Ghosted

Chapter Four

As angry as he was, and after that brief conversation with Beau, he was seriously pissed off, Archie ended up taking a nap and then sleeping until dinner time.

The fatigue was the worst part of this concussion thing. The pressure in his head, the dizziness, the blurry vision and sensitivity to light and noise he could tough out. Mostly. But the fatigue was like a weight crashing down on him. He could only go so far and then it flattened him.

But he was already feeling a bit better. Two days ago, he could no more have wandered around the streets of Twinkleton than he could have flown. He just had to be patient and work around his physical limitations until he was back to one hundred percent.

In the meantime, he needed food and he needed a plan.

The dark-haired girl had been replaced at the front desk by a blonde-haired girl. She offered him an uninterested smile as he walked through the lobby and went out through the tall carved mahogany entry door with its panel of decorative glass.

It had rained while he slept, and the air had that freshly-washed-garden smell. He strolled down the damp and shady cobblestone path to the street and then headed downtown. In the gentle twilight, old-fashioned street lamps blinked on, lights shone invitingly in cafe windows, a few scattered stars twinkled overhead. It would be dark soon, and for the first time in maybe forever, the good people of Twinkleton were probably a little nervous at night’s approach.

Without reason, because as far as Archie was concerned, there was zero chance that John had been the victim of random violence. The mysterious message requesting a meeting in the gazebo cinched that. John had almost certainly known his killer. Almost certainly believed he had nothing to fear—though a request to meet in such an odd place at such an odd time should have raised some doubts.

He had been worried and strained; was the meeting connected or unconnected to John’s state of mind? Connected seemed most likely.

It was beyond frustrating to be closed out of the investigation. Doubly frustrating to have his legitimate offer of help thrown back in his face. Why? Okay, maybe from local law enforcement’s view, his personal connection to the victim necessitated keeping him at arm’s-length, but why not take advantage of his connections and resources? And if Beau—local law enforcement—was that pigheaded, what the hell with the attitude?

What had Archie ever done to Beau to deserve that?

He was truly baffled.

You dumped me.

Not that they were ever going to have that conversation, but that was the truth. Archie had been the guy who got his heart broken. Archie was the guy who’d never managed to get over it enough to completely trust anyone else. Beau, presumably, had gone on to have the life he wanted. He was Twinkleton’s youngest chief of police. He’d married. He probably had three-point-five kids by now. What the hell was he so mad at Archie about?

Be careful what you wish for?

Well, Archie had tried to tell him that a couple of times.

It was pointless thinking about this stuff. He had a lot more serious things to consider. If Beau was determined to keep him on the outside of the investigation, there wasn’t a lot he could do about it. But he could unobtrusively support the investigation through his own efforts.

He’d have to be discreet. He didn’t want to cross the line into interfering in a police investigation. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Twinkleton PD could solve a homicide on their own. Beau was probably a very good chief of police. He’d always excelled at whatever he put his mind to. He’d just rarely bothered to put his mind to anything.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t totally fair.

Everything Beau wanted had always come easy to him, but that wasn’t his fault. He’d been willing to work for the things he had to.

Archie passed a couple of sidewalk cafes, a brewhouse, and finally stopped in front of a small Italian restaurant. Even from the sidewalk, he could smell delicious aromas of simmering herbs and sizzling meats. His apathetic appetite sparked back into life.

Restaurant Roma. It rang a bell. He’d celebrated his sixteenth birthday there. John had organized a little party for him, and a handful of his schoolmates had shown up. Most likely due to their parents’ respect for John.

Archie smiled faintly at the memory. It didn’t sting. He hadn’t been a popular kid, but he hadn’t given a damn about it, either. Twinkleton had been a placeholder for him. It was where he had to be until he could start his life. His adult life.

Back then, the only thing that had mattered, that had felt real and true, was Beau. His feelings for Beau, and Beau’s feelings for him. In the end, that had been the least authentic thing of all.

Why, why was he dredging up all these old, useless memories?

It was being in this place again. In Twinkleton.

Which was one reason he’d avoided coming back here. Probably the smartest, healthiest thing he could do was fly home to Stafford.

But no. He owed this to John. Judith had been right about one thing. He should have made time for John when John was alive. The least, the absolute least he could do, was make sure John’s killer was brought to justice.

He opened the door to the restaurant and was startled to find it packed on a Sunday evening. Before he could back out, the hostess pounced, insisting there was no wait and escorting him to the one open table in the place—a half-table crammed against the wall near the bar.

The hostess handed him a menu, asked for his drink order, and departed.

Archie scanned the menu indifferently—he was not a picky eater—closed it, and studied the crowded room. Thankfully, the lights were muted, but the noise level was already difficult. Maybe he could just order and leave.

The busser arrived one second later with water, bread basket, and Peroni served in a pilsner glass. So, okay, maybe not.

Archie sipped the beer, ignoring the little voice reminding him that he was on painkillers—one beer was not going to kill him, and if it did, he deserved it—and examined the velvet painting of the Tower of Pisa hanging overhead.

He was no art expert, but...yikes.

He glanced around the animated room again, and froze as his gaze collided with an arctic blue stare from the table next to his.

The blue stare resolved itself into Beau’s stony expression. He was staring across the blonde head of the woman dining with him.

Archie managed not to choke on his Peroni. He carefully set his glass down, glanced cautiously up again, and Beau had transferred his gaze to his companion.

Really? Why in the name of God hadn’t he opted for a burger up the street? This was a recipe for indigestion. At the same time, he felt a flash of stubborn defiance. He was not going to be chased out of a restaurant because Beau Langham and his wife happened to be dining there.

And if Archie’s presence in a public space was a problem for Beau, then Beau needed to find someplace else to dine.

The waitress arrived, took his order, and retreated. Archie went back to studying the gallery of velvet landmarks, but gradually the tenor and tone of the conversation taking place beside him began to sink in.

Half of the conversation. The feminine half. Beau was taking pains to keep his voice down.

“But he’s not your kid. That’s the point.”

An unintelligible response from Beau. His was not a happy expression, that was for sure. Archie stared at his beer glass. He didn’t want to hear this, but at the same time, it was impossible not to listen in.

“Yes, I get that, Beau. But you made your choice. You were adamant this was how it had to be.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Archie could see a silken sweep of pale hair, a small sandal-toed shoe tapping nervously beneath the table, and a glittering rock on Mrs. Langham’s clenched left hand.

Another low response from Beau.

This time it was met by a slightly louder, “Is that why we’re having dinner here? Because you think I won’t throw a scene in public?”

Archie couldn’t help looking up, couldn’t help catching Beau’s look of angry frustration—directed all at the woman—couldn’t help seeing the real pain behind the other emotions.

Archie’s last partner had gone through a painful and protracted divorce. He did not, not want to feel sympathy—he did not want to feel anything at all for Beau—but, if he was reading the situation correctly, this was brutal. Not something he’d wish on anyone, especially that kid, whoever he was.

“What is it they say? Unintended consequences.” The woman rose, gathered her purse and cardigan. “Thanks for dinner.” She made her way through the crowded tables, head held high, ignoring the whispers around her.

Archie’s view of Beau’s table was blocked by the timely, if annoying, arrival of his salad.

“Ground pepper?” the waitress asked.

“Sure.”

A couple of turns of the peppermill and the waitress moved away. Archie heard Beau requesting his bill.

Archie kept his full attention on his salad as if his future depended on counting lettuce leaves. He could feel Beau looking at him, but if there was one thing he knew how to do very well, it was fake it.

Beau’s bill arrived at the same moment as Archie’s lasagna.

Beau chatted pleasantly with the waitress, while in an alternate universe Archie ate his lasagna and pretended he couldn’t hear everything being said. Not that there was anything revealing in that exchange. Just chitchat.

He knew without looking when Beau finally pushed back his chair and rose, knew that Beau hesitated, knew the moment Beau turned and headed for the door.

He did not relax until he felt the whisper of night air against the back of his neck.

Only when he was confident that Beau was gone, did he put his fork down and sit back.

There was awkward and there was excruciating. That had been excruciating. He really wished he had not overheard even the little he had.

Despite everything that had happened between them, he didn’t wish Beau ill. At the same time, he was not about to let his sympathy for Beau’s situation—assuming he understood the situation correctly—influence any of his decisions.

He slowly ate his meal, oblivious to the people around him, and asked for the bill. He paid for his meal, finished his beer, and walked back to his hotel.

He had planned to spend the evening trying to locate Professor Azizi, but when he walked into his room, he saw the red light on the phone blinking, indicating he had a message. He assumed it was Judith and prepared for another round of pleasantries, but when he listened to the recording, it turned out to be from Frances Madison of Madison Law, requesting that he return her phone call no matter how late the hour.

Archie sat in the wingback chair by the window overlooking the moonlit garden, and phoned Ms. Madison.

She answered on the second ring.

Archie identified himself and the don’t-spam-me note in her voice gave way to a much friendlier tone.

“Archie—I’m sorry. Special Agent Crane—”

“Archie is fine.”

“Archie, thank you so much for phoning me back. I know it’s late, so I won’t take up a lot of your time. I’m not sure if you’re aware that I was John’s estate lawyer and appointed executor of his will.”

“No. I’m not familiar with any of...that.” There had never been any reason for him to be familiar with John’s legal affairs, but he could tell Ms. Madison thought his answer was a little apathetic.

“I see. Welllll , this is rather awkward. Your—John’s sister, Mrs. Winslow, has indicated that you’ve expressed a wish not to attend the reading of the will.”

The words were simple enough, but Archie was having trouble deciphering them. He said slowly, “No. We’ve never discussed the matter. Is there some rush in reading the will? I thought that usually took a few months.”

“It can, of course, but in this case the process is streamlined by the fact that I’m both John’s lawyer and his executor, and the will itself is pretty straightforward.”

“Okay. Again, I’ve never discussed the matter with Judith, but I don’t have to be there if it’s a problem. I’ll value anything John wanted me to have, and if he didn’t mention me, that’s okay, too.”

Ms. Madison said quickly, “It’s certainly not a problem. I think John’s expectation was that you would be there.”

Was this getting weird? It felt weird.

“Or I can be there. If I’m still in town.”

“Your—Mrs. Winslow—”

Archie said flatly, “Judith is John’s sister. That’s her only connection to me.”

There a pause and Ms. Madison said, “Of course. Mrs. Winslow is pushing to have the reading of the will tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Correct.”

“John’s not even buried.”

“It’s a little out of the ordinary,” Ms. Madison observed in the tone of a neutral observer.

“Is there some rush I’m not aware of?”

“Not from my perspective.”

Archie thought it over, said, “I mean, if that’s when the will is being read, I can be there. If you th—”

Ms. Madison said firmly, “Archie, I think you need to be there.”