Stranger on the Shore - lanyon Josh (лучшие бесплатные книги txt) 📗

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

About the Author

Copyright

Chapter One

It was stupid to be nervous.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t qualified. Not like he couldn’t handle this. Not like anyone was expecting him to solve the mystery of what had happened to four-year-old Brian Arlington on that long ago summer’s eve. He was only writing a book—and these days everyone was writing a book.

Griff sucked in a long breath and reached for the car door handle. But he didn’t open the door. He continued to sit staring at the white Italianate facade of the villa, graceful columns, punctiliously flat roofs, balconies with black wrought-iron railings, and all the while his heart was beating too fast in that mix of anticipation and anxiety. More anxiety than anticipation which was just...weird.

The best way to deal with it was to get his ass out of the car and in front of those elegant, imposing double doors.

What was the worst that could happen? The old man might change his mind, might decide he didn’t want to cooperate, didn’t want Griff staying at the estate, didn’t want Griff to write the book at all. All or any one of those would be disappointing, yes, but they would only amount to stumbling blocks, and a couple of stumbling blocks wouldn’t stop Griff. It was unlikely to happen anyway since Griff’s staying at the Arlington estate had been Jarrett Arlington’s idea.

So?

Why was he still sitting here, heart in his throat and hands like ice?

It was a long time, years, since he’d experienced an anxiety attack. He sure as heck didn’t have time for that now.

He was tired, that was all. Bone tired. He’d been driving for nearly two days. Fifteen hours behind the wheel. It was nearly a thousand miles from Wisconsin to Long Island. As the lakes of Madison had given way to the thunderstorms of Illinois, the sooty industry of Ohio, the red bricks, red barns, red cows of Pennsylvania...he had felt further and further adrift from everything he knew and loved, an explorer heading off for the New World only to find that happiness really was in his own backyard.

Yeah, he needed to get out more, that was for sure.

Griff took a deep breath, yanked open the door, and unfolded from the battered Karmann Ghia.

A bird, hidden in the green leaves of the tall hedge, trilled a cheerful greeting and took flight. The sun was bright and warm for Long Island in April. The brisk air was salty sweet with the scent of the sea and newly bloomed lilacs. It steadied him. Ridiculous that he should need steadying, but that was the way it was. Then again, this gig was kind of a big deal. A big deal for anyone, but especially for the crime beat reporter of the Banner Chronicle, paid circulation 4,401.

By rights the story should have gone to a C.J. Chivers or an Ann Rule. It was still hard to believe that he, Griffin N. Hadley, had been tapped to write the account of one of the most famous kidnappings of the last century. So, okay, maybe some nervousness was permissible.

He walked across the courtyard, sparkling white pebbles and shells crunching beneath his chucks, passed between two weathered stone griffins—hopefully a good omen—up the six long, narrow steps to the next terrace, past a water-stained and silent fountain, up six more long, narrow steps, through the columns and arches of the wide portico to the double front doors with their amber-and-black stained-glass panels.

It took a second or two to locate the doorbell buzzer, concealed as it was in a large, bronze sunburst. Griff pressed the buzzer and nothing seemed to happen. Maybe, like the fountain, the bell no longer worked?

He glanced around. It was not that the house or grounds looked shabby, exactly, but the grass was a little long, the lilac hedges were a little ragged, the paint was a little faded.

Had the Arlington family fallen on hard times? Not according to his research. Maybe this was winter on the Gold Coast. Maybe it really was hard to get good help these days.

Griff pressed the doorbell again.

The nearest door swung open and a tall, gaunt woman in a severely plain black dress said, “I heard you the first time.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Griff said guiltily. “I didn’t...” He let that go.

“No, you didn’t.”

In a funny way she reminded him of his mother. His mother when she was in one of her tempers. Same general physical type, same snapping dark eyes and strong features, though his mother had been softer and prettier—and much younger.

He tried, “I’m Griffin Ha—”

“I know who you are,” she cut him off. “Mr. Arlington is waiting to see you.”

Now that was odd, right? Griff didn’t pretend to know how the other half—or, more exactly, the other one percent—lived, but he was pretty sure the help wasn’t supposed to take that tone with visitors. But then he probably didn’t look like the usual visitor to Winden House. Maybe he should have searched around for a trade entrance.

“And you are?” he asked, refusing to be cowed.

Her eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Truscott. I’m Mr. Arlington’s housekeeper.”

Truscott. The name was familiar. Griff was sure she had been employed at the time of Brian’s kidnapping, but not as housekeeper. Back then the housekeeper had been a Mrs. Cameron, now deceased.

Mrs. Truscott led the way through an elegant entryway. Griff looked around and tried not to gawk. It wasn’t easy. Creaking beneath his feet was the much-photographed diamond parquet floor, and stretching right over his head was the low, cream-colored compartmented ceiling. It felt unreal. Dreamlike. To his left curved the famous marble staircase the kidnappers had carried little Brian down that fateful night.

He’d studied this entry hall many times in so many pictures. Now he was here, crossing the glossy walnut-and-rosewood parquet and following Mrs. Truscott up the graceful staircase. It was like walking into a history book—except that Griff was the one supposed to write the history.

Well, he was ready. He’d done his homework. He knew more about Winden House than he knew about the house he’d grown up in. The villa sat on 160 acres and had been built in 1906 by Gold Coast architects Hiss and Weekes. The entire estate was comprised of the main house, two greenhouses, a solarium, a swimming pool, a five-room guest cottage and two barns. Once upon a time the Arlingtons had bred horses, which was the reason for the two barns. What the excuse was for all the rest of it, he couldn’t imagine. He wasn’t here to judge, though.

The ceiling in the downstairs library was gilded in gold leaf; the stained-glass ceiling on the upper level had originally been a skylight. The night Brian Arlington had been kidnapped, there had been a party in the sunken garden behind the house. The party theme had been A Midsummer’s Night Dream. A pretty wild affair according to the news accounts of the day.

A lot of facts, a lot of information, but none of it could compare to three minutes inside the house. There was no substitute for the actual experience of hearing the brisk click of Mrs. Truscott’s sensible heels on the marble steps; for breathing in that unique scent of fresh cut flowers, furniture polish and expensive old age; for the first glimpse of the glittering sea through the Serlian windows, or the sight of gold-framed paintings that ought to be hanging in museums. Yeah, if the Arlingtons were running short of cash, they could always sell a painting or two.

“This way,” Mrs. Truscott said as they reached the second landing and a life-sized oil portrait of a slim young man holding a pocket watch. Mrs. Truscott sounded like someone speaking to a wayward kindergartener. Griff eyed her curiously. She looked to be in her sixties, but she moved briskly and her back was as straight as a yoga instructor’s.