I started to rise to follow them and changed my mind. I didn’t share Dad’s fascination with the reenactment. But I was curious about the robbery. I decided to stay behind and see what other information Dad had brought in his briefcase.
A diagram of the estate’s grounds, with all the various buildings marked, from the house itself down to the minor outbuildings, like the gazebo and the gatehouse, which had both existed at the time of the robbery. The house was considerably smaller without those imposing wings, but making allowances for the difference in color schemes, the main part of the house looked the same. Only one barn rather than the current three. A separate garage that had either been replaced by or incorporated into the left wing.
The briefcase also contained a batch of photocopies of newspaper articles, along with several dozen photos. Most of the photos were black-and-white shots, probably taken by the Clarion’s photographer for the society page. Mrs. Van der Lynden in her glittering ball gown. I paused to study that one. Her pursed lips were dark in the photo, which probably meant she was wearing bright red lipstick—had that been back in style then? Her dress had the exaggerated shoulder pads that were popular back in the ’80s, but she didn’t quite have enough neck to carry off the look. I suspected she was trying to channel Bette Davis, but it came out more like Miss Piggy. She was wearing glittering earrings and a necklace, but nothing that impressive. I leafed through more photos of Dames and their escorts. Everyone was in sequins and shoulder pads, but most of them had much more impressive jewelry. I wondered if they’d all found that suspicious—that the woman who had the means to outshine them all had suddenly given up conspicuous consumption for what probably passed in their circles for understated elegance.
And then I ran across a photo of Archie van der Lynden. I studied that one intently. Not that I had any hope of tracking him down—I might not even recognize him if I ran into him. Thirty years changes anyone, and if Archie had been battling substance abuse for most of his adult life, he could be more changed than most. But maybe I could get a clue to his character. He was wearing a white tuxedo with a dark rose in the buttonhole—red, presumably, though the picture was black and white. He slouched slightly, his right hand in his pocket. A lock of his blond hair fell casually over his forehead. His face, though technically handsome, was curiously unpleasant. It was the expression, half self-satisfied smirk, half sneer. A thought came to my mind unbidden—the portrait of Dorian Gray, just at the point where he decides he needs to hide it. Not someone I’d have looked forward to meeting, I decided.
Of course, thirty years could change a person inside as well as out. I hoped they had done good things to Archie. But I wasn’t optimistic.
I moved on to other pictures. Mug shots of the three bank robbers. Two looked rather furtive and unprepossessing, while the third—Bart Hempel, the ringleader—was striking, almost handsome in a thuggish way.
The two so-called gentleman burglars. William Fitzgerald “Fitz” Marshall, the one who’d been killed. His face wasn’t unpleasant like Archie’s, though it wasn’t handsome, either. Regular features—I’d give him that. His face had a vague apologetic air—and an ever-so-slightly bloated look that reminded me of a few of my college classmates who’d majored in grain alcohol with a minor in weed. I felt the impulse to shake Fitz and tell him to shape up. That I’d seen where that path led, and it wouldn’t end well. And then I reminded myself that it had already ended rather badly for him, three decades ago. Dad had added in his obituary from the Caerphilly student newspaper. Considering that obituaries were usually written to show the deceased in the most favorable light, the student rag was remarkably restrained in its praise of Fitz. Son of a successful alumnus of Caerphilly law school—the article actually had almost as much information about Judge Marshall as about his son. Fitz had been a business major with a love for football and lacrosse, who took an active part in campus social life. I suspected this was obit-speak for a party animal who’d been admitted thanks to his father’s influence and would have been lucky if he managed to pass enough courses to graduate.
And Paul Jefferson Blair. His picture surprised me. He didn’t seem to fit in with Archie and Fitz. He looked … well, normal. Clean cut. Good looking in an unassuming way. I flipped through the articles to see what they said about him. Not much. A political science major with a 3.5 average and plans to attend law school after he graduated. What had possessed him to go along with Archie’s crazy scheme? I had a feeling James Donovan might have been able to shed some light on that if he wanted to. But I felt a curious disinclination to pry.
“He’s suffered enough,” I murmured, putting Blair’s photo back in the folder.
Dad and Ragnar dashed back into the room, full of excitement. Three or four of Ragnar’s flock trailed in behind them.
“The safe’s just as it was,” Dad exclaimed.
“Go start rounding everyone up,” Ragnar said to one of his guests. “This is going to be awesome.”
“Meg?” Dad was looking at me. “Are you all right?”
“My head’s aching a little.”
“I have aspirin,” Ragnar said. “And acetaminophen.”
“I also have more interesting stuff,” one of the guests said.
Ragnar gave him a withering stare.
“Herbal stuff,” the guest added hastily.
“I just need some fresh air and a little exercise.” And some time by myself, but it would be rude to say so. “I’m going to stroll down to the lake. Carry on without me.”
I fled out the oversized double front doors and stood at the top of the stairs, surveying the landscape. The swans appeared to be savagely demolishing a stand of some kind of aquatic grass at the far end of the lake, so I decided it would be safe to head for the gazebo. Not that I necessarily wanted to hang out in the gazebo, but it gave me a destination.
I hadn’t been lying about the headache—just exaggerating a little. But I felt the slight throbbing ease as I ambled along the gravel path toward the lake.
I approached the gazebo itself with caution, remembering how foul it could get and how possessive the swans could be of it. Grandfather had once arranged for a rather melodramatic sign at his zoo, listing the top ten birds most likely to kill you. Mute swans had made the list at number five, following cassowaries, ostriches, Australian magpies, and the European herring gull. Toucans probably wouldn’t even have made the top hundred. I couldn’t remember offhand what magpies and herring gulls did that was particularly lethal, but in addition to having long powerful necks with sharp beaks, the swans would beat their victims with their wings. Ragnar’s black swans had a slightly smaller wingspan than mute swans—six feet rather than seven—but I wasn’t sure that would make much difference if they ganged up on you, and they had the same hair-trigger tempers.
But the swans were absent, and as I got closer, I could tell the gazebo’s condition wasn’t that bad at the moment. Obviously the swans had been there, but either they didn’t spend as much time hanging out on the wrought-iron railings as they had on the wooden ones or whoever Ragnar had assigned to gazebo-cleaning duty was doing a good job.
As I was about to step into the gazebo, a sudden flurry of motion at its far side startled me, and I stopped where I was, in case I’d stirred up a territorial swan. But it was a human figure, scuttling away through the rushes in much the same way Hosmer had fled the library. In fact, for a moment, I wondered if it was Hosmer, but Hosmer had been slight and with wispy pale blond hair. This was a stocky, bearded man with a disheveled mane of light brown hair.
“Sorry to disturb you,” I called after the fleeing figure. But I wasn’t sure he heard.
“Why are so many of Ragnar’s guests so … eccentric?” I muttered to myself. “And why does Dad fit in so perfectly?” I felt guilty almost immediately. Ragnar had a good heart. Some of the strays he took in would never survive on their own in the outside world, but here they had a home, and could usually find ways to make themselves useful. I had probably flushed out the guest who was responsible for the gazebo’s much-improved condition. Perhaps I should make a point of telling Ragnar how much I appreciated the change. And he could pass it along to the guest.
And as for Dad—most of the time I enjoyed his energy and enthusiasm. Clearly I was a little overtired today.
I strolled across to the far side of the gazebo and stood looking out over the lake. The view in that direction was very calm and peaceful, not only because the lake was so beautiful but also because I couldn’t see even a corner of the house in which all the chaos was happening. And from a practical standpoint, gazing over the lake was the prudent thing to do, in case the swans tired of their grass demolition activities and tried to sneak up on me.
I saw motion to my right. I pretended to be totally focused on the distant swans while using my peripheral vision to check out what was happening closer at hand. A wizened, bearded face was peering out of the reeds by the water’s edge.
So much for finding peace and quiet in the gazebo. I was about to give up and head back to the house when I heard a crunch of gravel behind me.