While the meal was served, the conversation flowed along neutral channels: island social events, civic affairs, even the weather. But once everyone was served and Mrs. Truscott had vanished to the nether regions from whence she came, Marcus fixed Griff with a critical eye.

“What was it that sparked your interest in our family tragedy, Mr. Hadley? You’re from Indiana, aren’t you? How did you learn about Brian’s kidnapping?”

“Wisconsin. Anyway, a few years ago I was reading about Long Island, and I came across a reference to Brian’s kidnapping. It caught my attention.”

“Why?” Mather asked.

Griff glanced at Jarrett, who was watching their exchange with untroubled interest. “I guess because there are still some puzzling things about it.”

“If you’re that interested in puzzles, I’m surprised you didn’t decide to write about the Long Island serial killer. It would be a lot more commercial.”

“That case is still open, it’s still under investigation. I’m not a cop.”

Chloe said, “Why were you reading about Long Island?”

“Oh. I was interested because of Gatsby.”

“Who?” Marcus looked from Mather to Jarrett.

Griff cleared his throat. “The Great Gatsby.”

“The movie?” Chloe’s puzzlement was plainly mirrored by her aunt and uncle.

Griff’s face warmed. Not that it was anything to be embarrassed about, but he was sure none of these people would understand his fascination for the authors of the Lost Generation. Especially Fitzgerald. And especially Gatsby. In fairness, nobody in Wisconsin got it either. “The book. There are movies too, yes. Anyway, it’s one of my favorites. I was curious about how much of it was accurate. As far as the setting, I mean.”

“Oh my God.” Chloe reached for her glass.

“So you’re really just looking for a tax-deductible reason to visit Long Island?” That was Mather sounding more and more like he was questioning a hostile witness.

“Ignore them, my boy,” Jarrett interjected with a meaningful look at Mather. “You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone.”

“Except you, Daddy,” Muriel said. “I hope Mr. Hadley has adequately explained himself to you. Personally, I can’t see what is to be gained by reopening such a painful Chapter in our family history.”

“I know you don’t, my dear.” Jarrett left it there, and happily so did everyone else.

The conversation returned to safe and shallow waters and Griff was happy to devote himself to listening while eating his dinner. It was a very good dinner, by any standards. Tomato, arugula, mozzarella salad was followed by a main course of striped bass with fresh spinach and julienne fennel—all island-grown and paired with a white wine from a local vineyard.

“Are you interested in the food movement, Mr. Hadley?” Muriel asked, after explaining his dinner to him in detail.

What the heck was the food movement? Griff said warily, “I’m interested in moving food from my plate to my mouth.”

Across the table, Mather smothered a laugh. Muriel was unamused, however, and delivered a brief but dizzying lecture on “food sovereignty,” farm bill reform, farmland preservation and feedlot pollution.

“My dear, we’re eating,” Jarrett protested feebly.

Muriel was unmoved. “Yes. And most of us are eating poison. Every day. Most people in this country are putting poison in their bodies every time they sit down to dine.”

“No wonder I can’t eat anything without puking,” Chloe remarked. In fact, she didn’t seem to have eaten more than a couple of tiny heirloom tomatoes and a few bites of the spinach. She was drinking, though. They all drank like fish, from what Griff could tell.

“People need to know these things,” Muriel insisted.

Happily, dessert arrived, and even Muriel’s political activism couldn’t withstand the temptations of white chocolate cheesecake drizzled with raspberry brandy sauce.

Imagine eating like this every night? Griff tried but failed. Normally his diet consisted of peanut butter toast, milk—a lot of milk—and takeout. This single meal probably cost more than a week’s worth of his groceries.

Marcus, seeming to rise out of the alcoholic mists, said abruptly, “They were playing ‘Stranger on the Shore’ that night. I remember they played it over and over.”

Muriel said in a quiet, flat voice, “Gem loved that song.”

“I’ve never heard it since that I don’t remember...”

“Yes.”

The hair rose on the back of Griff’s neck. “Gem” would be Matthew’s wife, the mother of Brian. Surely Marcus and Muriel were talking about the night that Brian was kidnapped?

They were remembering details, the kinds of details that had never made it into any description or report of the events of that fatal evening. The kinds of details that maybe meant nothing, but would surely help him better understand and ultimately write more effectively about that night.

He opened his mouth to ask...he wasn’t sure what, but Marcus looked up and down the table, pushed back his chair, saying briskly, “Bridge, I think?”

“Do you play bridge, Mr. Hadley?” Jarrett asked, eyes bright with fanatical hope.

“No. Sorry.”

“We’ll teach you,” Muriel unbent enough to assure him.

“I hate to eat and run,” Mather broke in, “but I’ve got to be in court tomorrow.”

The Arlingtons gazed at him with open disappointment. Mather was regretful but firm, and made his escape.

It took Griff longer to wriggle loose. He claimed, truthfully, exhaustion and the desire to get an early start the next morning. The Arlingtons brushed this aside, but once they began shuffling cards, it was clear he could have stripped and done a table dance and they probably wouldn’t have noticed.

Jarrett bade him a vague farewell, the others never looked up from their hands.

* * *

Griff liked to think that, as a jaded crime reporter, he wasn’t easily spooked, but there was no question that the grounds of Winden House were atmospheric at night. Maybe it was all those empty-eyed statues, human and animal, peering out from behind shrubberies, or the deep, deep shadows cast by gnarled trees and spidery, ornamental grasses; but there was no arguing the creepy factor was high. As the lights of the villa grew smaller behind him, he was conscious of how far the guest cottage was from the main house. And how isolated the estate was from its neighbors down the coast.

The sound of the waves carried at night. Other sounds should have carried too—crickets? frogs? owls?—but all was quiet. There was only the dull, steady thud of his shoes on the damp bricks. The scent of wet grass and moldering leaves rose from the cooling earth as he entered the long tunnel of rhododendron trees.

He walked quickly, eyes raking the blue shadows cast by the lights at the base of the trees, mentally formulating the questions he wanted to ask Jarrett the following day. Trying to think of the questions he wanted to ask, anyway. He kept getting distracted by thoughts of Pierce Mather.

Why had Mather been at the house? Had he simply been there to size up Griff? At whose behest? To what purpose? Or was he a frequent dinner guest? He had certainly seemed very much at home. Almost like a member of the family.

He didn’t wear a wedding ring. Maybe he was interested in Chloe?

But no. Griff had received no impression that there was any kind of sexual chemistry—no chemistry at all—between Mather and Chloe.

If there had been chemistry, it had been between Mather and himself. Bad chemistry. Natural antipathy. Whatever his reason for being there that night, clearly Mather was suspicious of Griff, clearly thought the book was a bad idea. Maybe that was to be expected from a lawyer. It seemed to be a universal opinion. With the exception of Jarrett, all the Arlingtons seemed to think the book was a bad idea. And Griff could understand that, could see it from their perspective. Asking questions was going to stir up a lot of painful memories for everyone.