The Arlingtons, with the exception of Muriel, agreed that Johnson had been a good employee. But when he had been hired, he had neglected to mention a youthful conviction for attempted robbery, and Jarrett Arlington was quoted as saying, “Robbery, attempted or otherwise, is a violent crime and not like writing a bad check.”

Even without Muriel’s helpful suggestion, Johnson was an immediate and obvious suspect.

As far as Griff could tell, the family had never come under the shadow of suspicion. Wherever Copper had picked up that nugget about Michaela, it hadn’t been through the police investigation. But then Copper was a local. The Nassau police were...the police. People, even innocent people, tended to close ranks against the police. So while Michaela’s wild-child reputation might be common knowledge among the good folks of Muttontown, it was possible no one had shared their suspicions with Hinder or the FBI.

Griff studied the crime scene photos—in ‘93 most police departments were still using crime scene stills, not video—prepared for another strange reaction like he’d had earlier that day standing in the nursery. But he felt nothing. Maybe it had been low blood sugar. Maybe he was just tired.

The transcript of Johnson’s interrogation was interesting but not particularly enlightening. Though Johnson stuck to his story that he had only thought of sending the ransom note after he’d heard that Brian was missing, he contradicted himself and changed his mind about all kinds of nonessential details.

Not a credible witness.

And there were no other viable suspects.

Open and shut. Which still didn’t explain what had happened to Brian.

Chapter Eleven

The Arlingtons were fighting when Griff walked into the elegant cream-and-gold drawing room at Winden House that evening. The voices were all low and restrained, like you’d expect if an argument broke out in a drawing room, but that couldn’t completely conceal the harsh tones and fierce emotions. They were able to cut off when he stepped through the double doors, but they needn’t have worried because Griff’s attention was on the music playing in the background. A lead clarinet rolled lazily through lush strings in a hauntingly familiar melody.

He stopped dead. “What is that?”

Not surprisingly, everyone in the room stared at him.

“What is what, my boy?” Jarrett asked.

“That music. That tune.” This was the very same music that had woken him his first night on the estate. He was sure of it.

Marcus, who was standing at the alcove bar, said, “That’s Acker Bilk. ‘Stranger on the Shore.’”

“Were you playing this the other night? The night I arrived? I thought I heard it coming from the house.” Griff belatedly noticed Muriel and Michaela exchanging looks. They did not actually mime the gesture for crazy, but he was clearly not making a good impression. So what else was new?

“Was I playing it?” Marcus asked in surprise. “No. I just found the record this afternoon.”

Record? These people still played records? And they thought he was crazy?

“We mentioned it at dinner, Mr. Hadley,” Muriel said. “That’s why it was on your mind.” She spoke kindly, as if to an imbecile.

“Come in, my boy,” Jarrett said. “No need to hover in the doorway. We haven’t seen you today. What have you been up to?”

“Yes,” Michaela said. “What have you been up to?” She wore brown lipstick and black nail polish. It was sort of attractive and sort of scary—like her paintings, which Griff had done some research on the night before.

“Rum and Coke?” Marcus asked.

“Uh...sure.”

There was no sign of Chloe. A tall, bearded man with long blond hair sat on the sofa next to Michaela. He wore a navy blue suit and a burnt orange shirt, and as awful as that sounded, it somehow worked on him. This would no doubt be the Viking. Chloe’s detested stepfather and Michaela’s newest husband. Loki, Chloe had called him. And he did look like Loki. A Wagnerian Loki, not a Hollywood Loki.

He made a striking figure, dwarfing the brocade sofa’s fragile frame, dwarfing the very room.

“I don’t think you’ve met Ring yet,” Jarrett said, following the direction of Griff’s gaze.

Loki—Ring—half rose, shook hands with a crushing grip, and sank back on the sofa. He didn’t speak. His eyes, pale blue crystal, met Griff’s and his mouth curled in a baring of teeth that was probably supposed to be a smile. He seemed like a good match for Michaela.

Marcus delivered a tall glass of rum and Coke, and Griff sipped it gingerly. Yes, he had definitely outgrown rum and Coke, but he’d be stuck drinking it for the duration of his stay at Winden House.

“Did you have a profitable day, my boy?” Jarrett asked.

“I did,” Griff said. One thing he had learned from the Nassau police, and it had considerably reduced the compass of his investigation, was that there was absolutely no doubt that Matthew and Gemma Arlington had died in an accident. They had gone sailing on their Whitewater yacht despite warnings of bad weather, and they had radioed for help once they ran into problems. Investigators had a play-by-play transcript of the tragedy. Bad judgment, bad luck and bad weather. It was that simple. It was that sad.

“How so?” Michaela asked.

“Did you attend university, Mr. Hadley?” Muriel asked at the same time.

Attend university? Did she think she was in an English drawing room comedy? Well, maybe she was.

“U Rock,” Griff said. “University of Wisconsin—Rock County. It’s a two-year college. My mother died during my second year, so I was never able to go on and complete my bachelor’s. I have an AAS degree with emphasis on Communication Arts.”

“How difficult for you. Your mother must have been quite a young woman. You’re how old?”

They were all looking at him expectantly.

“Twenty-eight this June,” Griff answered Muriel.

Was it his imagination or did the entire room seem to breathe a quiet sigh of relief? He remembered Jarrett saying young men about the age Brian would be now periodically showed up claiming to be the long lost Arlington heir. Was that part of what they feared? That the book was just an excuse to try and ingratiate himself with Jarrett, position himself to make some dramatic claim to be Brian?

If that was the case, he wasn’t sure if he was more amused or offended. He disapproved of everything about these people. Did they really think he was willing to lie and cheat his way into becoming one of them?

Michaela said, “We heard you had a little accident last night.” She grinned broadly. “You lost your camera and all your notes?”

“There weren’t many notes to lose,” Griff said. “And it was an old camera.”

She was still smiling as though it was fabulous news. For the first time he gave serious thought to who could have sabotaged the bridge, assuming the bridge had been sabotaged and he wasn’t letting his imagination run away with him again.

It would take someone tall, physically strong, and possessing a rudimentary knowledge of architecture. Also a rudimentary knowledge of how to use a saw—and where to find one. Or someone who could ask Nels Newland to do the job for her.

In fact, the only person in this room he could be sure had nothing to do with sabotaging the bridge was Jarrett. He couldn’t even be sure that the real reason Pierce hadn’t hurried back was to make sure Griff wasn’t accidentally knocked out and drowned after Pierce booby-trapped the bridge.

Although it was very hard to picture Pierce in one of his five-hundred-dollar suits grimly sawing through the bottom of the bridge.

It was a funny image. Even funnier was how much he didn’t like picturing such a thing.

“How come you’re so interested in the Arlingtons?” Ring asked. He had a deep, raspy voice and a West Coast accent.