Once they secured the boat in Clinton’s harbor, Britt sent Grant Mayberry a text to let him know they’d arrived. During her recent conversation with Grant to finalize the details of their visit, he’d insisted—it’s no trouble!—that he’d pick them up in his car.
She tossed her ball cap into the boat, then finger-combed her hair as she and Zander walked side by side past historic buildings painted a crisp nautical white.
The Bradford family often took day trips to Orcas, Vashon, Blakely, and the rest of the nearby islands. She knew that Whidbey’s one hundred and sixty-eight square miles hosted a population of more than fifty thousand spread across a smattering of towns.
Luxury homes had been tucked into the hills near Clinton to take advantage of the quieter pace of life, the separation from the mainland, and the unflagging views of Possession Sound to the west.
It made sense that Ricardo and Emerson would have tried to rob someone who lived in this sleepy place. Whidbey’s police department didn’t have the numbers or the ferocity of a big city force.
Britt shaded her eyes and catalogued the details of the land swelling upward from the parking lot where they waited. Clinton reminded her of a folk art painting depicting a town planted into a wooded hillside.
A royal blue convertible Mini Cooper, top down, came to an adroit stop before them. “Ms. Bradford?” the driver asked. He looked to be in his mid-seventies. His sun-reddened cheeks were set into a friendly, rectangular face topped by gray-brown hair. He’d clothed his husky body in a sweat shirt proclaiming USC across the front.
“Mr. Mayberry?”
“One and the same. Jump in!”
Zander held the door for her, and Britt slid into the back row. Before she could attempt to fasten her seatbelt, they were zooming along the road and Grant was asking cheerful questions.
She and Zander had prepared for today’s meeting by researching Grant Mayberry. They’d learned that he’d founded a renewable energy company when he was young. Right from the start, his company had scaled a staircase of greater and greater success.
Grant certainly didn’t appear to have been jaded by his wealth. He seemed like an extrovert who genuinely liked people.
In less than ten minutes, they reached their destination. Grant kept up a steady stream of conversation as he led them through hisextremely impressive contemporary residence. The faces captured in his extensive collection of art watched them pass.
In the kitchen, he pressed glasses of lemonade into their hands. Then he ushered them to the deck. They settled onto spotless outdoor furniture positioned next to urns bursting with succulents. From this spot, Britt couldn’t glimpse a single neighbor. Trees flanked them on both sides. Before them, azure water gave way to islands, which gave way to distant, snow-capped mountains.
“Thank you very much for seeing us, Mr. Mayberry,” Britt said.
“Please, call me Grant.”
“It was amazingly kind of you to invite us into your home, Grant,” Britt said.
“Of course! It really is my pleasure.” He crossed a foot over the opposing knee. “You told me a little over the phone, but why don’t you start at the beginning so I know how to help you?”
“Sure,” Britt answered. On the verge of pouring out all the details, she caught herself and motioned for Zander to explain. She’d come to feel very proprietary over the mystery surrounding Frank, but this mystery did not, technically, belong to her.
Zander told Grant how they’d learned of Frank’s connection to Ricardo. “When we couldn’t find any more information on Frank, we began collecting information on Ricardo. We found out on our own that he had been arrested here on Whidbey Island along with someone named Emerson Kelly for stealing two of your paintings by Modigliani.”
“I see.”
“We’re hoping that researching Ricardo might lead us to a clue about Frank,” Zander said.
“I’m glad to share what I know about the robbery with you.” Grant flicked a few fingers in the direction of Seattle. “My wife is spending the day with our daughter and grandsons. She doesn’t like to be reminded of the robbery. It’s a frustrating topic for her because the paintings were never found. She’d acquired those Modigliani pieces herself, you see, at an auction. She’s the art lover.” A fond smile flashed across his mouth. “I’ve never developedan eye for it, even after all these years. As far as I’m concerned, one painting is about as good as another and none of them are irreplaceable. There’s always more art in the world to purchase.”
Sea gulls rode by on the breeze.
“What happened the night your paintings were stolen?” Zander asked.
“Callista and I were at a function in the city. It had been publicized that we’d be there because we were donating something to...” He ran his hand down his chin. “Someone.” A good-natured chuckle tumbled from him. “Isn’t that funny? I can’t even remember who we were donating to now.”
“No problem,” Britt said. “It was a long time ago.”
“I do know that it occurred to me later that the thieves almost certainly knew we were going to be away from home that night. They broke in by cutting the lines to the security system and picking the lock on the back door. They would have gotten away cleanly except that the neighbor who used to live down the road had a habit of taking his dog out for late-night walks. He saw what looked like flashlight beams inside our house and called the police.”
Grant took a swig of lemonade. “By the time the police arrived, the robbers had left the house. One of the police officers turned on the floodlights outside and spotted two figures running in the direction of the water. The officers pursued them and were able to overtake them before they could get away in the boat they had waiting. The officers arrested them and took them to the station.”
“Why were the charges eventually dropped?” Zander asked.
