Stranger on the Shore

by Josh Lanyon

  “I met Mrs. Shelton,” Griff said slowly.

  Muriel’s mouth pursed in a quickly repressed smile. “So I heard.”

  He smiled too. “It’s not like Brian’s kidnapping is a secret. I don’t understand why everyone is so against this book.”

  “That is because you’re young and unsophisticated.”

  Griff’s eyes widened, but before he could respond, Muriel said, “You have no concept of what it was like for us. The police were bad enough. The reporters were worse. We had sightseers. Can you imagine how difficult that was for a family like ours?”

  “I guess it would be difficult for any family.”

  “Of course. But we are private people. This book you propose to write is going to start it all up again.”

  He said neutrally, “I don’t think that’s true.”

  “As I said, you’re young and unsophisticated.”

  “You know, I’m not that young. And I’ve been working as a reporter my entire adult life. It’s true that my book will remind people of the case, but I don’t think you’re going to have out-of-towners tramping through the flowerbeds.”

  Muriel’s eyes met his with surprising directness. “You think my concerns are superficial, shallow. I know. You have no idea what it is to be someone whom everyone else watches, looks up to.”

  “That’s true,” Griff said, disliking her more with every passing minute.

  “Our family tragedy was exploited for national entertainment. And now when it’s mostly forgotten, you want to stir it all up again. Not, as you’ve said yourself, because you think you can shed any new light on the case. You’re simply interested in the human drama.”

  “I didn’t mean I couldn’t bring a fresh perspective. It’s been twenty years after all. I just meant I don’t believe I can crack the case—a cold case—when the FBI failed.” As he said it, Griff wondered if he was being entirely honest. Didn’t he maybe hope just a bit that given time and distance, he might be able to uncover some telling bit of information, something that might make it possible to know for sure what had happened that night?

  Of course he did. He was trying to keep his expectations in check, but yes. Any writer would hope the same.

  “What questions do you have for me?” Muriel asked.

  “None yet. It’s hard to know what to ask before I’ve had a chance to—”

  “I’d rather get them out of the way.”

  What a difficult woman. Was she deliberately being as awkward as possible? Griff grimly considered her pale, bland features.

  “You must have some idea of what questions you want to ask,” Muriel prompted. “You said you’ve been doing this your entire adult life.”

  Yes and no. This wasn’t like some of the other crimes Griff had written about. With an adult casualty there were always plenty of questions, starting with the character of the victim. But in this case, What was Brian like? Did Brian have any enemies? wasn’t relevant. Brian’s character was not a factor. Brian had been a target strictly because of the family he had been born into.

  “Did you enjoy the party that night?”

  She looked at him in disbelief. “Isn’t that like asking Mrs. Lincoln how she enjoyed the play?”

  “I don’t think so. I think sometimes it’s easier to remember details when you’re focused on something tangential to the thing you’re trying to recall.”

  Muriel’s pale eyes narrowed. “What exactly do you think I’m trying to recall?”

  “Everything. Anything. Anything that might be useful now. Did you enjoy the party? It was supposed to be costume, right? The theme was A Midsummer’s Night Dream.”

  “No,” Muriel said. “No, I didn’t particularly enjoy the party. And yes, the theme was A Midsummer’s Night Dream, but our costumes weren’t supposed to be based on the play. How ridiculous. That was something else the papers got wrong. The décor was based on A Midsummer’s Night Dream. The costumes were supposed to be from the 1920s. It was typical of Gemma’s ideas.”

  “It sounds imaginative.”

  “Oh, Gemma was very imaginative. She hired a projectionist to show the movie, the 1935 movie, using the small woodland area in the garden as a screen. It was ridiculous. No one could see anything. It was just flickering black-and-white shadows against the trees.”

  “Did you want to see the movie?”

  “Of course not. No one wanted to see an old movie like that.”

  Griff wouldn’t have minded. He liked old movies. Even old movies of Shakespeare’s plays.

  “Why didn’t you enjoy the party?”

  “As I said, it was Gemma’s kind of thing, not mine. It wasn’t really Matthew’s kind of thing either, but she could always wind him around her little finger.”

  Griff smiled sympathetically. “Did you dress up?”

  “Yes,” Muriel said reluctantly. “Gemma dragged Mike and me to a shop in Chelsea that sold vintage clothing.”

  “Mike is your sister Michaela?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you all lived here in this house?”

  “It’s not as though there’s a shortage of room.”

  “No. True.”

  Reluctantly, Muriel said, “Gemma and Matthew talked about getting a place of their own, but Daddy couldn’t bear the idea of being separated from his first grandchild. And then afterwards...I don’t think Gemma cared enough about anything to worry where she lived.”

  “They didn’t have any more children, Matthew and Gemma?” He knew they hadn’t; he was simply giving voice to his curiosity. “Maybe it would have helped.”

  “You don’t replace a child as though it were a puppy with distemper.”

  “I know. I just meant...” Yeah, it had probably been a dumb comment. Griff changed tack. “Had there ever been any previous attempts at kidnapping a member of your family? Threats?”

  “Threats, yes. Threats are common for people like us.”

  Griff swallowed the first smartass comment that came to mind. “So you don’t take that kind of thing seriously?” He had noticed and wondered about the fact that there was no apparent security presence on the estate.

  “We take serious threats seriously. Mostly what we get are letters from cranks. People asking for money and threatening to kill us if we don’t give it to them. Those are turned over to the detectives at the Nassau County Police Department.”

  “Were you surprised when Odell Johnson turned out to be Brian’s kidnapper?”

  “Surprised? Hardly. I’m the one who pointed the police to Johnson. I thought of him instantly. And of course I was correct. They found the ransom money underneath the floor of the toolshed in the house where he was renting a room. He admitted everything.”

  That wasn’t accurate. Johnson admitted writing the ransom note and picking up the money, but he staunchly denied actually kidnapping Brian, which maybe made sense if he had killed Brian. Any chance for leniency, clemency, would be kaput from the minute Johnson admitted to killing a four-year-old, whether by accident or not.

  “That’s helpful, thank you.”

  “That’s it? Those are all the questions you have?”

  “For now.”

  “All right. If anything occurs to you, I’m right here.” She did not mean it figuratively. She picked up another album and began to flip through the pages.

  Griff said, “Well, but I don’t want to keep you from—you probably have a million things to do.”

  “This is more important,” Muriel assured him.

  It seemed she meant it, because she did not leave the table once. Not in three hours. Hoping to discourage her, Griff determinedly looked through the albums, not responding to her sighs or murmurs from across the table as she also browsed. She was driving him nuts though.

  Especially aggravating
was the way she kept Gemma’s journal in her own personal space. She didn’t open the journal, though every now and then she absently straightened it or traced a finger across the cover. He couldn’t tell if the possessiveness was conscious on her part or not. He wanted to ask her to pass the journal to him, but that was equally irrational possessiveness on his part. Plus he was leery of precipitating another family drama. He wondered if Michaela had had a chance to present her case to Jarrett yet, and how that had gone.

  He was still here, so maybe that was the answer.

  Finally, just as Griff was seriously considering leaping across the table to throttle her, Muriel looked at the delicate silver watch on her meaty wrist. “It’s time for luncheon.” She looked at Griff expectantly.

  “Sure, go ahead,” Griff told her, trying not to sound relieved.

  “You’ll be taking your break as well?”

  “I don’t eat lunch usually.”

  “You’re welcome to lunch with us, you know.”

  “Yes. But I should probably work.”

  Muriel tried to insist, but Griff remained politely obstinate, and in the end her desire for lunch proved stronger than her need to keep him under surveillance.

  He watched her consider taking the journal with her—she actually picked it up—but then she returned it to its place on the table. He exhaled a long sigh of relief as she left the room and vanished down the long hallway.

  While the morning was not a write-off, he certainly wasn’t making the progress he’d hoped. Although that was partly his fault for letting Muriel get to him.

  He half rose, reaching across the wide table for Gemma’s journal, dropping it as someone behind him cleared their throat. It took a second or two to spot Jarrett Arlington standing on the landing above him.

  Jarrett was smiling, but there was something odd in his expression as he gazed down at Griff. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said apologetically, and now his expression was ordinary enough. “I wondered if you’d like to stop for lunch? I was thinking we could dine in my study.”

  How. The. Hell? There was no way Jarrett could have come through the hall entrance. There was a small door to the right of the fireplace, but it was in Griff’s line of sight, and anyway, he wasn’t so preoccupied he could have missed Jarrett walking up that narrow circular staircase. There had to be a door leading onto the second tier of the library, but he couldn’t see one.

  “Is there a hidden door up there?” Griff asked.

  “Yes,” Jarrett answered easily. “One of the bookshelves swings out.”

  How long had Jarrett been standing there watching him? Had he listened in on Griff’s conversation with Muriel? Not that there was any reason he shouldn’t, but it left Griff feeling uncomfortable and unhappy knowing he could be spied upon. Maybe a dramatic way of putting it, but that was what it amounted to.

  “Are there a lot of secret passages or secret doors in the house?”

  “One or two. But they’re not secret.” Jarrett smiled tolerantly down on him. “Lunch?”

  He actually was hungry, now that he thought about it. Besides, lunch with Jarrett was an opportunity too valuable to miss. “Yes, thanks.”

  Griff swiftly climbed the circular stairs to the second landing.

  “Is Muriel making a nuisance of herself?”

  Griff remembered that heavy sigh he’d given when Muriel left the room, and his face warmed. “Er...I know she’s trying to be helpful.”

  “Then that’s more than I know,” Jarrett said. “How is your investigation going? Are you finding what you need?”

  “Yes. Thank you. I was just about to start reading Gemma’s journal.”

  “Ah.”

  “Did she keep other journals?” Griff reached Jarrett, who had moved to stand next to a section of the bookcase which did indeed swing out to offer a view of a long dark hallway.

  Jarrett hesitated. “She did, yes. All her life Gemma kept a journal. But losing Brian changed her. She never really got over it. I don’t believe she would have wished for those thoughts to be shared with anyone. Except Brian, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Jarrett smiled, ushering Griff into the passageway. Surprisingly, the interior hall was carpeted and paneled. Light fixtures with frosted glass globes were positioned every few feet although they were not lit, perhaps because an oblong of daylight fell across the open end of the passage, offering watery illumination.

  “Does everyone have access to this passage?” Griff asked. Was this how Brian’s kidnapper had avoided discovery within the house? It made sense.

  “No. This passage only leads to the master bedroom and the master study. I’m the only one who uses it.”

  “But if someone knew it was here?”

  “Only the family and the household staff know about these walkways.”

  In other words everyone on Long Island knew.

  Jarrett said, “I should probably warn you that Pierce is joining us for lunch.”

  “I just lost my appetite.”

  Jarrett laughed. “That’s why I waited to tell you. I think you and Pierce got off on the wrong foot.”

  Griff threw a look over his shoulder. “Is there any other possibility with that guy? He tried to buy me off last night. Did he happen to mention that?”

  “Yes, he told me.” Jarrett sounded as untroubled as ever. “He really is trying to do the right thing, Griffin. He believes he’s protecting us. That’s his job.”

  Griff said nothing. He believed Pierce Mather to be an arrogant and obstructive ass, but he wasn’t the first arrogant and obstructive ass he’d had to deal with, and he wouldn’t be the last.

  “Pierce has always been a bit of an overachiever.” Jarrett’s voice floated from behind. Jarrett was beginning to remind Griff of the Cheshire Cat with his mysterious comings and goings and oblique pronouncements. Did anything shake him?

  What had Jarrett been like twenty years ago? How had he handled Brian’s disappearance? How long had he remained confident of Brian’s return? Would that certainty have been reassuring or infuriating for Gemma and Matthew, especially as the years passed?

  Griff’s speculations were derailed as Jarrett said, “Through the years, we’ve occasionally had young men show up claiming to be Brian.”

  “I didn’t realize that.”

  “Of course none of them had anything but the most superficial resemblance to Brian. They weren’t even well-thought-out scams, just hungry young hustlers trying their luck. Pierce made short work of them, as you might imagine. But I’m afraid the result is that Pierce has become cynical toward his fellow man in his old age.”

  “He’s not that old.”

  “The Pierces of this world are born old. But don’t let him scare you away, my boy.”

  “I’m not that easily scared.”

  “I know,” Jarrett said. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  Chapter Six

  Like Jarrett the day before, Pierce stood at the arched window, staring down at the star-shaped courtyard. He turned, unsmiling, as Griff preceded Jarrett into the study through the door in the bookcase.

  Did Pierce ever dress in anything besides expensive suits by Italian designers? This afternoon’s ensemble was an impeccable olive gray. His shirt was snowy white, his skinny tie an elegant silk creation of tiny bronze and navy Milligan flowers. Where Griff came from men did not wear ties with flowers unless they wanted to get beaten up. Pierce apparently dressed with impunity. But then, Italian suits aside, Pierce looked like a guy who could handle himself. He’d probably had boxing lessons. Heck, he’d probably had fencing lessons.

  “Hey there,” Griff said, because what else was he going to say? They couldn’t both stand there stone-faced and silent. Maybe Pierce hadn’t been born old, but he’d been born
a hard-ass, no question.

  “Jarrett seems to feel I owe you an apology for last night,” Pierce said. It wasn’t exactly stiff, but it wasn’t warm and fuzzy either.

  “Not me,” Griff said. “Jarrett is the one you should be apologizing to for trying to go behind his back.”

  Jarrett chuckled. “Well said, my boy.” He patted Griff’s shoulder.

  Pierce looked less amused. “Let’s call it a test. If you’d agreed, that would have told us everything we needed to know.”

  “Let’s call it what it was,” Griff said. “A bribe. With a few threats thrown in.” He shrugged. “That’s okay. I’m not easily discouraged.”

  Pierce’s dark brows drew together in a forbidding line. “You’re very...plainspoken, aren’t you?” Griff suspected Pierce had originally intended to phrase that differently but remembered Jarrett’s presence in time.

  “Yes. I am.” It was a legacy of his mother, who had been a blunt and forthright woman. Sometimes painfully so.

  To his surprise, Pierce laughed. “Okay. I don’t mind plainspoken.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  Pierce’s eyes narrowed as though he wasn’t sure if Griff was still being plainspoken or merely sarcastic.

  Griff smiled.

  Lunch was served at a low table amidst a comfortable grouping of leather chairs and sofas. The meal consisted of French dip sandwiches, which Griff had never had before, but were apparently a favorite of Pierce’s, and had been prepared in his honor. The sandwiches were made of thinly sliced, slightly rare roast beef piled onto warm baguettes which were then dunked in small bowls of au jus. They were served with homemade French fries and ice cold beer.

  “Is this organic beef?” Pierce asked.

  “I don’t know, but we won’t tell Muriel,” Jarrett replied.

  Pierce grinned, white teeth sinking into crusty bread. He had thrown his tie over his shoulder to protect it from the juice, a gesture that seemed almost disarming. Jarrett winked at Griff, and Griff realized that Jarrett Arlington was genuinely fond of Pierce. Pierce was not merely a legal advisor. He was a family friend, had probably known Jarrett all his life. So maybe that better explained both the guard dog mentality and Jarrett’s tolerance for it.