Текст книги "Stranger on the Shore "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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He must have raced out of his office two minutes after Griff and never once let up on the accelerator. He was smiling, but there was about as much genuine warmth in his smile for Brian as Brian’s smile currently held for Griff.

“Pierce, my dear boy!” Jarrett’s warmth sounded forced. “I’ve been explaining to Brian...” He didn’t finish exactly what he had been explaining, but Griff wished he had been there to hear it.

Brian, apparently forewarned, rose all the way to his feet this time and offered his hand. “Pierce Mather. I won’t say you haven’t changed, but I’d recognize you anywhere.”

“So you’re Brian?” Pierce shook hands. “This is quite a surprise.”

Chloe drawled, “He gets that a lot.”

“A pleasant one, I hope,” Brian said.

Pierce grinned. “That remains to be seen.” Somehow he managed to look supremely civilized and yet unmistakably dangerous. This was the Pierce who was used to getting up in front of judges and juries and making mincemeat of his opponents. He said pleasantly, “Any reason you chose to come straight to the family and not to me?”

The buzz of conversation cut off as though someone had yanked a cord. Even the dogs shut up.

“Pierce,” Jarrett said.

“It’s okay, Ja-Grandfather.” Brian offered another of those big, blank smiles. “Your reputation precedes you, Pierce. I didn’t want to waste time talking to lawyers. No offense. I know who I am and I wanted to see my family.”

“Any reason it took you twenty years to get around to wanting to see your family?” Pierce was smiling too. Griff had never seen anyone manage to be so courteous and so rude at the same time. It was kind of impressive.

Muriel gave a gasp. Chloe snorted. No one else seemed to breathe.

Brian seemed to size Pierce up. He smiled gravely. “Yes, but that’s something I’m not willing to talk about yet. Certainly not with you.”

“It’s not quite that simple.” Pierce sounded almost kind.

“Yes, indeed it is,” Jarrett broke in. It was the first time Griff had seen him genuinely angry. “Pierce, I’ve already made my feelings known to you. I know you have our best interests at heart, but I’ve told you we have irrefutable proof that this is Brian.”

“I can’t wait to see it.” Pierce’s tiger gaze never wavered from Brian. As intimidating as Pierce’s stare was, Brian continued to smile like a man who knew he held all the cards.

“Pierce Mather!” Muriel jumped up and grabbed a small brown tattered object from the low table to the side of the sofa. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

She thrust the object underneath Pierce’s nose. Pierce stared at it. Astonishingly, he seemed to lose color. Griff looked more closely. At first he thought Muriel was holding a brown rag. Then he realized it was a small stuffed bear.

Tiny Teddy.

Chapter Seventeen

A small fuzzy body that smelled of misused cotton and baby lotion. One brown-gold glass eye. One black triangle-shaped button in place of the other missing eye. “Like a pirate patch,” his mother’s smiling voice said.

There was a sound like rushing wind in his ears. Griff couldn’t get his breath. His chest felt too tight, his heart racing so fast it felt ready to explode or burst through his ribs. Cold sweat broke out over his body. He felt sick. Black spots blotted his vision.

Christ Almighty. Was he going to faint? No. No. No... He reached out blindly for something to hang on to.

From an echo-y distance he could hear Pierce talking.

“That’s it? That’s the irrefutable proof? Who’s to say how he came into possession of that toy? Who’s to say that’s even Brian’s?” Pierce had recovered from his shock, but he was off his game. He sounded defensive.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Pierce,” Muriel was saying. “You know very well Brian had Tiny Teddy the night he disappeared. How would someone else get hold of Tiny Teddy?”

“What’s the matter with you?” Chloe’s voice came from nearby. And then, more loudly, “Grandy, there’s something wrong with him.”

Yeah, there was something wrong. Something very wrong. Something desperately wrong. Griff was holding on with all his might, trying to stay on his feet, and he could hear a loud knocking, a rattling like a basket of bones. A table. His hands were locked onto the edge of one of the side tables, the porcelain figurines jigging in frantic effort to stay upright. Them and him both.

He opened his eyes to a sea of bewildered, frowning faces. He snapped his eyes shut.

Breathe. Breathe. He had to breathe...

Voices rose around him, babbling alarm. What is he doing? What happened? Is he sick? What’s wrong with him?

“What on earth?” Muriel’s high, shrill voice was in counterpoint to Jarrett’s lower but equally disturbed tones.

Help came from an unanticipated direction.

A hard, warm hand locked on his shoulder. Pierce spoke against his ear. “Griff? Griffin? Are you okay?”

He couldn’t raise his head, but he tried to nod. Made himself focus on Pierce. Pierce’s voice, Pierce’s grip. Funny thing, he was kind of getting to like Pierce’s aftershave...

“Give him some room,” Pierce ordered. One of his hands was still clamped on Griff’s shoulder, the other cupped Griff’s elbow as he steered him over to the sofa. There was something newly kind in Pierce’s touch, something reassuring in his voice. Griff recognized on an almost unconscious level that Pierce expected to be leaned on, didn’t mind being leaned on. Griff had never leaned on anyone in his life, but in this moment he was leaning on Pierce.

Pierce shoved aside the low oval table with his elegantly shod foot, helped Griff lower to the brocade cushions. “Put your head down.” His hand tightened again, and Griff obediently bent forward. He knew the drill. He nodded, leaning so far forward his hair almost brushed the carpet.

“Deep, slow breaths.” Pierce sounded perfectly calm, like this was a normal part of his lawyerly duties. Maybe so. Maybe clients frequently keeled over when they heard they were being sued or learned the contents of loved ones’ wills. Maybe he had a lot of practice at this.

Everyone was still talking, offering suggestions, advice. He should put his feet up. He should lie down. Should we call 911? Someone get a fan. Get some water. Get some brandy.

“I knew there was something strange about him.” That was Muriel, and Griff’s mouth curved. Good old Muriel. He closed his eyes. Concentrated on breathing, on calming his heart rate.

What was the matter with him? But no. He couldn’t afford to explore that thought. Not here. Not now.

“You’re okay. You’re just short on sleep.” Pierce crouched next to the sofa, one arm around Griff’s shoulders, so close Griff could hear the tick of Pierce’s watch, feel the muscular heat of Pierce’s lean body beneath the tailored clothes. Pierce’s breath tickled Griff’s ear, his tone was low and somehow intimate.

Maybe the husky voice was deliberate because the recollection of why he was short of sleep, or at least part of why he was short of sleep, did the trick. Griff sat up and wiped his face, ashamed that his hands were still not steady.

“Sorry.” He intended it for the room in general, but somehow it was to Pierce that he was speaking. “Thanks.”

Pierce rose, perfectly at ease, and winked at him. The wink was slick and rehearsed, but it didn’t erase Griff’s memory of the hard, comforting grip of Pierce’s arm around him when he’d needed it.

“My boy, are you sure you’re all right?” Jarrett looked worried.

The sick panicky feeling had receded before the embarrassment of nearly keeling over in the Arlingtons’ drawing room. “I’m fine. It’s just...low blood sugar.”

“Someone get him a sandwich.” Jarrett looked around as though expecting peanut butter and jelly to materialize.

“No. Really. I’m okay.”

“You’re upset about the book, and I don’t blame you,” Chloe said. She threw Brian a contemptuous look. He shrugged.

“Chloe,” Ring said.

“You’re not my father, so butt out.”

“Chloe,” Michaela said in much sharper tones.

“And you’re barely my mother,” Chloe snarled. “Gemma was more of a mother to me than you ever were.”

As diversions went, it was a pretty good one. Michaela looked startled, then wounded, then furious. “What’s the matter with you? You have no right to talk to me that way.”

Chloe raised her chin pugnaciously. “I have every right.”

“You brought this on yourself by staying away so long,” Muriel told her sister.

Michaela turned on her. “You’re going to give me advice on parenting? The last of the old maids?”

“That’s lovely coming from a former crack whore.”

So much for the happy family reunion. The Arlingtons seemed to be reverting to type fast. “Will you all kindly shut up?” roared Jarrett as voices rose once again.

The room was instantly silent. Brian cleared his throat.

Jarrett, moderating his tone with obvious effort, said, “Griff, if you’re recovered now, would you excuse us? We have some family matters we need to discuss.”

“Yeah. Of course.” Griff rose. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Except that getting kicked out now had to be the worst timing in the world.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” Jarrett’s smile was strained.

“Sure. I’m fine.”

“I’ll go with you,” Chloe said.

“No, you sure as hell will not,” Michaela said.

But Chloe ignored her, heading for the double doors.

Pierce said, “Shall I take off as well? You don’t seem to want my advice.”

“Don’t be impertinent, young man.” Jarrett fixed Pierce with a bleak eye. To Griff he said, “Don’t worry about the book. We’ll work out something equitable.”

“Thanks.” Something equitable? Was Jarrett going to try and buy him off? Griff managed a smile. It felt like he was taking his final farewell of the old man. Because if Jarrett thought Griff could be bought off...

Michaela was still calling after Chloe, who had vanished down the hall. Griff passed Brian on his way to the door. Brian’s mouth curved in a wide, white smile.

* * *

There was no sign of Mrs. Truscott or Molly Keane in the kitchen, but Chloe was waiting for him. She stood next to the large table, which was covered with wire racks of cooling cookies. She was licking a cookie which she promptly threw in the cold fireplace hearth.

“I despise that whole eating for comfort thing,” she said.

“You’d have to take a bite to qualify for comfort eating.”

“That’s not going to happen. Haven’t you been listening to Auntie Muriel? Sugar is poison.”

He was off his stride. The question he should have asked was, Why do you need comfort? But maybe he already knew the answer to that.

She followed him out and across the mud porch and then through the back door. The rain had stopped, but the air was heavy with moisture, smelling of wet earth. Fat drops fell from the leaves overhead. “So what are you going to do?”

He shrugged. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do. I’m not going to sit at that table tonight and pretend while they kill the fatted calf or whatever you call it.”

Griff stared at her. “Pretend what?”

Chloe’s lipstick was so pale her lips looked almost invisible as they twisted. “Pretend that I believe that guy is Brian.”

Griff stopped walking. “You don’t believe he’s Brian?”

“He was checking me out. He was sitting on that sofa, checking me out!”

Chloe sounded indignant, but even if she was correct, that wasn’t exactly conclusive proof. First cousins or not, she and Brian hadn’t grown up together, and there was no biological reason they had to respond to each other like family, right? Just because Brian had bad instincts and worse manners didn’t mean he wasn’t family.

Griff started walking again. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means something to me.”

“You don’t want to believe he’s Brian. That’s not the same as knowing he isn’t Brian.”

“No, I don’t want to believe he’s Brian.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like him.” She held Griff’s gaze defiantly. “Because they’re all too desperate to believe. Anyone could have walked in—you could have walked in—and claimed to be Brian and they’d have bought it. They want to believe. They’re ready to believe. That’s all this is.”

“He looks like an Arlington.”

“They always do.”

“He has Tiny Teddy.”

She wheeled away and started down the path that led to the front of the house. She said over her shoulder. “I’m going to go get drunk. You want to come?”

“No,” Griff said.

Chloe didn’t answer and Griff continued his way down to the cottage. But once he found himself in the blue-and-silver living room, his energy drained away. He sat on the flimsy sofa and frowningly regarded the tasseled lampshades, the ornate fire screen, the gold-framed painting of the Gibson girls eternally frozen in their game.

Brian was home. The prodigal had returned. Putting aside his own self-interest, that was fantastic news. The best possible news. Griff was delighted. He had to be delighted. To not be delighted would be strange and wrong.

Even taking his own self-interest into consideration, Brian’s return made for a better book. Right? Who didn’t love a happy ending?

And if Brian didn’t want him to write the book, so what? That didn’t mean Griff wouldn’t continue researching the story, writing Brian’s story.

Why did Brian not want him to write the book?

Did it matter what Brian wanted?

Griff rested his head in his hands. Yes. It did. This was Brian’s story. And yet somehow Griff had turned it into his own story. That was the problem. He had gotten too involved, too invested. He was starting to confuse...well, he was starting to forget...starting to confuse his work with his life. He was actually starting to feel possessive. Or possessed. Something frighteningly irrational, that was for sure.

If Brian really didn’t want this book, Griff didn’t see how he could go against him. The whole point of writing it had been...

Had been what?

Griff’s heart sped up the way it had in the library when Muriel, like a magician’s bad-tempered assistant, had suddenly produced Tiny Teddy. He felt cold and sick again. Why? Why? The idea of writing this book had crept up on him so slowly, so steadily he was no longer exactly sure when it had first come to him. In fact, he wasn’t even totally sure when he’d first learned about Brian Arlington’s kidnapping. Or why it had fascinated him so much. Why it had seemed so important that he write the story.

The back of his eyes prickled. He sniffed, the sound loud in the empty cottage. What was going on with him? Was he going to cry over this?

Over what?

If it was that important, nobody could stop him writing the book. The decision was still his.

The thought calmed him. He held on to it.

But if he was going to forge ahead, he had to work fast because unless he was much mistaken, he would very soon be denied access to the journal and all other resources. In fact, he might be on his way back to Wisconsin tonight.

Griff impatiently wiped his eyes and went upstairs to get Gemma’s journal.

He held the journal for a few moments, opened it and studied the pages of Gemma’s graceful, loopy writing. On impulse he pressed his face to the fanning, faded pages. He could imagine there was still a ghostly trace of fragrance. Almost believe he was breathing in traces of honeysuckle and sunlight. Her perfume. Behind his eyelids he saw the dazzle on the water, could smell suntan lotion and salty sea air, hear the cries of the gulls, the flap of the luffing sales, their voices—the smile in their voices. Always a smile...for each other, yes, and for him. For Brian. Water filled his eyes again, and Griff lowered the book quickly, afraid to stain the fragile pages with his apparently imminent nervous breakdown.

He shook his head, laughing unsteadily at himself. Too much imagination was right. He carried the journal downstairs.

This time as he read he specifically focused on Gemma’s perspective on Matthew. It was funny how no one talked about Matthew in relation to the tragedy. He seemed almost forgotten. It was always Gemma and Brian that everyone spoke of in hushed tones. But Matthew had suffered the same loss as Gemma.

Was it possible there had been some trouble there? If so, Gemma had been unaware of it. She was happy. On paper at least, she seemed about as contented a person as he had ever run across.

And Matthew, at least through the eyes of his wife, seemed equally happy. Books and boats and their baby. That seemed to be the extent of Matthew’s interests in life. He worked in the corporate offices of Arlington Amalgamated as Jarrett’s second-in-command, but it was a job and not his passion. Yet he too seemed content with his life. How many people were content with their lives? How many people were happy—happy in the moment and not in retrospect?

At that time Jarrett had still been running the show. Who had taken over after Jarrett? Why, with Matthew gone, had Marcus not been in the running?

Griff wished he could look through the family photo albums one last time. Now that he knew the cast of players and understood what roles everyone had played, he would better understand what he was looking at. What he was looking for. It was unlikely he’d get another opportunity. In fact, he might even now be barred from the house.

Another of those unsettling surges of emotion washed over him. He was surprised at how much it bothered him, how much he had come to take his welcome—at least from Jarrett—for granted. It had only been a few days, after all, but he had somehow grown fond of the old profiteer.

He had started enjoying himself. That was all, and it was natural that he’d been looking forward to these final days of his stay at Winden House. Heck, the food alone was reason to want to linger.

The truth was, getting out of here as soon as possible was going to be the best thing for him.

But there was no denying he wasn’t ready, did not want to go. Even if Brian was safely returned to the family fold, there were still so many unanswered questions.

If Brian was safely returned? Griff lowered the journal and considered this idea uneasily. Had Chloe planted that idea or was he biased because it turned out he didn’t like the adult Brian? He had been viewing himself as an advocate for the victim Brian, but it turned out that Brian didn’t need or want his advocacy.

Did he not like Brian because Brian’s antagonism had been—felt at least—instantaneous? And why was that? Maybe that was normal for Brian, but Griff generally got along with people okay. According to his chief at the Banner Chronicle, Griff’s “likeability quotient” was one reason he was good at his job. Maybe he wasn’t smooth, but he was genuine. And it showed. Mostly.

A rap on the glass of the cottage door startled him out of his reflections. He guiltily shoved the journal beneath the sofa cushions and went to answer the door.

He recognized the tall, lean, dark outline through the oval of stained glass before he opened the door.

Pierce, his hair spangled with rain, gazed steadily back at him for a second or two. Griff remembered that earlier that afternoon he had been so angry with Pierce he had never wanted to see or speak to him again. That had been painful because he’d started the day feeling closer to Pierce than he’d felt to anyone for a long time. And then there had been those confusing moments in the drawing room when Pierce’s hand on his shoulder had felt like the only thing anchoring him to sanity.

When he didn’t say anything, Pierce asked, “May I come in?”

Chapter Eighteen

Griff moved aside. He double-checked the time with the clock on the mantel. It was later than he’d realized. “You didn’t stay for dinner?”

“I wasn’t invited.” Pierce’s smile was wry. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Griff’s face warmed. “I’m fine. It was just low blood sugar.”

“It was a panic attack,” Pierce said. “And obviously not your first, since you’re taking it in stride.”

“Familiar with panic attacks, are you?”

“I’ve seen a few in my day. The legal system will do that to some people.”

Griff shrugged. “Actually, it was an anxiety attack. I used to get them as a kid. I haven’t had one in years.” Not since he came to Winden House. Yet another sign that getting out of here as soon as possible was a great idea.

“Night terrors and anxiety attacks,” Pierce observed. “You must have had an interesting childhood. And no doctors.”

“Do you have a point?”

“I’m sure there is a point, even if I haven’t figured it out yet.” Pierce surveyed the room, taking in Griff’s closed laptop on the dining room table. “Are you abandoning the book?”

“Well, thanks for dropping by,” Griff said, opening the door again. “Let’s do this again soon.” That was bravado, trying to prove something to himself, because the sad fact was he didn’t want Pierce to leave. Even after discovering what an asshole Pierce was, he didn’t want him to go.

Pierce pushed the door shut with unusual force. “All right. I know you’re still angry with me. I’m not always a nice guy. But we’re on the same side now.”

Griff sputtered a laugh. “How do you figure that?”

Pierce’s eyes were dark with emotion. “Do you think that’s Brian Arlington sitting up there at the dinner table right now?”

Griff hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“I do. No way in hell is that Brian.”

“Yeah, but you always think that, Pierce.”

Pierce snorted. “And I’m always right. And I’m right this time too.”

“Based on what?” Griff wasn’t sure if his impatience was for Pierce or himself for privately agreeing with Pierce. “He looks like an Arlington. He’s got those eyebrows and those blue eyes. He’s got Tiny Teddy.”

“You look like an Arlington. Dark eyebrows with blond hair are not that rare.”

“Is he willing to take a DNA paternity test?”

Pierce’s face changed. “He said he’ll think about it. Jarrett says no.”

“What? Why?”

Pierce shook his head. It was the first time Griff had ever seen him look so...dispirited. “Because Jarrett wants to believe,” Pierce said wearily. “He’s convinced his time is running out, and he wants to live long enough to see Brian come home. Even if he has to accept an imposter.”

“Jarrett never said that.”

“No, but that’s what it amounts to. He’s been disappointed so many times, he’s not willing to risk it again. He swears this is Brian. That he can feel it’s Brian.”

That shook Griff. “Maybe it is Brian.”

Pierce shook his head. “It’s not. I would know if he was Brian.”

Griff considered this. Considered Diana’s poignant revelations over their lunch together. If anything, he’d expect Pierce to leap at the chance of accepting Brian was safely returned. Wouldn’t that be a huge burden of guilt lifted from his shoulders?

He asked slowly, “How would you know? How would your feelings, your instinct be any more reliable than Brian’s family?”

The line of Pierce’s jaw was stubborn. You could break a fleet of warships against that jawline. “I think I would feel something for him. I think I would feel some sense of recognition.”

Griff shook his head. “Come on, Pierce. More than his own flesh and blood? That’s illogical. Besides, Brian was four years old. What is it you think you would remember or recognize? And how do you explain Tiny Teddy?”

“I don’t know.”

“If he’s willing to take a DNA test—”

“Being willing to think about it is not the same thing as taking the test.”

True. Brian could indefinitely stall that test, especially if the only one pushing for it was Pierce, and that seemed to be the case from what he’d observed in the drawing room. Okay, Chloe would probably think a paternity test was a great idea. She wasn’t too thrilled with recent developments. But Chloe was so hostile to Michaela that her resistance to Brian might stem solely from Michaela’s acceptance.

Griff said, “The others believe it’s Brian too.”

“I know.” Pierce gnawed on his lip. “That’s what really puzzles me. Jarrett, I understand. Finding Brian has been a lifelong crusade. But the others...they’ve always believed Brian was dead. Hell, Gemma believed Brian was dead. They’ve always rejected the other imposters out of hand.”

“She said she knew she’d never see him again. That’s not necessarily the same thing.”

Pierce looked at him in puzzlement. Griff said, “I’ve read Gemma’s journal. In fact, I’ve practically memorized the months following Brian’s kidnapping. She never actually used the word dead.”

If anything Pierce looked more perplexed, and Griff said awkwardly, “Not that that really means anything. In fact, now I’m not sure what my point was.”

Pierce turned to the arched window and stared out at the bluing twilight. “Do you think that’s Brian up at the house?” He turned from the window and stared at Griff.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe.”

“Do you?”

Griff sighed. “No.”

Pierce smiled. It was not one of his more pleasant smiles. “Good. I want you to help me prove he’s a fake.”

He was serious. “One of us is crazy,” Griff said. “He bears a striking resemblance to you.”

“You’re an investigative journalist, right? This is what you do?”

The image of Pierce shouting at him in his office that afternoon returned to Griff. He said shortly, “Is it?”

“Isn’t it?”

“In case you didn’t notice, I’m about to be chucked out of here on my ear.”

“I noticed,” Pierce said. “Brian can’t get you out of here fast enough, which is something else I find suspicious.”

“Not so long ago you couldn’t get me out of here fast enough. Why the sudden change?”

Pierce shrugged. “I have changed. Isn’t that good enough?”

“Not really. No.”

“All right. I’ll be honest. You didn’t add up. You still don’t add up. But I accept that your intentions are sincere. And I’ve got bigger problems than you right now.”

“Jeez. Thanks!”

Pierce’s expression altered, seemed almost to soften. “You had a panic attack over a teddy bear,” he said. “If you think that doesn’t set off a few alarm bells, think again. But you—”

“It wasn’t over Tiny Teddy,” Griff interrupted. “It was an anxiety attack over them pulling the plug on my project. That’s all. I’ve worked hard on this.”

“Exactly,” Pierce said smoothly. “Why should all the time and hard work you’ve put in be wasted? You’ve devoted how much time to this story already? You probably know more about Brian and his case than anyone. There is no one better positioned to check out this Leland Alvin’s background.”

Griff regarded Pierce grimly. “Why?” he asked finally. “Why do you care so much? If it makes Jarrett happy, if it makes them all happy to believe this guy is Brian, then what does it matter? You can’t really believe some outdated bullshit about aristocratic bloodlines and rules of inheritance?”

“Bullshit?” Pierce raised his brows. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear before. You really are the budding young Marxist, aren’t you?”

“Answer me.”

Pierce looked away. Griff thought he wasn’t going to reply, but then he said, quietly, “There are things I would undo if I could. But I can’t. One thing, the only thing, I can do for Brian is to make sure no one...takes his place.”

It touched Griff more than he expected. He said, “Pierce, wherever Brian is, it doesn’t matter to him. He doesn’t care.”

“It matters to me.” Pierce’s voice was gruff. He drew a deep breath. “So. Are you in or out?”

Good question. Which was it? If he sided with Pierce in this matter, he would lose any chance of Jarrett supporting him over Stranger on the Shore. But that ship had probably sailed anyway, given Brian’s—Leland’s—opposition to the book.

Regardless of the outcome, this investigation would make a great story. This could provide the focal point he had been looking for but failed to find when he’d interviewed Johnson. But that wasn’t really the main thing anymore.

The main thing was, while in theory it shouldn’t matter if the Arlingtons were happy believing Leland was Brian, in practice it bothered Griff very much that—if Leland was a fake—he was taking advantage of Jarrett’s longing for his lost grandchild. He was fond of Jarrett and he didn’t want him used by someone that criminal, that callous, that cold-blooded.

Pierce was still watching him with that narrow-eyed intensity.

Griff said, “Where do we start?”

* * *

“How do you think he got hold of Tiny Teddy?” Griff asked.

He and Pierce had settled in the kitchen of the guest cottage. Griff had found fixings for chicken and mushroom hash in the well-stocked fridge, throwing together a quick meal while they talked over their plan of attack. Now they were eating and making notes.

Pierce took a bite, chewed, swallowed, said, “First of all, there’s nothing to say that bear was Tiny Teddy.”

“I’m sure it was.” Pierce gave him an odd look. These days he was getting that look a lot from Pierce. Griff qualified, “Going by the photos I’ve seen.”

“Someone else could have gone by the same photos and made a toy bear to resemble Tiny Teddy. It wouldn’t be that difficult.”

“I don’t ever recall seeing a public photo of Brian’s teddy bear, so you’re talking about someone on the inside helping Leland.”

Pierce’s expression was serious, unsmiling. “Yes. I think so. Don’t you?”

It was a relief to hear Pierce say it aloud. Until then Griff had wondered if he wasn’t letting his imagination once again overrule his common sense.

“I want to show you something.” Griff left the table and went upstairs. He dug in the back of the closet and pulled out the broken board he had hidden there. He carried the board downstairs.

“I found this in the lower pond the night after the center of the bridge gave way.”

Pierce examined the sawn edge of the board while Griff filled him in on his theory the bridge had been sabotaged. He told him about the strange phone call he’d received that same night.

“You didn’t think you should maybe mention this to someone?” Pierce’s black brows formed that straight and forbidding line.

“Like who?”

“Like me.”

“You?” Griff laughed. “No. I didn’t.”

“The hell.” Pierce looked offended.

“There’s no way to call through to this cottage except from the main house, which means someone from the main house was trying to scare me off. No way were you going to side with me against anyone from the main house, especially since you wanted me gone too.”

“Wait a minute.” Pierce put down the board. “You think I would be a knowing party to threats and harassment? Never mind an act of vandalism that could have resulted in serious injury or death?”

“Now you’re exaggerating.”