Stranger on the Shore

by Josh Lanyon

  He could still hear the echo of “Stranger on the Shore.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Judging by the turrets and witch’s hat roofs, the London Tower apartment building had started life as a fashionable turn of the century—last century—mansion. But those days were well in the past. The brown front lawn, the windows in need of a wash, and the handmade Rooms for Rent sign all spoke of hard times.

  Griff followed a tattooed guy with a red ponytail and a twenty-four pack of Heineken in through the front door and down the dingy hall to the manager’s apartment. They passed another man, sandy-haired and wearing an Antiques Roadshow sweatshirt, repairing a bicycle tire.

  “Dirk,” said the guy with the bicycle pump.

  Dirk grunted hello and kept walking.

  Griff stopped at the manager’s apartment and rang the buzzer.

  After a time the door opened on an elderly man dressed in jeans and moccasins. He wore his gray hair in two thick braids. Strands of red-and-green beads hung around his neck.

  Now there was a story. Another time, he’d have liked to hear what the old guy had to say for himself.

  Before Griff was halfway through his introduction, the manager informed him that Leland Alvin was no longer a resident of that establishment.

  “So he did live here?” Griff was surprised to find that Alvin had given his real, even if outdated address.

  “Yes.”

  “When did he move?”

  “A couple of months ago. Maybe eight weeks.”

  “Do you have a forwarding on him?”

  “I do not.” The door began to close.

  “No forwarding? None? Isn’t that kind of strange?” Griff asked quickly.

  “Not when you’re running from creditors, it’s not.” The door relentlessly inched onward.

  “Is there anything you can tell me about him? Anything at all?”

  A black and baleful eye peered out at him from the remaining crack of entry. “He paid his rent on time. He lost his deposit when he painted that mural in the dining room.”

  Griff’s heart jumped. “A mural? Could I see the mural?”

  “It’s painted over now. I have new tenants in there.” The door swung shut and sank into its frame with finality.

  Griff sighed in exasperation. He resisted the temptation to ring the buzzer again. What he didn’t want to do was bring undue attention to his inquiries.

  So. Next move? He’d have to knock on some doors. And if that didn’t work, he’d let his fingers do the walking. Phoning Information was still a surprisingly effective way to find someone, especially if you had a first and last name or the name of a spouse. Though chances were Alvin had a cell phone and didn’t bother with a landline. That was okay because nobody stayed off the grid completely, which was why God—or maybe Al Gore—had created the internet.

  The tenant repairing the tire of his bike looked up as Griff passed.

  “I knew Lee,” he volunteered.

  Griff lowered his phone and stopped walking. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Why are you looking for him?”

  “He may have come into some money.”

  The man laughed and set down the pump. “For real? Isn’t that the oldest story in the book?”

  “This time it’s true. I’m working on behalf of the estate’s lawyer.” Griff dug around his pockets and offered Pierce’s card.

  The man glanced at the card, but didn’t take it. He offered his hand. “Chad Kelvin. To be honest, I didn’t know Lee as well as Dirk did. Him and Dirk were pretty tight.”

  He nodded down the hall to where the tattooed guy Griff had followed into the building was now piling trash bags that sounded mostly full of aluminum cans. “Isn’t that right, Dirk?” Chad called.

  Dirk directed an impassive look Griff’s way. “Can’t help you, dude.” He planted the final black trash bag atop the mound and retreated back into his apartment. The door closed.

  Chad snorted. “Sorry about that. He’s not exactly Mr. Sociable.”

  “I guess I’d be suspicious too if someone came around asking questions about my friends,” Griff said. “What can you tell me about Lee?”

  “He’s an artist. I know that much. He did different things. He was doing T-shirt designs for that shop on Main Street for a while. I forget what it’s called. Then he started getting more portraits. I think that’s what he really liked, but he said it was hard to earn a living at it. Which is too bad because he was pretty good.”

  “Was he?”

  “I’m not saying I’m any expert. Anyhow, he seemed okay. Had a habit of borrowing things and not returning them. You had to keep an eye on him.” Chad was smiling, so apparently it wasn’t too big a problem. “Like Mr. Hill said, he’s been gone about two months. A little more.”

  “Do you have any idea where he went? This is the last address I have for him.”

  “I do, yeah. As a matter of fact, I helped him move.”

  Griff’s spirits lifted. “Would you have that address handy?”

  “Sure. Hang on.”

  Chad was back in less than a minute with an address scribbled on a piece of yellow legal paper.

  Griff glanced at the paper, folded it, and shoved it in his back pocket. “Was Lee a popular guy? Did he have a lot of friends? A girlfriend?”

  Chad looked thoughtful. “He has a girlfriend. Tall, dark-haired. Her name starts with a C. It was something kind of unusual. I want to say Chlorine. That can’t be right.”

  “Chloe?” Griff suggested.

  “Maybe.”

  “And friends?”

  “Not really. Not that I noticed. Like I said, he and Dirk were tight. He worked a lot.”

  “Did he show his work anywhere?”

  “You mean like a gallery? I don’t think so. I think I’d remember that.”

  “What about clients?”

  “Yeah. He had clients come by. People sitting for portraits. That kind of thing.”

  “Would you have a name or...?”

  “No. All I can tell you is he painted a lot of middle-aged ladies.” Chad winked at him. “The cougar club, if you know what I mean.”

  “How did that pay?”

  “Not that well, but the perks are good I hear.”

  Griff grinned. “Okay, well thank you. You’ve been a big help.”

  Chad waved this away. “Nah. Glad to. Lee was a guy due for a break.”

  * * *

  Alvin was renting a cottage behind a white 1920s bungalow on Fourth Avenue. Fourth Avenue was a quiet, shady street in a quiet, shady neighborhood. “Not affluent” summed it up, but most of the homes looked reasonably well cared for.

  An elderly woman using a walker answered Griff’s knock. She confirmed that Alvin was still living there, though she hadn’t seen him for a few days.

  “Such a sweet boy. So talented.” Unlike the cryptic Mr. Hill at London Tower, Mrs. Honeycutt was more than happy to chat. “He’ll be so sorry he missed you.”

  “Does he get a lot of visitors?” Griff asked.

  Mrs. Honeycutt’s snowy brow wrinkled. “Not so many, no. Not visitors. He paints portraits, you know. So he has customers. Well, I suppose you wouldn’t call them customers. More like sitters.”

  After Chad’s cougar club comment, Griff wondered if customers might not be the word. “I understand he has a girlfriend? Chloe? Maybe she would know where he is?”

  “Not Chloe,” Mrs. Honeycutt said. “Clotilde. Clotilde Lussier.”

  Not Chloe was actually a relief. Griff was willing to follow the trail wherever it led, but he was kind of hoping it wouldn’t lead back to the Arlingtons’ front door. He smiled. “You’ve got a good memory.”

  Mrs. Honeycutt shrugged deprecatingly. “Clotilde is
French Canadian. A nice girl. My husband was French Canadian.”

  “Would you have an address or a phone number for Ms. Lussier?”

  She thought it over. “Yes. I believe I do. When Leland filled out his rental application he listed her as his next of kin in case of emergency.” Her expression grew pensive. “I don’t think they’re together anymore.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  Yes, it was, and Mrs. Honeycutt gave him an earful about it. Young people today just didn’t understand how much work it took to make a relationship last. They wanted it to be like the movies. But love wasn’t all fireworks and champagne. It was compromise and respect and affection.

  At last she recollected her daughter was arriving to take her to lunch and then shopping, and she disappeared inside to get the address. When she returned, she handed a pink index card over to Griff. Griff thanked her and jogged back to his car.

  Behind the wheel, he checked his phone and saw that Pierce had left a message.

  Griff listened to Pierce’s terse, “There’s been a development. Jarrett wants to move ahead with having Alvin legally recognized as Brian. And he wants to reinstate the old will whereupon Brian inherits everything. Call me when you can.”

  “Not losing any time,” Griff muttered, clicking off. He started to phone Pierce back, but then decided he might as well wait until he’d spoken to Clotilde. He turned the key in the ignition and headed over to Lussier’s residence.

  He found a parking place along the crowded street and unfolded from the Karmann Ghia. He walked up the cement path and then up the wooden staircase to the front door of the blue-and-white two-story.

  A short, plump, very pretty blonde in a white sweater and black leggings answered the door.

  “Clotilde Lussier?” Griff asked.

  She laughed. “No. I’m Gail. Clo’s roommate.”

  Griff launched into his story about Leland Alvin inheriting property, and Gail stopped him. “That’s cool. But I’m late for work. Come inside.” She opened the door and yelled, “Clo! Clo, there’s someone here for you.”

  A muffled answer filtered through the floorboards. Gail smiled at Griff. “You can wait in the living room. She’ll be right down.”

  Gail disappeared and Griff wandered through to the living room, taking note of the steel-framed Vogue posters on the walls and the shabby chic décor. A cage with a very fat brown-and-white hamster sat on the breakfast bar. The room smelled strongly of some kind of vanilla spice air freshener. Which was certainly better than smelling of hamster.

  “Bye, Clo!” yelled Gail from the hallway.

  The muffled voice called back.

  The front door slammed. The hamster began to walk—not run—on the wheel. Every now and then it stretched its pink paw through the spokes as though it feared it was going to fall through.

  Griff checked out the collection of framed photos on the walls and shelves. There were lots of smiling faces and funny hats and formal clothes. None of them were worn by Leland Alvin. Mostly the photos were of Clo and Gail together. Besties.

  Footsteps clattered down the stairs, across the hall, and a tall, thin brown-haired girl entered the room. The hamster began to run, the wheel squeaking loudly.

  Griff rose and Clotilde stopped dead. “Oh. Who are you?” She had a faint, very attractive French accent. Her eyes were outlined cat-style in black.

  Once again Griff began his story about Leland Alvin coming into some unexpected money.

  “Leland?” Clotilde said doubtfully. “I think you must have the wrong man.” She dropped onto the beige oversized ottoman, curling her legs under her, apparently ready to hear the whole story.

  Studying her wide, intelligent eyes and attentive expression, Griff began to rethink his game plan. “How long were you and Leland together? Didn’t he ever mention his history? It’s pretty dramatic.”

  Her brows drew together. “It’s sad, yes, but not that unusual. Not these days.”

  “Not that unusual?”

  “It happens to a lot of teenagers, right? All those unwanted pregnancies?” She shrugged. “It would have worked fine with the right family. But I’ve heard that happens. A woman believes she can’t get pregnant, they adopt, and voilà! She’s pregnant.”

  It was the first time Griff had ever heard anyone say voilà that it sounded natural. He said carefully, watching her expression, “But all those foster homes...”

  “Foster homes?” She smiled. “Now, I know you have the wrong man.” She shook her head. “That’s Leland. No luck at all.”

  It was not hard getting the story out of her. Through a legally arranged adoption Leland had been given away by his birthmother to a childless couple. When Leland turned thirteen, his adopted mother miraculously managed to get pregnant and deliver a healthy baby girl who became the apple of her parents’ eye. Leland, rightfully or wrongfully, felt pushed out and, when he turned seventeen, left home. He’d been on his own ever since.

  It was a sad story, made more poignant by its very lack of drama, and if Leland hadn’t been lying his way into an inheritance that wasn’t rightfully his, Griff would have been all on his side. But if Clotilde’s version of events was true there was no amnesia, no car accident, no abuse, and certainly no ties to the Arlingtons, which made Leland a liar and a cheat. Griff couldn’t see why Leland would lie to Clotilde.

  “Did he ever mention a family by the name of the Arlingtons?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did he ever talk about trying to get in touch with his birthmother?”

  “No. Absolutely not. He said she already rejected him once.”

  “Why did you break up?” Griff asked.

  She sighed. “I liked Leland a lot. At one time I thought maybe I loved him. But he’s the kind of person that everything goes wrong for—and it’s always someone else’s fault. It got tiring after a while. He was always angry, always blaming the world. And then he started blaming me.”

  “I’ve known people like that.”

  “We all do.”

  “Thank you,” Griff said, rising. “You’ve been really helpful.”

  Clotilde rose too. “I wish it was true that Leland was inheriting a fortune. But somehow it would go wrong, it would not be enough.” She shrugged. “And that would be someone else’s fault too.”

  Griff said goodbye and went out to his car. He was starting the engine when there was a tap on the window. He looked up. Clotilde was dangling a key. He rolled down the window.

  “I meant to send this back to him, but I was afraid it might open a dialog. You see what I mean? Maybe you can give it to him when you see him.”

  “Uh, I don’t think—”

  But she was already gone, trotting back up the cement walk, then running up the stairs.

  Griff stared at the key.

  Bad idea. Very bad idea. But it was also one heck of an opportunity. And it wasn’t a chance he would get again.

  He put the Karmann Ghia in gear and returned to the tidy white house on Fourth Avenue.

  Mrs. Honeycutt did not answer the doorbell, which hopefully meant she had left for her afternoon with her daughter.

  Griff looked up and down the quiet street, then he went around the side of the house and walked up the short driveway to the white cottage in the back.

  From the outside the cottage looked hardly bigger than a large potting shed. The blue-and-purple hydrangeas growing along the side nearly engulfed it.

  Griff knocked on the door.

  He’d have been thrown for a loop had anyone answered, but it was still a relief that nothing but a resounding silence followed his polite tap, tap, tap.

  He drew a breath, inserted the key Clotilde had given him into the old-fashioned lock. The scent of turpentine oil and paints wafted out as he opened the door. He
stepped inside, closing the door hastily after him.

  It took his vision a moment to adjust to the reddish gloom. The first thing he saw were stacks of canvases. Blank canvases and painted canvases. The painted canvases were mostly of women. And most of the women were nude. Griff moved past an easel, taking care not to knock anything over in the cluttered space.

  There were three rooms. A closet-sized kitchen, a closet-sized bath, and a main room with a large wall mirror indicating a pull-down bed. He fanned quickly through a stack of painted canvasses. Some of them were only half-finished. He didn’t recognize any of the subjects, but Chad Kelvin had been right. Alvin was talented. The work seemed professional quality to Griff.

  There was a small built-in desk beneath a window shaded by the screen of hydrangeas. Griff reached for his phone and pressed Pierce’s number. To his surprise, Pierce answered immediately.

  “If I were to get access to Alvin’s living quarters, what would you want me to look for?”

  “If you were to get access? What does that mean?”

  “I don’t think you want to know.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That you should stop asking me what that means, Counselor.” The silence on the other end was deafening. Phone still to his ear, Griff opened the top drawer, glancing through its few contents. “I don’t think I’m going to find anything definitive, but...”

  “Anything with a social security number. Anything that helps us build a history, a track record on this guy. Anything that connects him to any member of the Arlington family or a member of the Arlington household.”

  “I may already have a pretty good start on building that CV. Okay. I’ll be in touch.” Griff disconnected. He began to search the desk in earnest.

  No pay stubs, no credit card bills—no bills of any kind. There were a couple of receipts for painting supplies, paid in cash. No letters, no postcards, no photos.

  Who was this guy?

  Even Griff, who did most of his banking and business online and had been taught from an early age to safely dispose of all nonessential documents, had more paper and pocket litter.