Stranger on the Shore Page 3

  Chloe was turning, heading back the way she’d come. She threw over her shoulder, “You should be.”

  * * *

  Did rich people dress for dinner or was that just something out of old movies? Griff had no idea and he hadn’t thought to ask—wouldn’t have known how to ask. It was moot anyway because the closest thing he had to formal attire was a pair of dark jeans and the Tommy Hilfiger navy blazer he’d got on sale two years ago and wore to his city hall interviews.

  Anyway, his clothes were clean and they fit right. That was all that anyone should give a damn about, right?

  As he did up the buttons on his shirt, he could hear Levi jeering, “You’re just a reverse snob, Griff. Nobody is more judgmental than you.” Levi still getting the last word, even four months after their relationship was history.

  Griff took a final glance in the mirror, swore, and headed back to the bathroom to have one last shot at slicking down the persistent cowlick that made him look about twelve. It didn’t seem to matter what kind of haircut he got, he always ended up looking like Dennis the Menace.

  Finally, having run out of reasons to stall, Griff left the cottage, walking across the wooden bridge and hiking up the brick path to the villa. Bloodred sunset splashed across the ivory sky, but inside the tunnel of trees it was nearly dark. Discreet blue-white lights shone at the base of the trees to light the way.

  The bees were gone, the birds silent. There was no sound but his footfalls on the old bricks. It was so quiet he thought he could hear the distant crash and thunder of waves.

  Already he had a better sense of what the size of the estate meant in practical terms. So much ground to search, so many places to hide. Even if the kidnappers hadn’t had that significant head start, they would have had a number of advantages.

  Griff left the shelter of the trees and the house stood before him, lights blazing in welcome. Of course, it wasn’t actually in welcome. It was in complete disregard for natural resources and indifference to utility bills.

  He timed the distance it took to walk from the concealment of the trees to the back entrance of the house. Eleven minutes. And he wasn’t rushing. He could have run it in half that time. Even carrying a small child, it wouldn’t have taken much more than five. But for those five minutes he’d be in clear view of both the house and the gardens. Because of the party, there would have been people everywhere, and presumably the walkways would have been well lit.

  Would the kid have been awake or asleep? If awake, he’d have been yelling, wouldn’t he? Crying at least? But maybe he wasn’t awake. Maybe he’d been drugged or knocked over his wee noggin. Which could explain why, even after the ransom had been paid, Brian hadn’t been returned. Maybe he hadn’t survived the first phase of the kidnapping.

  Maybe he was buried somewhere on the estate.

  A strange, shivery feeling slithered down Griff’s spine. Someone walking on your grave, his mother used to say. He glanced instinctively over his shoulder. It was twilight now, the first faint stars appearing in the sky, trees and shrubs and statuary throwing long, sinister shadows across the grass.

  For the first time it occurred to him that if Brian’s kidnapping had been an inside job, that insider might still be alive. Alive and well and living on the estate.

  Chapter Three

  Jarrett Arlington outstretched a hand in welcome. “Come in, my boy, come in. You’re right on time. This is Griffin Hadley, my dears. What will you have to drink, Griffin?”

  At first glance, there seemed to be a lot of people in the drawing room, and Griff’s stomach knotted as he met that barrage of stares. It wasn’t that he hated social situations. He actually liked getting together with friends, going out. You couldn’t be shy and survive as a reporter. It was only situations like this that made him feel self-conscious and uncomfortable.

  But on closer inspection, there were only three other people enjoying their before-dinner apéritifs. Chloe, dressed in a skimpy orange shift that barely covered her ass, was sitting on a long sofa next to a pigeon-breasted woman of about sixty. The woman was dressed in a beige pants suit and pearls. Across from the sofa sat a gray-haired man who looked too much like the older woman to be anything but a brother. He wore khakis, one leg casually crossed over the other, and an Aztec print sports shirt. He was sipping a martini, which he raised in cursory welcome to Griff.

  “Rum and Coke,” Griff answered Jarrett. He didn’t particularly like rum and Coke, hadn’t drunk rum and Coke since college, but he was afraid “a beer” would sound too plebian. Ordinarily that wouldn’t have worried him, but this room with its gold-tasseled ivory velvet draperies, giant oil paintings, and fragile antique furniture intimidated him just a little. Actually...a lot.

  “Excellent. Pierce, will you do the honors?”

  For an instant, Griff thought he’d guessed wrong and Pierce was the middle-aged man in the Aztec shirt, but then he realized the room had a large alcove with a drinks cabinet, and that a tall, well-built man with dark hair stood in front of the cabinet, staring right back at him with a hard, unfriendly gaze.

  The famous Pierce Mather.

  Mather looked to be in his mid-thirties, slick and corporate in an expensive and impeccably tailored suit. Too good looking. The kind of guy with a morbidly obese stock portfolio, a lifetime gym membership and a country-club wife.

  “Rum and Coke coming up.” Mather’s deep voice was cordial enough, so maybe Griff had imagined the hostility he’d read in his eyes. The lawyer set down the decanter of whisky and reached for the ice tongs.

  Jarrett was making the introductions. The woman in pearls was Muriel Arlington. The man in the Aztec shirt was Marcus Arlington. Griff knew that Muriel was Jarrett’s unmarried eldest daughter, and Marcus his youngest son. In between Muriel and Marcus had been Matthew, Brian’s father. Matthew and his wife had died in a boating accident ten years after Brian had been kidnapped, so that accounted for them. There was no sign of the second daughter, Chloe’s mother.

  “How do you do?” Muriel asked with polite lack of enthusiasm. She offered a small, plump hand and disengaged quickly. Her fingertips brushed her thigh, but she didn’t actually wipe her palm on her pants.

  “So you think you’re going to write a book about us?” Marcus smiled, a wide, meaningless smile. His eyes, those same deep indigo blue eyes all the Arlingtons seemed to inherit, did not smile.

  “Not exactly,” Griff said. “I’m writing about Brian’s kidnapping.”

  “You can’t write about the kidnapping without writing about us.” Marcus resumed his lounging position and picked up his martini glass.

  “You’re much younger than I thought you’d be, Mr. Hadley,” Muriel observed.

  Griff got that a lot. He was nearly thirty, but his slight build and fair coloring gave him an unreasonably boyish look. “I’ve been the editor of Crimewatch, the crime/police section of my newspaper, for five years.” Okay, true, he was the only reporter covering the crime beat for the Banner Chronicle, but the title of editor was his, fair and square.

  Muriel looked unimpressed.

  “Good for you, young fella,” Marcus said. Young fella? The older Arlingtons all sounded like close relations of Thurston Howell III. It was like they thought moving their lower jaw to enunciate clearly was ill-bred or something.

  “Pierce, come and meet Griffin,” Chloe called. Her smile was ever so slightly malicious.

  “I’m coming,” Mather replied easily, picking his way through the obstacle course of cast-iron footstools and nesting tables and figurine lamps. He carried Griff’s drink and his own, and he was smiling. It was an attractive smile, assured, friendly...not the smile you’d expect from a guy who had threatened to sue your ass, but something about him made Griff wary all the same.

  “You look like a man who could use a drink.” There was a snap of static electricity as
Mather handed over the rum and Coke, his fingertips brushing Griff’s.

  “Sparks!” Chloe observed as Griff muttered thanks.

  Mather laughed. His eyes met Griff’s. They were the shade of brown that looks almost yellow. Amber. Kind of a weird color. Weird but not unattractive.

  No, to be fair, there was nothing technically unattractive about Pierce Mather. Maybe his aftershave, which was too strong for Griff’s taste and too...spiky. A mix of tobacco and coriander.

  “How are you settling in, my boy?” That was Jarrett, watching Griff and Mather with a bright, alert gaze. “How do you like the cottage? Will it suit you?”

  “Sure,” Griff said, only too happy to have something to focus on besides Mather. “It’s very comfortable.”

  Mather made a faint sound, though when Griff glanced at him, his expression was bland.

  “Excellent.” Jarrett looked pleased. “I think the kitchen has everything you need. You’ll find the larder is fully stocked. But you must feel free to have your meals up here at the house.”

  “Oh yeah,” Chloe chirped. “That would be fun.”

  That was one word for it.

  “I keep kind of irregular hours when I’m working,” Griff said.

  “That’s what kitchen staffs are for,” Jarrett said breezily. “You’re to come and go as you like. The staff will be happy to accommodate you.”

  “Where do you think you’ll begin your investigation, Mr. Hadley?” Muriel asked.

  The others looked at him expectantly. Except for Mather. There was definitely something...ironic about his expression. As though he knew something none of the rest of them did.

  “I’m not sure investigation is the right word,” Griff said.

  “What is the right word?” Mather inquired. Yeah, definitely an ironic glint in his light eyes. That unwavering regard was making Griff self-conscious. As it was probably intended to do.

  “The plan is to write more of an overview of everything that happened, analyze, and then draw my own conclusions. I don’t imagine I can solve the case when both the FBI and the best police in the state failed.”

  “You’re not going to try and solve the mystery of what happened to Brian?” Chloe was looking from Griff to Jarrett.

  “I’m going to look at all the evidence, of course. Re-interview everyone I can. Maybe having a fresh perspective will help, but I’m not a—”

  “Trained investigator?” supplied Mather.

  “No, I’m not.” Griff stared right back at Mather, whose mouth curved in a humorless smile before he took a sip from his glass.

  Jarrett said, “I believe reopening the case will provide answers, provoke some kind of reaction.”

  “Provoke is liable to be right,” Marcus said, draining his glass.

  “Pierce, is your dear mother taking part in the en plein air painting at Sagtikos Manor this weekend?” Muriel briskly changed the subject.

  “Rain or shine,” Mather said.

  At that point, Mrs. True Blood appeared and announced dinner. Griffin found himself sitting across from Mather in the stately dining room. It irritated him to be so aware of Mather, but maybe he was so aware of Mather because Mather seemed to be watching him all the time. Every time Griff looked Mather’s way—which he tried not to do too often—Mather was either looking right at him with that penetrating stare or just glancing away.

  While the meal was served, the conversation flowed along neutral channels: island social events, civic affairs, even the weather. But once everyone was served and Mrs. Truscott had vanished to the nether regions from whence she came, Marcus fixed Griff with a critical eye.

  “What was it that sparked your interest in our family tragedy, Mr. Hadley? You’re from Indiana, aren’t you? How did you learn about Brian’s kidnapping?”

  “Wisconsin. Anyway, a few years ago I was reading about Long Island, and I came across a reference to Brian’s kidnapping. It caught my attention.”

  “Why?” Mather asked.

  Griff glanced at Jarrett, who was watching their exchange with untroubled interest. “I guess because there are still some puzzling things about it.”

  “If you’re that interested in puzzles, I’m surprised you didn’t decide to write about the Long Island serial killer. It would be a lot more commercial.”

  “That case is still open, it’s still under investigation. I’m not a cop.”

  Chloe said, “Why were you reading about Long Island?”

  “Oh. I was interested because of Gatsby.”

  “Who?” Marcus looked from Mather to Jarrett.

  Griff cleared his throat. “The Great Gatsby.”

  “The movie?” Chloe’s puzzlement was plainly mirrored by her aunt and uncle.

  Griff’s face warmed. Not that it was anything to be embarrassed about, but he was sure none of these people would understand his fascination for the authors of the Lost Generation. Especially Fitzgerald. And especially Gatsby. In fairness, nobody in Wisconsin got it either. “The book. There are movies too, yes. Anyway, it’s one of my favorites. I was curious about how much of it was accurate. As far as the setting, I mean.”

  “Oh my God.” Chloe reached for her glass.

  “So you’re really just looking for a tax-deductible reason to visit Long Island?” That was Mather sounding more and more like he was questioning a hostile witness.

  “Ignore them, my boy,” Jarrett interjected with a meaningful look at Mather. “You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone.”

  “Except you, Daddy,” Muriel said. “I hope Mr. Hadley has adequately explained himself to you. Personally, I can’t see what is to be gained by reopening such a painful Chapter in our family history.”

  “I know you don’t, my dear.” Jarrett left it there, and happily so did everyone else.

  The conversation returned to safe and shallow waters and Griff was happy to devote himself to listening while eating his dinner. It was a very good dinner, by any standards. Tomato, arugula, mozzarella salad was followed by a main course of striped bass with fresh spinach and julienne fennel—all island-grown and paired with a white wine from a local vineyard.

  “Are you interested in the food movement, Mr. Hadley?” Muriel asked, after explaining his dinner to him in detail.

  What the heck was the food movement? Griff said warily, “I’m interested in moving food from my plate to my mouth.”

  Across the table, Mather smothered a laugh. Muriel was unamused, however, and delivered a brief but dizzying lecture on “food sovereignty,” farm bill reform, farmland preservation and feedlot pollution.

  “My dear, we’re eating,” Jarrett protested feebly.

  Muriel was unmoved. “Yes. And most of us are eating poison. Every day. Most people in this country are putting poison in their bodies every time they sit down to dine.”

  “No wonder I can’t eat anything without puking,” Chloe remarked. In fact, she didn’t seem to have eaten more than a couple of tiny heirloom tomatoes and a few bites of the spinach. She was drinking, though. They all drank like fish, from what Griff could tell.

  “People need to know these things,” Muriel insisted.

  Happily, dessert arrived, and even Muriel’s political activism couldn’t withstand the temptations of white chocolate cheesecake drizzled with raspberry brandy sauce.

  Imagine eating like this every night? Griff tried but failed. Normally his diet consisted of peanut butter toast, milk—a lot of milk—and takeout. This single meal probably cost more than a week’s worth of his groceries.

  Marcus, seeming to rise out of the alcoholic mists, said abruptly, “They were playing ‘Stranger on the Shore’ that night. I remember they played it over and over.”

  Muriel said in a quiet, flat voice, “Gem loved that song.”

  “I’ve n
ever heard it since that I don’t remember...”

  “Yes.”

  The hair rose on the back of Griff’s neck. “Gem” would be Matthew’s wife, the mother of Brian. Surely Marcus and Muriel were talking about the night that Brian was kidnapped?

  They were remembering details, the kinds of details that had never made it into any description or report of the events of that fatal evening. The kinds of details that maybe meant nothing, but would surely help him better understand and ultimately write more effectively about that night.

  He opened his mouth to ask...he wasn’t sure what, but Marcus looked up and down the table, pushed back his chair, saying briskly, “Bridge, I think?”

  “Do you play bridge, Mr. Hadley?” Jarrett asked, eyes bright with fanatical hope.

  “No. Sorry.”

  “We’ll teach you,” Muriel unbent enough to assure him.

  “I hate to eat and run,” Mather broke in, “but I’ve got to be in court tomorrow.”

  The Arlingtons gazed at him with open disappointment. Mather was regretful but firm, and made his escape.

  It took Griff longer to wriggle loose. He claimed, truthfully, exhaustion and the desire to get an early start the next morning. The Arlingtons brushed this aside, but once they began shuffling cards, it was clear he could have stripped and done a table dance and they probably wouldn’t have noticed.

  Jarrett bade him a vague farewell, the others never looked up from their hands.

  * * *

  Griff liked to think that, as a jaded crime reporter, he wasn’t easily spooked, but there was no question that the grounds of Winden House were atmospheric at night. Maybe it was all those empty-eyed statues, human and animal, peering out from behind shrubberies, or the deep, deep shadows cast by gnarled trees and spidery, ornamental grasses; but there was no arguing the creepy factor was high. As the lights of the villa grew smaller behind him, he was conscious of how far the guest cottage was from the main house. And how isolated the estate was from its neighbors down the coast.

  The sound of the waves carried at night. Other sounds should have carried too—crickets? frogs? owls?—but all was quiet. There was only the dull, steady thud of his shoes on the damp bricks. The scent of wet grass and moldering leaves rose from the cooling earth as he entered the long tunnel of rhododendron trees.