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.