Stranger on the Shore Page 8

  “Yeah, it’s tempting but I don’t think so.”

  “Mother will be sooo disappointed.”

  And with that she was gone as quickly as she’d appeared.

  * * *

  The room turned golden in the late afternoon light. Retreating sunlight embroidered the outline of shelves and furniture in gleams and glints, stitched its way up the winding staircase, flashing off bronze leaves and varnished wood, and traced the gilt and leather and silk spines of old books.

  Griff checked his phone. Five o’clock. He finished making notes and closed the last photo album. If he never saw another baby picture of Chloe or Brian kissing puppies or sniffing flowers, he would die a happy man.

  A bird trilled loudly behind him, and he whirled, nearly knocking back his chair as he jumped to his feet. An ornate brass wire cage sat on a small inlaid table, and inside the cage, a blue-and-red automaton bird was singing sweetly.

  A clock. A weird, beautiful clock.

  Griff sat down again, staring at the bird, feeling lightheaded from the rush of blood to his brain. It had shaken him, that surprisingly lifelike burst of sound in his ear. He watched the tiny beak open and close, the blue-and-red tail feathers lift and lower. He couldn’t seem to look away.

  Why hadn’t he heard the bird earlier? Did the bird only sing at five o’clock?

  The bird warbled on, its leaf-twined stand rising up and down like the pole on a tiny merry-go-round. It made him feel dizzy.

  Dizzy?

  Maybe his nerves were more on edge than he’d realized. Lunch with Pierce and Jarrett had brought home to him what a monumental task he’d set himself. Not only that, there was also the pressure of Jarrett’s expectations. Jarrett was hoping that Griff was going to discover something, figure something out, make some kind of breakthrough. It didn’t matter how many times Griff said he wasn’t trying to solve the mystery of what had happened to Brian, Jarrett was still hoping for that very thing.

  The bird stopped singing as abruptly as it had begun.

  Griff stared at it and one tiny black bead of an eye stared back. He became aware that his heart was beating way too fast, that his breaths were growing shallow, that he was afraid. Terrified. He was about to have a full-blown anxiety attack. The first in years.

  No. No, no, no. Not here. Not now. There was no reason. No call to freak out. He was not in any danger. Whatever had happened to Brian had happened long ago. Even if Johnson had not acted alone, it was unlikely his accomplice was still around. Or that this accomplice would care about Griff’s book. Johnson didn’t care. Johnson had even agreed to see him. As for the rest of it, other people’s expectations were not his responsibility, were not his problem. Not even Jarrett’s.

  True. All true. But he still felt sick with the crushing weight of huge and formless worry.

  Griff leaned over and put his head between his knees, forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths. All the while he talked to himself, reasoned with himself. Nothing to be frightened of. No cause for panic. Was it the book? It had to be the book. But the worst that could happen was that no one would agree to publish it. So what? He would just publish it himself.

  Maybe he wouldn’t sell many copies. Maybe he wouldn’t sell any copies.

  But really it was way too soon to worry about that. First he had to write the book. He had to finish it. He had to start it.

  Griff kept talking to himself in a mix of scolding and encouraging, and after a minute or two he could catch his breath again, his heartbeat slowed to its normal rhythm. He sat up and wiped his damp forehead.

  Jeez. He thought he’d gotten better at handling stress. He was better, but maybe he hadn’t acknowledged till now what a big deal this book was. If he screwed it up, he might screw up his whole—no. Stop. This was definitely not the way to chill out.

  He needed to get out of this house. Do something to clear his mind. He could go for a walk. Yes. Physical activity always helped. He’d go for a walk and then head down to the cottage and have dinner there. He’d had enough of the Arlingtons for one day. And vice versa, he bet. He could go over his notes and plan tomorrow’s trip to the Nassau police department.

  Yes. A plan. Great. Having a plan always made everything better.

  He rose, gathered his things, longingly considered Gemma’s journal, and left the library.

  He didn’t meet anyone on his trek back to the front door, although the brown—and-white spaniels came yapping down the staircase and tried to cut off his retreat. He skirted them and slipped out the front, closing the doors just in time. He could hear the dogs barking hysterically on the other side of the door.

  Of course his strategic maneuver had left him on the wrong side of the house, but that was okay. He had wanted a walk and it was a good opportunity to get the lay of the land.

  Here was a thought. Suppose the kidnapper had left by the front entrance but cut immediately around the side of the house? He could have stayed off the paths, stuck to the trees and shrubberies. It would take a bit longer but it eliminated both the problem of getting out through the busy kitchen or walking down the crowded front drive without being seen. By the time Brian was taken, not so many guests were milling around the entry hall. It would mean a prolonged and more nerve-racking journey, but in the end it was probably the safest route.

  Griff set off walking down one of the dirt side paths. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice he wasn’t alone until someone came up beside him, long strides matching his own.

  “Not staying for dinner?” Pierce asked. “Aren’t you missing out on an opportunity to study all your suspects in their natural habitat?”

  Griff gave him a cool look. “Are the Arlingtons your only clients? Because you seem to be hanging around here a lot.”

  “Am I cramping your style?”

  “Nope. Not at all.”

  Pierce’s laugh was sardonic. “So let me see if I have this straight. You became interested in the Arlingtons and Brian’s kidnapping because The Great Gatsby is your favorite book?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Close enough,” Pierce said.

  “Close enough? That doesn’t seem like a very lawyerly thing to say. I thought lawyers were precise and accurate.”

  “We’re talking about you now, Griff.”

  “The question is, why are we talking about me?”

  “Because you don’t add up.”

  “I don’t add up? Check your math,” Griff mocked. “It doesn’t matter if I add up for you, Pierce. You made your objections and they’ve been overruled by Jarrett.”

  “Now we’re getting to the real Griffin N. Hadley,” Pierce said. “I thought that golly gee Midwestern boy had to be an act. What does the N stand for, by the way? Is that even your real name?”

  “It stands for None of Your Business. And yes, it is my real name. Who would make up a name like mine? Were you waiting out here for me?”

  “Not exactly,” Pierce said. Griff couldn’t tell if that was true or not. “So The Great Gatsby. A story about a man who fakes his way into other people’s lives.”

  “That’s not what the novel is about.”

  “What is the novel about and how did it lead you here into the home of people I care for?”

  “Give it a rest,” Griff said.

  “Not a chance.” Pierce seemed to be enjoying himself.

  They reached a Y in the path. Griff turned right and Pierce kept step along with him. Griff tried to swallow his irritation, but it was no use. “I have a question for you,” he said to Pierce. “Were you here the night Brian disappeared?”

  Pierce didn’t actually stumble, but he did seem to check. The next instant he was striding alongside Griff again. “Excuse me?”

  “Were you here that night? Your family was obviously close to the Arlingtons. Your da
d was Mr. Arlington’s best friend. Were your parents invited? Did they bring you along? You’d have been...what? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

  “Fourteen,” Pierce snapped. “How the hell old do you think I am?”

  “It’s hard to tell with you lawyer types. About forty?”

  Pierce gave him a long, narrow look. Griff smiled innocently.

  “I’m thirty-four.”

  “My mistake.”

  “Yeah, right,” Pierce muttered.

  “Were you here that night?”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a simple yes or no question, Counselor. Why are you so cagey?”

  “Yes, I was here that night,” Pierce said curtly. “My sister wanted to see the costumes and the decorations, so my parents brought me to keep an eye on Di. We spent the evening eating hors d’oeuvres and watching videos.”

  “Watching videos where?”

  “In Gemma and Matthew’s bedroom.”

  Griff stared at Pierce’s hard profile. “That never came out in any of the news stories.”

  Pierce was staring off into the green distance of sculpted hedges and elongated shadows. “Why should it have? We didn’t see anything. We didn’t hear anything.”

  “You were right there on the scene though. Wasn’t the nursery next to Gemma and Matthew’s bedroom?”

  “Yes. As I said, neither of us saw or heard anything. We watched videos and then we fell asleep. We didn’t even know about Brian until the next morning.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “My parents left the party before anyone knew Brian was gone. They woke us up, drove us home, we all went to bed and didn’t hear about Brian until the morning.”

  “What did you think of Brian?”

  “Think of him?” Pierce seemed genuinely astonished. “I didn’t think anything of him. He was four years old. I was fourteen. If I thought of him at all, I thought he was a pain in the ass ba—” He cut himself off and Griff understood why. His predecessor at the Banner Chronicle had covered a child murder—the murder of one child by another—and she’d said it gave her nightmares for years. Pierce was too sharp not to see where Griff’s thoughts were headed. Pierce stopped walking. “Let’s get something straight.”

  Griff stopped too.

  “I am not part of your investigation. My sister is not part of your investigation. I may not be able to stop you from digging through the Arlingtons’ personal business, but I sure as hell can stop you from poking your nose into my family’s private affairs.”

  “I didn’t realize it was such a sensitive subject.”

  “The hell you didn’t.” But Pierce sounded cool, once more sure he was in control.

  By now they had reached the tunnel of trees. “Enjoy your evening,” Pierce said, coming to a halt.

  “I’ll do my best,” Griff told him.

  Pierce strode away, there was really no other way to describe that swift, almost forceful gait. His trench coat flapped behind him. A man with things to do and places to go.

  Griff continued into the archway of trees, thinking. The light filtering through the boughs seemed to sparkle green-blue, edging the plants and statues with a mysterious luminescence.

  He had a lot to consider, so it was irritating that his thoughts kept circling back to Pierce. He kept seeing Pierce’s lean, long-legged image stalking away into the lengthening shadows. Griff had certainly touched a nerve there. Why? He didn’t really think Pierce or his sister had conked Brian over the head and shoved him in a toy box. For one thing, given the circumstances they could never have successfully hidden Brian’s body. And that being true, it was impossible to believe any adult would have aided them.

  Griff left the archway of trees. The pink cottage lay before him like a house in a child’s nursery rhyme. The wide and pretty stream tumbled and shone beneath the ornamental bridge. The swans glided tranquilly across the glassy green surface of the upper and lower ponds.

  It reminded him of something. Something important.

  What?

  Still preoccupied in thought, Griff crossed the grassy knoll and started across the bridge.

  The breeze had changed and he could smell—or imagined he could—the brisk sea air, fancied he could almost hear the measured thunder of the distant waves.

  Midway across the bridge one of the boards beneath his feet gave a sharp and sudden crack. With no more warning than that, an entire section of planks caved in, and Griff dropped through space to the water below.

  Chapter Eight

  The cold was a shock. The wet was a bigger shock. Brown-gold bubbles churned and streamed up before Griff’s bewildered gaze as he splashed down. Water rushed into his nose and mouth. He was choking, flailing, conscious of wooden missiles plummeting past, birds flapping in panic, taking flight around him.

  What? Wait. What just happened?

  Instinctively, he kicked and clawed, breaking the surface. The swans were in pandemonium, the chill air alive with wings and hissing. Had he landed on them? Overhead, another thick plank of wood from the bridge splashed down into the stream and banged into him. He swept it away.

  Someone was yelling to him.

  Still coughing, spluttering, Griff found his footing and stood up. The stream wasn’t much more than five feet deep, but it was wide and the current was surprisingly strong. He turned to see Pierce loping across the bridge.

  Pierce leaned over the side. “Are you all right?” he called down.

  “Watch it. The whole center section is gone,” Griff called back.

  Pierce’s answer was lost as he ducked back. His footsteps thumped overhead as he continued across the bridge.

  Griff waded to the bank, which turned out to be slimy and slippery and steeper than it looked. He was happy to see Pierce appear, slogging down through the reeds and mossy rocks, offering a hand. His fingers closed around Griff’s, his grip warm and surprisingly solid.

  “Are you okay?” He sounded slightly out of breath.

  “That was d-different,” Griff said, scrambling up the bank with Pierce’s help. His teeth were beginning to chatter.

  Pierce let go of him as they reached solid ground. “Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” His shoulder felt bruised where one of the falling boards had hit him. He was lucky it hadn’t struck him on the head. Otherwise he was okay. More surprised than anything.

  “Shit.” Griff grabbed at his shoulder. “My camera.” The strap had either snapped or slipped off his shoulder. Either way his camera was gone.

  He turned to look at the stream which was slowly settling back into its usual lazy rhythm. No sign of his camera. He felt in his pockets and pulled out his cell phone along with his soggy notebook. “Hell.”

  “Be glad that’s all it was,” Pierce said. He sounded terse, as though he didn’t want to encourage any sense of grievance on Griff’s part.

  “I am.” It could have been his laptop. That really would have been a disaster. He couldn’t afford to replace his laptop. His phone would be bad enough. But the phone’s plastic case was supposedly watertight. So here was the test. He pressed and the small screen lit offering a screen saver image of surf and sand and the news that he had two messages. His lucky day.

  Sort of. Griff stared at the bridge. It had seemed solid enough that morning.

  “You’d better get inside and change those clothes.”

  Griff nodded, shivering. He felt rooted in place. “It happened so fast.”

  “Bad things usually do.”

  Did they? Not always, but yes. Part of what made disaster so...so disastrous was the suddenness, the lack of warning.

  Pierce touched his soggy sleeve. “Come on.” He sounded...not kind, but not as brusque as usual.

  Griff turned and
followed Pierce, squelching across the grass. It seemed a long way to the cottage. They climbed the dainty steps to the pink cottage door. Griff’s feet felt heavy. He felt chilled all the way through. He also felt weirdly nauseated. It was only a dunking after all, not a big deal, and he couldn’t have swallowed that much stream water, but yes. He did all at once feel pretty unwell.

  He fumbled his keys out, but dropped them. Pierce retrieved them. Griff waited politely for Pierce to unlock and push open the cottage door, and then he brushed past with a quick, “Excuse me.”

  He made it to the downstairs powder room—literally a powder room, there was no bath or shower—just in time, turning the sink taps on full and then crouching over the toilet and losing all that remained of his lunch. It was quick and comprehensive. Unpleasant but efficient. Afterward he leaned on the sink, splashing water on his blanched face and rinsing his mouth. He could still taste the stream, and the flavor of mud and wet bird made him shudder.

  When he wobbled out of the bathroom, he found Pierce in the tiny kitchen filling a copper tea kettle. “Are we having tea?” he tried to joke. “I think I’m out of cucumber sandwiches.”

  “Unless you want instant coffee.” Pierce gave him a measuring look. “After you shower.”

  “I just had a bath.”

  “How do you like the moss shampoo?”

  Griff laughed, and was surprised at how shaky it sounded.

  Pierce said, “I’m not kidding about the shower. I’d make it a good and hot one. In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re in shock.”

  “Shock.” This time the sound that came out was not remotely amused, so maybe Pierce was right. Being dunked in an ice-cold stream had certainly been a very unpleasant surprise. Griff still felt ridiculously unsettled. He said, “I don’t think I’ve ever had instant coffee.”

  “And if you’re lucky you never will. Though this is purportedly flavored with French Vanilla.”

  “I don’t know what French Vanilla is, but the idea of it is hurting my stomach. I like that you used the word ‘purported’ in conversation.”

  Pierce snorted. “You’re definitely in shock, Hadley. Take your shower and put on some warm clothes. I want to talk to you.”