Chapter Three

Jarrett Arlington outstretched a hand in welcome. “Come in, my boy, come in. You’re right on time. This is Griffin Hadley, my dears. What will you have to drink, Griffin?”

At first glance, there seemed to be a lot of people in the drawing room, and Griff’s stomach knotted as he met that barrage of stares. It wasn’t that he hated social situations. He actually liked getting together with friends, going out. You couldn’t be shy and survive as a reporter. It was only situations like this that made him feel self-conscious and uncomfortable.

But on closer inspection, there were only three other people enjoying their before-dinner apéritifs. Chloe, dressed in a skimpy orange shift that barely covered her ass, was sitting on a long sofa next to a pigeon-breasted woman of about sixty. The woman was dressed in a beige pants suit and pearls. Across from the sofa sat a gray-haired man who looked too much like the older woman to be anything but a brother. He wore khakis, one leg casually crossed over the other, and an Aztec print sports shirt. He was sipping a martini, which he raised in cursory welcome to Griff.

“Rum and Coke,” Griff answered Jarrett. He didn’t particularly like rum and Coke, hadn’t drunk rum and Coke since college, but he was afraid “a beer” would sound too plebian. Ordinarily that wouldn’t have worried him, but this room with its gold-tasseled ivory velvet draperies, giant oil paintings, and fragile antique furniture intimidated him just a little. Actually...a lot.

“Excellent. Pierce, will you do the honors?”

For an instant, Griff thought he’d guessed wrong and Pierce was the middle-aged man in the Aztec shirt, but then he realized the room had a large alcove with a drinks cabinet, and that a tall, well-built man with dark hair stood in front of the cabinet, staring right back at him with a hard, unfriendly gaze.

The famous Pierce Mather.

Mather looked to be in his mid-thirties, slick and corporate in an expensive and impeccably tailored suit. Too good looking. The kind of guy with a morbidly obese stock portfolio, a lifetime gym membership and a country-club wife.

“Rum and Coke coming up.” Mather’s deep voice was cordial enough, so maybe Griff had imagined the hostility he’d read in his eyes. The lawyer set down the decanter of whisky and reached for the ice tongs.

Jarrett was making the introductions. The woman in pearls was Muriel Arlington. The man in the Aztec shirt was Marcus Arlington. Griff knew that Muriel was Jarrett’s unmarried eldest daughter, and Marcus his youngest son. In between Muriel and Marcus had been Matthew, Brian’s father. Matthew and his wife had died in a boating accident ten years after Brian had been kidnapped, so that accounted for them. There was no sign of the second daughter, Chloe’s mother.

“How do you do?” Muriel asked with polite lack of enthusiasm. She offered a small, plump hand and disengaged quickly. Her fingertips brushed her thigh, but she didn’t actually wipe her palm on her pants.

“So you think you’re going to write a book about us?” Marcus smiled, a wide, meaningless smile. His eyes, those same deep indigo blue eyes all the Arlingtons seemed to inherit, did not smile.

“Not exactly,” Griff said. “I’m writing about Brian’s kidnapping.”

“You can’t write about the kidnapping without writing about us.” Marcus resumed his lounging position and picked up his martini glass.

“You’re much younger than I thought you’d be, Mr. Hadley,” Muriel observed.

Griff got that a lot. He was nearly thirty, but his slight build and fair coloring gave him an unreasonably boyish look. “I’ve been the editor of Crimewatch, the crime/police section of my newspaper, for five years.” Okay, true, he was the only reporter covering the crime beat for the Banner Chronicle, but the title of editor was his, fair and square.

Muriel looked unimpressed.

“Good for you, young fella,” Marcus said. Young fella? The older Arlingtons all sounded like close relations of Thurston Howell III. It was like they thought moving their lower jaw to enunciate clearly was ill-bred or something.

“Pierce, come and meet Griffin,” Chloe called. Her smile was ever so slightly malicious.

“I’m coming,” Mather replied easily, picking his way through the obstacle course of cast-iron footstools and nesting tables and figurine lamps. He carried Griff’s drink and his own, and he was smiling. It was an attractive smile, assured, friendly...not the smile you’d expect from a guy who had threatened to sue your ass, but something about him made Griff wary all the same.

“You look like a man who could use a drink.” There was a snap of static electricity as Mather handed over the rum and Coke, his fingertips brushing Griff’s.

“Sparks!” Chloe observed as Griff muttered thanks.

Mather laughed. His eyes met Griff’s. They were the shade of brown that looks almost yellow. Amber. Kind of a weird color. Weird but not unattractive.

No, to be fair, there was nothing technically unattractive about Pierce Mather. Maybe his aftershave, which was too strong for Griff’s taste and too...spiky. A mix of tobacco and coriander.

“How are you settling in, my boy?” That was Jarrett, watching Griff and Mather with a bright, alert gaze. “How do you like the cottage? Will it suit you?”

“Sure,” Griff said, only too happy to have something to focus on besides Mather. “It’s very comfortable.”

Mather made a faint sound, though when Griff glanced at him, his expression was bland.

“Excellent.” Jarrett looked pleased. “I think the kitchen has everything you need. You’ll find the larder is fully stocked. But you must feel free to have your meals up here at the house.”

“Oh yeah,” Chloe chirped. “That would be fun.”

That was one word for it.

“I keep kind of irregular hours when I’m working,” Griff said.

“That’s what kitchen staffs are for,” Jarrett said breezily. “You’re to come and go as you like. The staff will be happy to accommodate you.”

“Where do you think you’ll begin your investigation, Mr. Hadley?” Muriel asked.

The others looked at him expectantly. Except for Mather. There was definitely something...ironic about his expression. As though he knew something none of the rest of them did.

“I’m not sure investigation is the right word,” Griff said.

“What is the right word?” Mather inquired. Yeah, definitely an ironic glint in his light eyes. That unwavering regard was making Griff self-conscious. As it was probably intended to do.

“The plan is to write more of an overview of everything that happened, analyze, and then draw my own conclusions. I don’t imagine I can solve the case when both the FBI and the best police in the state failed.”

“You’re not going to try and solve the mystery of what happened to Brian?” Chloe was looking from Griff to Jarrett.

“I’m going to look at all the evidence, of course. Re-interview everyone I can. Maybe having a fresh perspective will help, but I’m not a—”

“Trained investigator?” supplied Mather.

“No, I’m not.” Griff stared right back at Mather, whose mouth curved in a humorless smile before he took a sip from his glass.

Jarrett said, “I believe reopening the case will provide answers, provoke some kind of reaction.”

“Provoke is liable to be right,” Marcus said, draining his glass.

“Pierce, is your dear mother taking part in the en plein air painting at Sagtikos Manor this weekend?” Muriel briskly changed the subject.

“Rain or shine,” Mather said.

At that point, Mrs. True Blood appeared and announced dinner. Griffin found himself sitting across from Mather in the stately dining room. It irritated him to be so aware of Mather, but maybe he was so aware of Mather because Mather seemed to be watching him all the time. Every time Griff looked Mather’s way—which he tried not to do too often—Mather was either looking right at him with that penetrating stare or just glancing away.