no other viable suspects.

  Open and shut. Which still didn’t explain what had happened to Brian.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Arlingtons were fighting when Griff walked into the elegant cream-and-gold drawing room at Winden House that evening. The voices were all low and restrained, like you’d expect if an argument broke out in a drawing room, but that couldn’t completely conceal the harsh tones and fierce emotions. They were able to cut off when he stepped through the double doors, but they needn’t have worried because Griff’s attention was on the music playing in the background. A lead clarinet rolled lazily through lush strings in a hauntingly familiar melody.

  He stopped dead. “What is that?”

  Not surprisingly, everyone in the room stared at him.

  “What is what, my boy?” Jarrett asked.

  “That music. That tune.” This was the very same music that had woken him his first night on the estate. He was sure of it.

  Marcus, who was standing at the alcove bar, said, “That’s Acker Bilk. ‘Stranger on the Shore.’”

  “Were you playing this t
he other night? The night I arrived? I thought I heard it coming from the house.” Griff belatedly noticed Muriel and Michaela exchanging looks. They did not actually mime the gesture for crazy, but he was clearly not making a good impression. So what else was new?

  “Was I playing it?” Marcus asked in surprise. “No. I just found the record this afternoon.”

  Record? These people still played records? And they thought he was crazy?

  “We mentioned it at dinner, Mr. Hadley,” Muriel said. “That’s why it was on your mind.” She spoke kindly, as if to an imbecile.

  “Come in, my boy,” Jarrett said. “No need to hover in the doorway. We haven’t seen you today. What have you been up to?”

  “Yes,” Michaela said. “What have you been up to?” She wore brown lipstick and black nail polish. It was sort of attractive and sort of scary—like her paintings, which Griff had done some research on the night before.

  “Rum and Coke?” Marcus asked.

  “Uh...sure.”

  There was no sign of Chloe. A tall, bearded man with long blond hair sat on the sofa next to Michaela. He wore a navy blue suit and a burnt orange shirt, and as awful as that sounded, it somehow worked on him. This would no doubt be the Viking. Chloe’s detested stepfather and Michaela’s newest husband. Loki, Chloe had called him. And he did look like Loki. A Wagnerian Loki, not a Hollywood Loki.

  He made a striking figure, dwarfing the brocade sofa’s fragile frame, dwarfing the very room.

  “I don’t think you’ve met Ring yet,” Jarrett said, following the direction of Griff’s gaze.

  Loki—Ring—half rose, shook hands with a crushing grip, and sank back on the sofa. He didn’t speak. His eyes, pale blue crystal, met Griff’s and his mouth curled in a baring of teeth that was probably supposed to be a smile. He seemed like a good match for Michaela.

  Marcus delivered a tall glass of rum and Coke, and Griff sipped it gingerly. Yes, he had definitely outgrown rum and Coke, but he’d be stuck drinking it for the duration of his stay at Winden House.

  “Did you have a profitable day, my boy?” Jarrett asked.

  “I did,” Griff said. One thing he had learned from the Nassau police, and it had considerably reduced the compass of his investigation, was that there was absolutely no doubt that Matthew and Gemma Arlington had died in an accident. They had gone sailing on their Whitewater yacht despite warnings of bad weather, and they had radioed for help once they ran into problems. Investigators had a play-by-play transcript of the tragedy. Bad judgment, bad luck and bad weather. It was that simple. It was that sad.

  “How so?” Michaela asked.

  “Did you attend university, Mr. Hadley?” Muriel asked at the same time.

  Attend university? Did she think she was in an English drawing room comedy? Well, maybe she was.

  “U Rock,” Griff said. “University of Wisconsin—Rock County. It’s a two-year college. My mother died during my second year, so I was never able to go on and complete my bachelor’s. I have an AAS degree with emphasis on Communication Arts.”

  “How difficult for you. Your mother must have been quite a young woman. You’re how old?”

  They were all looking at him expectantly.

  “Twenty-eight this June,” Griff answered Muriel.

  Was it his imagination or did the entire room seem to breathe a quiet sigh of relief? He remembered Jarrett saying young men about the age Brian would be now periodically showed up claiming to be the long lost Arlington heir. Was that part of what they feared? That the book was just an excuse to try and ingratiate himself with Jarrett, position himself to make some dramatic claim to be Brian?

  If that was the case, he wasn’t sure if he was more amused or offended. He disapproved of everything about these people. Did they really think he was willing to lie and cheat his way into becoming one of them?

  Michaela said, “We heard you had a little accident last night.” She grinned broadly. “You lost your camera and all your notes?”

  “There weren’t many notes to lose,” Griff said. “And it was an old camera.”

  She was still smiling as though it was fabulous news. For the first time he gave serious thought to who could have sabotaged the bridge, assuming the bridge had been sabotaged and he wasn’t letting his imagination run away with him again.

  It would take someone tall, physically strong, and possessing a rudimentary knowledge of architecture. Also a rudimentary knowledge of how to use a saw—and where to find one. Or someone who could ask Nels Newland to do the job for her.

  In fact, the only person in this room he could be sure had nothing to do with sabotaging the bridge was Jarrett. He couldn’t even be sure that the real reason Pierce hadn’t hurried back was to make sure Griff wasn’t accidentally knocked out and drowned after Pierce booby-trapped the bridge.

  Although it was very hard to picture Pierce in one of his five-hundred-dollar suits grimly sawing through the bottom of the bridge.

  It was a funny image. Even funnier was how much he didn’t like picturing such a thing.

  “How come you’re so interested in the Arlingtons?” Ring asked. He had a deep, raspy voice and a West Coast accent.

  “It’s an interesting case. It’s still unsolved. And nobody’s written a book on it yet. It seemed like maybe it was time someone took another look.”

  “And you think you can succeed where the police and the FBI failed?” Michaela’s smile was mocking. Tonight she wore a perfectly ordinary full-length black-and-blue beach dress. Of course her beach dress probably cost more than most women’s formal dresses.

  “Well, he can hardly do worse,” Marcus muttered, and his sister threw him a surprised look.

  Mrs. Truscott appeared and announced dinner was ready. They filed into the dining room leaving Acker Bilk to play “Sentimental Journey” to an empty room.

  The food was once again very good. Poached salmon—wild caught not farmed, per Muriel—with cucumber and dill sauce, delicata squash with pomegranates, cauliflower with pine nuts, currants, and fresh Italian parsley—

  “Muriel, will you kindly shut up and let us eat,” Michaela intervened.

  Muriel turned a ladylike shade of purple and glared at her sister.

  “Yes indeed,” Jarrett said, fixing his youngest daughter with a kindling eye. “Do inform us as to what constitutes proper table manners, Mike.”

  It was Michaela’s turn to redden.

  Ring gave Jarrett a narrow look but said nothing. Marcus continued to drink his dinner. Getting plastered seemed to be his nightly goal. Griff was surprised Chloe didn’t choose to eat out more often.

  Had they always been this uncomfortable to be around, or had this dynamic evolved through time and tragedy?

  Griff quietly ate his dinner, watched and listened. With the exception of Jarrett, who made regular efforts to draw him into the conversation, the others were happy enough to ignore him. He didn’t think they forgot him though.

  At one point Muriel mentioned Chloe being on a date and Griff said without thinking, “Are Chloe and Pierce...?” He didn’t finish it because as the words were leaving his mouth he realized that to even ask the question was a mistake.

  An astonished silence followed.

  “Chloe and Pierce?” Muriel said as though she thought she hadn’t heard him correctly.

  “No,” Jarrett answered quietly. “They’re not.”

  “Do you have brothers and sisters, Mr. Hadley?” Muriel asked, and the conversation swirled away again like water parting to make a new course around a boulder.

  “No. I was an only child,” Griff said.

  “That’s sad. No family at all?”

  Michaela said impatiently, “I’m sure Mr. Hadley has all the usual extended family.”

  He didn’t. But he wasn’t going to share that w
ith these people. His mother had been estranged from her family—and apparently his father’s family too. Which, given his mother’s temperament, wasn’t that much of a surprise. In fact, as Griff grew older he had begun to wonder if his father had simply taken off, not died at all. He had found no death certificate, no insurance papers, nothing in his mother’s effects.

  She wasn’t an easy woman to live with, that was for sure. It was the kind of thing she might have lied about. She had always been very proud.

  The Arlingtons kept up their dinner conversation, chatting about a new restaurant that had opened in Oyster Bay, about flower shows, about a planned spring wedding for the daughter of one of their neighbors. Maybe it was for his benefit. Maybe when they didn’t have a distrusted member of the fourth estate at their table they talked about something more meaningful than fashion shows for charity.

  They didn’t talk like people who liked each other. Heck, they didn’t talk like people who even knew each other very well. And a lot of that had to be Jarrett. As much as Griff liked the old man, Jarrett was the patriarch. Jarrett was the alpha in this pack, and if dog eat dog was the rule here, well, Jarrett was the guy who made the rules.

  It was kind of sad. Not that Griff’s own family life had been The Brady Bunch. But he liked to think that maybe somewhere outside of television there were families, even if the family was just two people, where trust and respect and liking was the rule not the exception.

  He had hoped for that with Levi, and for a time it had seemed like maybe that might happen. But in the end, it turned out they didn’t like each other much. Which just went to prove that enjoying the same movies and same books and same music didn’t mean as much as you might expect.

  Dessert was a coffee-flavored crème brûlée with a crackly brown sugar crust. It was served with some kind of wine called a sauterne. Griff rarely drank wine, but he had never had anything in that house that wasn’t delicious, so he went ahead and gave it a try. The sweet wine with its hint of vanilla and honey turned out to be a good match for the delicate and creamy dessert. Crazy to think these people ate like this all the time. No wonder they were divorced from reality. Had anyone here ever done without a meal?