Today he was really just getting his bearings. He was supposed go through photographs and whatever other papers the Arlingtons had supplied. Tomorrow he had an appointment with the Nassau police after meeting with Benjamin Copper, who had covered the story for the Oyster Bay Runner. On Wednesday he was planning to interview Odell Johnson in Sing Sing prison. That was the big one. No one other than law enforcement and his lawyer had ever interviewed Johnson before, and Griff was hopeful that after all this time Johnson might be willing to talk. Twenty years was a long time to keep a secret.

After Wednesday he had the rest of his stay to follow up on interviews and hunt down additional leads. It was going to be a very busy week. And that was just the way Griff liked it.

When he was done with breakfast, Griff grabbed his notebook and camera and made the trek across the bridge and up the green hillside. Leaving the archway of trees, he decided to check out the sunken garden where the party had taken place the night of Brian’s kidnapping.

Winden House’s sunken garden was directly influenced by the “Italian” garden at Hever Castle in England—which had itself been influenced by the popular formal court gardens of the Renaissance and Romantic era. Coincidently, Hever had been commissioned by an American; previous owner William Waldorf Astor had required a fresh air gallery for all his Italian sculptures. Winden House’s comparatively skimpy fifty acres of formal garden included tall hedges forming elaborate mazes, a copse of white plum trees called the “Fairy Wood,” terraces of rose gardens, elegant ponds and fountains, museum-worthy statuary and lush mounds of nonnative plantings.

Ridiculous, in a word.

Ridiculous, but undeniably beautiful. The smell of cut grass mingled with the profuse perfume of roses and other flowers. The formal urns and architectural features reminded Griff of Forest Home Cemetery in Milwaukee—except this all belonged to one family rather than being shared and appreciated by everyone.

Griff pulled his camera out and took a few shots of Nels Newland on the lowest terrace level of the garden, pruning rose bushes. There were no doubt better pictures of the garden, but Griff thought the image of bent and bowed Nels laboring in the gigantic, empty maze made a statement.

He put his camera away and went down the moss-stained steps to where Nels was working.

“Morning!” Griff called.

Newland grunted without turning his head.

Griff was not easily put off. He said, “This is a beautiful garden.”

Newland nodded, unimpressed with the cheery approach.

Griff surveyed the interconnecting garden rooms. He had been wrong about one thing. From here it wasn’t possible to see the walkway from the house leading into the tunnel of trees. The hedges and stone walls were too tall. So someone could have whisked Brian down the path that night. The only danger of discovery would have come from guests walking to and from the house to the garden. Guests and servants. Once someone reached the dark tunnel of trees, the chances of discovery were nil.

With everyone in the garden—or moving back and forth from the kitchen to the garden—the house had been essentially empty. The police favored the theory that Brian had been carried out the front door to a waiting getaway car. So many vehicles were coming and going that night, parked along the drive and crowded in the courtyard, that one more would have been all but invisible. It would have taken nerves of steel to carry the kid out the front door like that, but it was a shorter trek than carrying him out the back of the house and all the way down to the rear of the estate and the sea.

If Griff was planning this kind of crime, he’d have gone for the back exit because it offered more options for escape if things went wrong. But however it had been done, the crime was an audacious one, so maybe worrying about alternate escape routes hadn’t been part of the kidnapper’s thinking.

Griff snapped a couple of photos of the barrier made by vegetation and turned back to Newland, who was steadily ignoring him. “I like roses. You’ve got some of the nicest I’ve seen in a long time.”

Nothing from Newland.

“Is that white one Alba Semi-Plena?” Griff pointed to an eight-foot climber with milk-white flowers and golden stamens.

Newland threw him a sideways look and unbent enough to say, “White Rose of York, that’s right. It blooms once a year.”

“Spring or summer,” Griff agreed. “My mother used to grow roses. Heirloom roses were her favorite.”

Newland eyed him thoughtfully.

Griff turned slowly, taking in the green and blooming levels of the garden. “It must take a pretty good-sized staff to maintain the grounds of a place this big.”

Newland straightened. Or at least straightened as much as his curved back allowed. “In the old days we had a small army. Now it’s just me and a couple of local boys on the weekends.”

“Why is that?”

Newland gave him a dour look. “The Arlingtons haven’t fallen on hard times, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Griff grinned. “I wasn’t suggesting anything. For all I know there’s a brand new trend in gardening, like Miss Arlington’s food movement.”

Newland’s heavy face twisted as though he was in pain, but then he snorted, and Griff realized it was amusement he was struggling with. “I told Miss Muriel if she wants to grow her own beets and carrots, she’s going to have to hire more help.”

Griff nodded. “I guess you don’t generally have a lot of contact with the family?”

“Enough.” Newland returned to pruning roses with brisk, decisive chops.

Griff studied the wall of tall hedges, which provided both a sound barrier and an effective screen. “This is where the party was held the night Brian was kidnapped, right? They put a dance floor out in the center of the green there?”

“That’s right.”

“A Midsummer’s Night Dream. That was the theme. Like the play.”

“Wouldn’t know. I don’t go to plays.”

“Me neither. We had that one in school though. Did the garden look then like it does now?”

“Yep.”

“The hedges were as tall as they are today?”

“Pretty much. Coupla new rose bushes over there by the obelisk.” Newland pointed out a pair of pink and coral tea roses well on their way to engulfing a ten-foot wrought-iron structure.

“You’ve got a good memory.” Griff asked, “Did you know Odell Johnson?”

“I knew him.”

“What did you think of him?”

“I didn’t think anything of him.”

“Were you surprised when he was arrested for kidnapping Brian?”

“Surprised?” Newland sounded indignant. “Sure, I was surprised. Anyone would have been surprised. It’s not like the Arlingtons would have knowingly hired someone capable of that.”

“Was there any doubt in your mind that Johnson was guilty?”

Newland took another whack at the yellow rose bush. “No.”

“Did you know that Johnson continues to this day to claim he’s innocent?”

“Well, they all do, don’t they? Criminals?”

“I guess they do, yeah.” Griff studied Newland’s shuttered expression. “Who did hire him?”

Newland’s heavy head turned and he stared at Griff without comprehension.

“Who did the actual hiring? Not Jarrett Arlington, I assume? Was it Miss Arlington?”

“The Arlingtons don’t do the hiring and firing.” Newland scoffed at the very idea. “Mr. Tuppalo. He was the butler back then and he hired Johnson when the old chauffeur left. After Tuppalo retired, the Arlingtons decided they didn’t need a butler anymore. Not like the old days when the house was always full of guests. It’s pretty quiet around here now. Just the family mostly. Nothing Mrs. Truscott can’t manage.”

Griff vaguely recalled Mr. Tuppalo from the old news reports. He was one of those ancient family retainer types and had not come under suspicion in the police inquiry. At least, not that the papers had picked up. “How well did Mr. Tuppalo know Johnson?”