Crockett stared at him. “Then they’re yours?”

“They have to be.”

Mac patted out another cigarette and left it, unlit, hanging from the corner of his mouth. “Not necessarily. We only have the word of a proven liar that the twins were born in July of 1957. They might have been born in August—or earlier.”

Balaton shook his head. “Not earlier. I would have noticed. As it was, I never suspected Judith was pregnant. I had no idea. If I had known...”

“We were both duped,” Crockett said. “What possible reason could this man have had for taking these children, raising them on a farm, living in poverty all these years? And the trust—was that his doing? Or Judith’s? I want answers.”

“We all do,” Mac pointed out, lighting his cigarette. “Unfortunately, all I have are suspicions.”

Crockett pulled his hands back inside the warmth of the wool blanket. “You know, if those two—Ashley and David—if they can prove Judith Land was their mother, they’ll inherit her entire estate. Andrew, you’d lose the nice pot Judith left you.”

Andrew looked insulted. “Please, you should know that would make no difference to me. My own portfolio is not only sufficient, but ample. I would want them to have Judith’s legacy. It would be their due.”

Crockett grunted with obvious skepticism. “You wouldn’t stand in their way?”

“Of course not.”

Satisfied, Crockett looked up at Mac. “All right, Stevens. Tell me your suspicions.”

As if you’re in control of this, old man, Mac thought, surprised at the twinge of amusement he felt. Perhaps Ashley Wakefield’s tenacity and incorrigible audacity had rubbed off on him—not that he didn’t believe the beautiful young spitfire should be in bed anywhere in the world but here on Badger Rock Island. But he’d deal with that later. “First I want to know what Andrew knows about our Bartholomew Wakefield.” He glanced down at Balaton. “Well? What’s your story, Andrew?”

Balaton opened his fine hands placidly on his thighs. “He’s a jewel thief.”

“You know better than that.”

Balaton said nothing.

“Tell me, damn it.”

He grimaced. “In private.”

“No,” Mac said, before Crockett could speak. “Crockett has a right to hear.”

Balaton looked away from both men. “The man who now calls himself Bartholomew Wakefield is Hungarian.”

“What?” Crockett bellowed. “You know him and you never told me?”

Balaton ignored his former father-in-law. “He came to me in January of 1957. He wanted a job. I had none to give him. He left, and I never saw him again—until this week’s edition of You magazine. I had no idea he had taken Judith from me...stolen my children. If I had known—” He tightened his hands into fists and dug his whitened knuckles into his thighs. “I thought he was just another displaced Hungarian. There were many who came to me—because of my marriage to a famous American actress, because of my connections with the Crockett family. I had no reason to be suspicious.”

“What did you do with him?” Mac asked.