“Talk to me, Lillian. Please—”

But Roger Shellingworth interrupted, announcing dinner. They gathered in the dining room, where the table was set simply, yet exquisitely, in white Wedgwood and Waterford. Ashley was instructed to sit next to Jeremy, their backs to the windows, facing the portrait of Judith Land. She suspected that was another part of J. Land Crockett’s devious little plan.

Ashley caught Jeremy staring at the painting, as if mesmerized by the beauty and vivacity of the actress. And then she saw the certainty in his eyes, as he glanced down at her and smiled. So, she thought, he knows. Was he pitying her again? Striking up another black mark against Bartholomew Wakefield? Jewel thief, traitor, torturer, KGB agent, child stealer. Nice fellow, Barky was.

She shook out her napkin onto her lap, and dinner commenced with a surprising but delicious apple-and-onion soup.

A horrified gasp from the end of the table whipped Ashley around in her chair.

Andrew Balaton was already rising to his feet. His face was gray, his manicured hands trembling. Ashley thought he was having a heart attack.

To his left, Lillian Parker didn’t move. She sat rigid, her face gone white.

Balaton clutched in his hand a tiny gold crown. “My God,” he cried, his voice strangled, his eyes wild. “Orült szerzetes!”

Ashley froze. Beside her, Jeremy gripped his spoon, his jaw tightening.

“Is this some hideous joke?” Balaton screamed, accusing everyone. “Who’s responsible for this?”

No one answered.

At the end of the table, J. Land Crockett settled back in his cushioned chair and folded his hands in his lap, looking more curious than concerned. Ashley wouldn’t have put it past him to have planted the crown, whatever it was. Obviously it had a terrible meaning to the dispossessed Hungarian count.

Then, kicking back his chair, Balaton ran from the room.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“I’ll see to him,” Lillian said hoarsely.

When she’d gone, Crockett snorted. “Wonder what that was all about? Hate it when he starts muttering in Hungarian. Either of you speak it?”

They said no, neither Ashley nor Jeremy admitting they’d already had orült szerzetes translated for them. The mad monk. Bartholomew Wakefield.

He was there, Ashley thought. There on Badger Rock Island.

And Andrew Balaton didn’t like it.

28

Neither Andrew Balaton nor Lillian Parker returned to dinner, but Crockett blithely continued without them, and courses proceeded through a herbed salad, oatmeal-sage rolls, a light lobster casserole and, for dessert, almond torte. In order to figure out just what he knew and suspected, Ashley had determined to let the old man in the ill-fitting ancient suit take the conversational lead.

But J. Land Crockett said nothing. He merely ate and occasionally studied her, rudely staring, with his black-blue eyes. By her second piece of torte—fresh air and skullduggery built up an appetite, she reflected— she’d realized he was playing the same game with her.

She decided this particular game was the important one to win. Digging into her torte, she said, “Ms. Parker indicated to me that Jude’s Paradise might be the reason you invited me to Maine—or Down East, I should say. It’s a beautiful place, quite a bird sanctuary. By the way, have you been introduced to Jeremy Carruthers, legal counsel for the New England Oceanographic Institute?”