“Mine? No, no. I’ve got a great relationship with my parents.” She seemed a bit irritated, even offended, at Mollie’s misinterpretation. “Not all us rich kids are fucked up, you know.”

“Deegan doesn’t seem to have suffered his brother’s fate.”

“No.” She uncorked a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, calmer. “Some people are just naturally more resilient, I think. But imagine, Mollie. You’re the child of rich, selfish parents who think they adore you. I mean, they really believe they adore you. They believe you can do no wrong. That you’re perfect.”

“That would be a hard way to live. Nobody’s perfect. Everybody makes mistakes.”

She set the wine bottle down, a slight tremble to her long, thin hands. “Yes, exactly. So you have these adoring parents, and they never ask you to do anything hard in your life. In fact, they make sure you never do anything hard, which makes you wonder if they really do believe in you-if all that adoration is just an excuse for them to ignore you. If you’re perfect, you don’t need attention. If you can do no wrong, you don’t need attention. If you never have to do anything hard, you don’t need attention. They get to congratulate themselves for the wonderful life they’ve given you.”

“And you end up perpetuating the illusion that you’re perfect, because that’s what’s expected of you.”

“But you grow up craving your parents’ attention, only you’re cocky and you’re fun to be around and you’ve never, ever had to face the consequences of your actions.”

“That would be tough,” Mollie said carefully, wondering if Griffen was trying to tell her more than was on the surface, but she could hear Jeremiah warning her against speculating. “At some point, you will make a mistake. You’ll shatter the illusion.”

“It’d take a lot to shatter that kind of illusion.”

Mollie felt a chill despite the warm temperature. “I suppose you could also grow up and realize your parents are what they are and there’s no changing them.”

“Yeah. I suppose. But how many people accept their parents’ shortcomings before they’ve acted out against them?” She grinned suddenly, but there was no humor, no pleasure, in her dark eyes. “God, I’m sounding like a therapist. Not to worry. I’m just a Palm Beach girl who knows how to cook.”

“Griffen, are we talking about Deegan here? Or are you getting theoretical? Where is he, anyway?”

“He’s out front meeting guests.” She grabbed another bottle of wine, shoved in the corkscrew. “If I give everyone food poisoning, I guess I can always become a shrink. Here comes Chet Farnsworth. The guests must be arriving. I’d better concentrate or I will poison the guests.” She spun around, her cheeks rosy with exertion, a touch of embarrassment. But she was being evasive, and Mollie knew it. “Look, what I said-forget it, okay? It’s bullshit. I’ve been working too hard. It’s my busy season, and I just…I’ve just been thinking too much, I guess. You won’t mention this conversation to Tabak, will you? Reporters. You know what hounds they are. And he was born suspicious. God knows what he’ll read into this, and then he’ll have to know.”

“I understand, Griffen. I don’t need to tell anyone about our conversation, unless you know something that the police-”

“No!” She paled, horrified. “No, of course not. God. I’d better get to work or there go both our reputations.”

She breezed off into the kitchen of the main house, which was brightly lit, almost looking lived in. Mollie greeted Chet and his wife, still feeling vaguely uneasy. But she pushed back her questions and concentrated on her guests and her party.

“You’re okay?” Chet asked, concerned. He was a man who missed nothing, a good thing, Mollie supposed, in both an astronaut and a pianist.

“Just a little nervous. I’ve never done this kind of party.”

“Relax. It’ll be fun.” He winked at her. “If things start dragging, I’ll pull everybody inside and play the piano. Pascarelli has one, I assume?”

“A grand piano in the front room. He likes to play it and sing drinking songs with his friends.”

Chet laughed. “I think I’m going to like this guy when I finally meet him.”

He and his wife drifted off to the hors d’oeuvres and wine, and Mollie moved to greet the Tiernays and Diantha Atwood as they came down the brick walk. They were simply but elegantly dressed, and only if one were looking-and Mollie was-would one see the strain of the past forty-eight hours. What a horrible way, she thought, to have a long-lost son reenter their lives.

Before she could welcome them, Deegan materialized behind his parents and grandmother with, incongruously, Jeremiah at his side. Mollie’s breath caught. Jeremiah wore a dark, casual suit that fit his frame perfectly, emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his legs.

Mollie smiled, “Welcome-thank you for coming.”

“Our pleasure,” Bobbi Tiernay said, taking her hand briefly. “What a wonderful setting, Mollie. Deegan told us you’d considered canceling after what happened. I’m so glad you didn’t. We brought Kermit home late this afternoon.”

No mention of shoving him in the guest house. “Are the police any closer to finding out who attacked him?”

“No,” Michael Tiernay said, his wife visibly uncomfortable beside him, “and I’m afraid Kermit’s not able to be of much help. The attack happened fast, and it was dark.”

Diantha Atwood smiled politely. “There’s so much confusion right now. We’re just delighted to have an evening free to meet some of the people Deegan has been working with. I see Chet Farnsworth.” And she subtly moved in his direction, her daughter and son-in-law following her lead.

Deegan, looking sheepish, said with just a hint of sarcasm, “Gran’s the expert at coping with the socially awkward moment.”

Mollie grimaced. “I should learn to keep my big mouth shut.”

“You’re just direct,” he said. “Be glad. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go give Griffen a hand.”

“By all means.”

Mollie turned to Jeremiah, who, she knew, had been watching and listening with interest, if not objectivity. “Anything new?”

He shook his head. “Croc has no idea how the necklace ended up in his back pocket. None. Zip. Or so he says. I think he has ideas-Croc always has ideas-but I’ve been on his case for two years about sticking to the facts.”

“What’s his mood like?”

“Contemplative. When he has something to say, he’ll say it. That’s one thing, anyway, he and his Kermit Tiernay alter ego have in common.”

Mollie could sense Jeremiah’s confusion, his sense of betrayal mixed in with his loyalty, his affection, for a troubled young man. “Have you had a chance to speak with him alone, or are his parents always hovering?”

He smiled thinly. “Trust me, Mollie, the Tiernays don’t hover. Michael’s trying, and maybe in her own way so is Bobbi. But, Jesus, could you be here tonight? Sure, they want to support Deegan, but he’s right-they’re also running up the flag, demonstrating that their older son might be a suspected jewel thief, but they’re from strong stock, they’ll carry on.”

“Where would you be if you were in their shoes?” Mollie asked.

“We’d all be with Croc.” His eyes darkened, lost in the shifting shadows of the pool lights, Griffen’s candles. Mollie could feel his somber mood. “The parents, the grandmother, the brother. I’d have told him his publicist boss could throw a cocktail party without him.”

“Which I did tell him.”

“I know you did. I’m not criticizing them, him, you. Look, you’ve got guests,” he said. “See to them. Have fun tonight.”

She sighed, felt a little breathless, asked abruptly, “Do you think the real jewel thief will show?”

He went still. “Mollie…”

“It’s not Croc. You know it’s not. And it’s not me.”

It was as if a mask had dropped over his face. “This isn’t the time. I think your mutt owner has just arrived.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll go mingle.”