Stranger on the Shore Page 5

  Maybe Tuppalo hadn’t known Johnson. Maybe he had. Just because Johnson hadn’t been local didn’t mean there was no connection between them. “Where was he from?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “Is Mr. Tuppalo still living?”

  “No. He passed...” Newland thought it over. “Probably fifteen years now. Maybe more.”

  That was too bad. Tuppalo might have made an interesting subject for an interview. “Do you know if Mr. Tuppalo has any family locally?”

  Newland said reluctantly, “His daughter May still lives in Syosset.”

  “Is she married? Would you happen to know her last name?”

  “Chung. But you’re wasting your time. The police went over all this with Tuppalo. They asked the same questions. Tuppalo didn’t know Johnson. The idea of Mr. Tuppalo involved in any crime, let alone kidnapping, is crazy.”

  “Oh sure,” Griff said easily. “But it’s my job to go over everything again. It can’t hurt to double-check all the facts, right?”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Newland said.

  * * *

  When Griff reached the house Mrs. Truscott informed him that he was too late for breakfast.

  “That’s okay, I already ate,” Griff told her.

  This indifference to being snubbed seemed to annoy Mrs. Truscott, who followed her first salvo with the information that Mr. Arlington was too busy to talk to Griff and he was to head straight to the downstairs library where family papers and photo albums had been left out.

  Griff was pretty sure Jarrett Arlington had not phrased it “too busy to talk to you,” but he was more than happy to find he would have access to these precious research materials without having to be considerate of anyone’s feelings. He was not exactly sure what the “family papers” consisted of. Jarrett had mentioned at one point that Gemma Arlington kept a diary. It was hard not to imagine something like the journals Anne Morrow Lindbergh had kept—what an incredible resource that would be. There were obvious and painful correlations between the infamous Lindbergh kidnapping and the Arlington family’s tragedy. But there was no guarantee that Gemma Arlington’s diary would be more than a record of her daily appointments or what she consumed on her diet, assuming rich ladies had the same complicated eating habits as the women Griff worked with at the Banner Chronicle.

  Mrs. Truscott led the way to the library, clearly not trusting Griff on his own in the house. She did not speak to him, and her heels tapped hollowly down the corridor.

  The library was a long, two-tiered room accented with marble and gold leaf. Thousands of books, probably more books than in the entire Janesville public library, were housed on carved walnut paneled bookcases that stretched ceiling-to-floor. A green-and-blue tapestry large enough to serve as a circus tent hung at one end of the room. The tapestry depicted a young man with a single golden apple and three complacent-looking females. On the other end of the room was a fireplace surrounded by a magnificent black-marble mantel. The mouth of the fireplace was taller than Griff. Two chairs and a spindly game table with a delicate ivory and ebony chess set were arranged before the hearth.

  “My God,” Griff murmured, gazing up at the ornate marble mantel. It looked like a memorial monument.

  Mrs. Truscott cast him another of those condemnatory looks.

  Griff bit back the rest of his thought, which was that it was ludicrous that any one family should possess something like this when entire towns, cities, states couldn’t afford to keep their museums and art galleries open. Mrs. Truscott was clearly a willing proletariat slave to her capitalist masters. He asked instead, “Anything by Fitzgerald or Hemingway?” He was half joking, half not. Just to hold a first edition of The Great Gatsby would be amazing.

  “The downstairs collection consists of books on literature, history, religion, art, philosophy and sailing.”

  “Sailing?”

  “Nautical and seafaring books.”

  “Right.” Maybe ranking sailing right there with religion and philosophy did make sense for the Arlingtons.

  “Some of these books are over a century old.” Mrs. Truscott sounded as proud as if the library was her own.

  “I believe it.”

  Griff walked toward a long mahogany library table where stacks of leather-bound photo albums had been laid out. The albums were all neatly labeled. He opened the one with a start date of 1975. The youthful, highly photogenic faces of the Arlington sons and daughters smiled up from boats and ponies and armfuls of purebred puppies.

  “I didn’t expect anything so well-organized. This is impressive.” His entire collection of family photographs fit in a large manila envelope. In fact, for all he knew, Levi had taken the envelope along with nearly everything else when he left.

  The Mrs. Truscotts of the world did not roll their eyes, but without so much as the twitch of a facial muscle she managed to convey her lack of surprise at his abysmal ignorance of all things Arlington.

  “Is this something else you’re responsible for?” Griff asked. “It must be a real job keeping the press clippings in order.”

  “Certainly not.” But then she softened. “Mrs. Arlington—Mr. Matthew’s wife—put these albums together. She collected all the loose photos back from when the house was first built and then she sorted and cataloged them.” The momentary softening was for the long-dead Mrs. Arlington, not Griff. The next moment Mrs. Truscott said tartly, “Mind how you handle those. They’re fragile.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Griff spoke absently because he had noticed the bulging, pale lavender book on the far side of the table. His heart sped up. A plain lavender cover? It had to be some kind of ledger or a journal. Gemma’s diary?

  “And you’re not to take any of these things out of this room,” Mrs. Truscott warned him, in a tone that would have done any museum curator proud.

  “I won’t.”

  Even distracted as he was, he knew she wanted to continue admonishing him but was out of material. He offered his most reassuring smile. Her heavy brows drew together, but she retreated at last, the brisk click of her heels fading down the length of the room and then falling into silence.

  Griff snatched up the journal. The moleskin cover felt soft and strangely alive to the touch. He opened it. Please return to: Gemma Macy Arlington read the graceful, feminine script on the inside cover.

  But Gemma had been dead for over a decade, and the secrets of the dead were fair game to scholars and journalists alike.

  The journal began in 1992 and ended in 1994. Three years. With the crucial year being 1993. Griff sent a mental thank-you to Jarrett and turned the first page. January 1, 1992.

  When I lived in New York the constant noise used to get on my nerves. Planes, trains, and automobiles. Barking dogs, yowling cats. The crazies and the bums swearing on the streets. The constipated plumbing in my apartment building, my neighbors’ TV blasting on at all hours. But the silence here in the winter is so complete sometimes I wish an air raid siren would go off.

  Even the snow is quieter here.

  Right on the dot, Gemma chatting away with the ease of the lifelong journaler. Griff flipped quickly through, and yes, there was an entry for every day. Some were pages long, some were no more than a couple of lines. Happily none of them had to do with daily caloric intake or appointments with hairdressers.

  He couldn’t help it. He flipped ahead to Saturday, June 26 but was disappointed to see only a few notes about Gemma’s dress—pale blue chiffon with beaded bodice—and Chinese lanterns for the party. Chinese lanterns?

  That was disappointing, but then the kidnapping had not happened until later that night. So of course there would be no mention. Griff turned the page.

  Nothing.

  A blank page.

  In an odd way the stark creamy emptiness after pages and pages of dreamy thinking
aloud and chatty commentary seemed to say more than any words could have.

  There were several blank pages and then Gemma’s narrative picked up on July 4.

  I keep thinking about how much Brian loved the fireworks last year. If I close my eyes I can hear his excited laughter and see his little hand reaching up, pretending to snatch the gold and purple and green bursts from the sky.

  Griff was not sentimental, and his mental image of Gemma Arlington was of a spoiled, pampered woman who, until her child was taken from her, probably believed tragedy was another woman wearing the same dress to a party. But something in the painful simplicity of that recollection made him clear his throat.

  The next entry was two days later. This was a longer passage, two or three pages.

  I hear myself saying such stupid things. It’s impossible, it’s wrong, it’s unfair...

  Griff sat down in the nearest chair and began to read. After a time he was distracted by sounds from down the hall. It sounded like a herd of wildebeests had arrived complete with luggage and entourage. A couple of small dogs were yapping and a lot of voices seemed to be raised.

  He lifted his head, listening.

  Footsteps were approaching. A woman’s voice called, “I don’t give a shit what Daddy said. I want to see this so-called journalist for myself.”

  Chapter Five

  “What do you think you’re doing?” The woman standing in the doorway to the library was small and slight with white-blond hair cut austerely short. Like all the Arlingtons her brows were black, her eyes a brilliant blue. She wore biker boots, skintight jeans, and one of those short motorcycle jackets. As Griff studied her weathered face, he thought the biker boots and jacket might not be just affectation. She looked like a woman who had traveled more than a few rough roads. He recognized her—barely—from the news photos taken around the time of Brian’s kidnapping. Michaela Arlington. Jarrett’s second daughter. The youngest of the Arlington offspring.

  “I’m looking through these photo albums.” Griff had had the presence of mind to return the journal to the table when he’d heard footsteps coming his way. It wasn’t hard to guess how someone already hostile to the idea of his inquiries would react to the sight of him reading from her sister-in-law’s private journal.

  “You have no right to be here.”

  “Well, the thing is...” he began apologetically.

  “If you had any decency, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “I intend no disrespect, Miss Arlington.” It was a phrase he’d got a lot of use out of through the years. One person’s news story was another’s intimate secret—sometimes worth a punch or two in the nose. Or worse. Except Brian’s kidnapping and murder was not a secret. It had been big news from practically the moment it happened.

  Michaela said, “You don’t think digging up the dead is disrespectful?”

  “I don’t plan on—” The rest of Griff’s speech was lost as Chloe also appeared in the doorway. She wore an ice-blue dressing gown, and she looked tousle-haired and harassed.

  “Mother, this isn’t helping. You’re just embarrassing yourself.”

  “Hello to you too, Chloe. Nice to know you have my back.”

  “Seriously?” Chloe raked her talons through her hair, ruffling it further. “Your back is all I’ve ever had.”

  Michaela’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Don’t start with me.”

  “Then don’t start with me!”

  Griff wisely kept his mouth shut while they went at it.

  “You’re just going to piss off Grandy.”

  “Grandy deserves to be pissed off if this is the kind of thing he does when my back’s turned.” Michaela turned back to Griff, did a kind of double-take as though she’d only then really gotten a good look at him. Her lip curled. “Oh. I see now. I get it. Sorry, kid. It’s not going to work.”

  “Miss Arlington—”

  “Save your breath. And for your information, I am not Miss Arlington. Miss Arlington is my sister. I am Mrs. Shelton.”

  What was the old quote attributed to P.T. Barnum? I don’t care what the newspapers say about me as long as they spell my name right. But maybe he was being unfairly cynical. She did seem sincerely and utterly pissed off.

  “Of course. Sorry,” Griff said.

  Chloe tried again to drag her mother away. Michaela shrugged her off. She pointed her finger at Griff. “Pack your bags. You’re going to be out of here by lunch. No way am I about to allow this to happen.” She turned and stalked away down the hall.

  No sooner did she depart than a pair of bow-legged brown-and-white spaniel-type dogs appeared in her place and began barking at Griff. They seemed to be taking turns, one yapping furiously, then pausing to let the other get a few observations in.

  Chloe shook her head. “I hate my mother,” she told Griff. She bent, scooped up the dogs, and also withdrew.

  Griff waited, but when no further interruptions materialized, he picked up the nearest and smallest photo album and sat down again. He wasn’t sure if he was about to be booted out or not. He assumed not. He assumed Jarrett had a pretty good idea of what he was dealing with when he’d confidently said he’d deal with objections from his kinfolk, but families were tricky. Even Griff knew that much.

  Either way, best not to waste any time. He opened the album. These were all photos of Brian. Baby photos looked pretty much the same—not hugely interesting, in Griff’s opinion. He flipped through pages of Brian the infant, Brian the toddler, Brian the scrawny little kid. Snub-nosed and tow-headed. Cute enough, if you liked kids. Griff had no strong feelings either way.

  He made quick notes regarding photos he’d like copies of for the book, used his phone to snap a few pictures as reminders and reference, and put the album aside. Remembering Pierce’s theory on why Jarrett had agreed to cooperate with Griff’s project, he hunted for the album dated 1993.

  It wasn’t hard to pick Matthew Arlington out from all the other fading images, and yes, there was a superficial resemblance. At Griff’s age, Matthew had also been tall and fair, slight and boyish. But it wasn’t doppelganger time or anything. It probably hadn’t hurt Griff’s petition that he was the same general physical type as Matthew had been, but Jarrett seemed like a shrewd old duck. His decision to work with Griff had probably been based on a number of factors, including the supposition that being inexperienced, Griff might be easier to control. Even manipulate.

  You didn’t work the crime beat, even in a little town like Janesville, without developing a mildly jaded outlook. Griffin grimaced inwardly and went back to looking for suitable photos for his book.

  Thinking of which, sooner or later he was going to have to come up with a title. He’d been toying with a couple of possibilities. Little Boy Lost was his current favorite, although a quote from A Midsummer’s Night Dream might work too. It would be nice to work in something from Fitzgerald, but no. Probably not. He was sincere about not intending to deliberately cast the Arlingtons in a bad light. Of course, it might work out that way in the end, depending on what he learned over the next few days. Assuming he learned anything.

  Griff continued to scrutinize pages of photos. It was like looking at magazine advertising. Lots of shots of beautiful people amusing themselves in expensive ways. Didn’t these people ever take a bad picture? Or a candid picture? Of course this was before the days of Instagram and selfies. Heck, it was before the days of cell phone cameras. Even so, it seemed like Matthew and Gemma might have kept a stash of private photos. He and Levi certainly had. Griff wasn’t looking for anything sensational, just something more...human.

  But if it came down to it, these photos would do, and almost none of them had ever made it into any of the news reports or articles of the day, so that would be a coup right there. Assuming Michaela did not prevail and he would shortly be packing his bags. Bag.

&n
bsp; He studied photographs, took more copies, made additional notes.

  “There you are.”

  Griff’s head jerked up as Muriel Arlington sailed into the room. Today she wore a tweed skirt and a yellow sweater set. Her pearls looked real. Not that he would know.

  “Do you plan on dining with us tonight, Mr. Hadley?”

  “I...hadn’t thought about it. Do you need an answer now?”

  “It would certainly be helpful.” She gave him a tight smile.

  Griff weighed the value of more face-to-face time with the Arlingtons against the strain of more face-to-face time with the Arlingtons. “I’ll probably be working through dinner,” he said. “But thank you.”

  “Oh, you’re to come and go as you please, Mr. Hadley,” she said with that brittle friendliness. “Daddy made that clear.”

  “Even so I’ll try to stay out of everyone’s way,” he promised her.

  Her gaze fell on the photo album Griff had been studying, moved to the stack to the right of him. “You see, this is the very thing I was afraid of.”

  “I’m sorry?” Griff asked. So much for the notion of being able to work in private. Were the Arlingtons taking shifts?

  “This. This. You.” Her small, plump hand indicated Griff and the collection of albums. “Is anyone supervising you?”

  “Supervising me? I...no.”

  Muriel pulled out the chair across from him and plopped down. She regarded Gemma’s journal for a long, long moment. Then, as though hypnotized, she reached for it. She opened it—and then just as quickly closed it again. Griff did not know what to make of the expression that fleeted across her face. Pain? Embarrassment? Remembrance? Whatever that emotion was, it was gone as she stared at him from across the table.

  Griff stared back at her.

  “Go on,” Muriel said. She nodded at the album he had been studying. “If you have questions, I’ll answer them.”

  “Uh, thank you.” Was she really going to sit there and watch his every move? What did she think he might do? Steal photos? Pocket objets d’art? Or was this something else entirely?