Ghosted

Chapter Eight

Swenson yelped, “ You saw a ghost ?”

Someone believed in ghosts, that was for sure. Though he’d no doubt deny it after the fact.

Beau said, “You think you saw a ghost? You do?”

His skepticism was understandable given their adolescent views. In fact, not even counting their adolescent views.

“I don’t know,” Archie admitted. “I didn’t think so at the time. I still have trouble believing it. But it was...weird.”

Beau continued to stare at him as though trying to decide if Archie was yanking his chain or really had lost his mind. He asked, reluctantly, Archie thought, “What was weird? What did you see?” He corrected immediately, “What do you think you saw?”

“After John went inside, I stayed on the terrace. Like I said, it was nice with all the little lights and the flowers, and I was...”

“Tired,” Beau supplied.

Archie shrugged, not denying it. “It got a little darker and after a while I noticed light flickering over at the gazebo.”

“What kind of light? A flashlight? Near the gazebo? In the gazebo?”

“Not a flashlight,” Archie said with certainty. “More diffused. More...”

“More?”

“Glittery.”

Swenson sucked in a breath like a Cub Scout listening to campfire stories. Beau gave him a level look. Swenson looked sheepish.

Beau said to Archie, “You saw lights glittering from across the garden. Could it have been reflection from the cars coming up the drive or from the lanterns shining on the pond?”

“That was my assumption, but then she—it—”

Beau opened his mouth. Swenson gulped, “ She ?”

“The light sort of seemed to take on a shape.”

“You are so full of shit.” But despite his words, Beau sounded less angry than he had during the entire interview.

“Why do you think I didn’t bring this up Saturday night? I didn’t believe it. No way in hell would anyone else.”

Beau gave a short laugh. “You’re right about that.”

“You asked. I’m telling you what I thought I saw.”

Beau grimaced in apparent acknowledgement. “You saw lights glowing across the garden on the night of the TPS annual ghost walk, and it didn’t occur to you that somebody was in costume for the big event?”

“Sure, it did. But when I got over to the gazebo, there was no sign of anyone. No tracks in the grass or soft ground, no dirt on the floor...nothing.”

Once again, he had an odd inkling that there had been something.

Had he missed something?

He said slowly, finishing his original thought, “But also, John was a true believer. He wouldn’t pay someone to appear as-as—”

He couldn’t quite say it aloud.

He didn’t have to. Swenson breathed, “ Jacqueline McCabe .”

Beau turned his steely gaze on Swenson. “Detective,” he said in a very mild tone.

But Swenson was off and running. “But it makes sense, Chief! The legend says Jacqueline McCabe always appears right before a family member dies.”

“No, it doesn’t make sense.” Beau shot Archie an exasperated look as though blaming him for short-circuiting his detective. “For one thing, John Perry was not related to the McCabe family.”

Actually...

But Archie kept his mouth shut.

“For another, there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

Swenson’s boyish face took on a slightly mutinous expression before he remembered who he was talking to. “No. Right. But...”

“Nope.” Beau was adamant. “I don’t want to hear it. This is a homicide investigation not an episode of Scooby-Doo .”

“Right. Right.”

Archie’s mouth twitched into a quickly repressed smile. Swenson so clearly disagreed.

Beau caught Archie’s gaze and gave one of those long-suffering sighs. “ Anyway . You thought you saw strange lights and you walked over to the gazebo, but didn’t see anything.”

“Correct.”

“Then what?”

“I figured it was probably some kid playing a prank.”

For a moment Beau’s gaze held his, and Archie knew Beau was remembering the same things he was. Beau said, “It’s been known to happen.”

“Yeah.”

Neither spoke and then Beau’s mouth curled into a wry half-smile. His gaze moved to mounted camera recording their interview. He glanced back at Archie. “Okay. You decided someone was playing a prank. What happened next?”

“I checked my watch, realized it was later than I’d thought, and I went inside.”

“Did you tell anyone about the mysterious lights?”

“No. If I’d run into John—but there was already a crowd. I said hello to a few people, decided I wasn’t really in the mood for a party, and tried to find John to tell him I was going up. No one seemed to know where he was until I spoke to Simmy and she said he had gone out to the gazebo.”

They had been over this part, too, on Saturday night. Archie was not keen to relive it again.

Beau said, “How much time between when you checked the gazebo for the lights and when you went back to look for John?”

“Maybe forty minutes.”

“Cutting it pretty close,” Swenson commented.

Yes. Too close for comfort. In their place, Archie would be suspicious, too.

“Let me ask you something,” Beau said. “Are you on medication?”

Archie took that for sarcasm, started to respond, and remembered that he was , in fact, on medication. Pain killers, sleep aids, antibiotics, you name it.

He said shortly, “I’m not on hallucinogens.”

Beau’s brows rose. “What are you on?”

“I’m not required to disclose details of my medical history unless—”

“Unless those details are relevant to your credibility as a witness, which, given that you claim to have seen a ghost, you’d have to agree makes your medical history a little relevant.”

Witness not suspect, so maybe things were looking up?

“Mostly OTC pain relievers.” That was the first actual lie Archie had told during the interview. “I can send you a list. But for the record, I’m not claiming that what I saw was a ghost. I just don’t have another explanation for it.”

Beau started to respond, but then seemed to change his mind. “Fair enough.”

Fair enough?

Archie said nothing.

Swenson nervously clicked his pen, watching Beau.

“Why are you here?” Beau abruptly changed tack. “What are you doing in Twinkleton?”

“John invited me to stay. I... have some leave. It made sense.”

Beau moved his head in negation. “According to Leo Baker, you’re recuperating after being injured in the line of duty. That story was confirmed by Priscilla Beckham.”

“Yep. Correct.”

“Why not just say so?” Beau asked impatiently. “Why turn it into a mystery?”

“It’s not a mystery. It’s also not related to John’s death.”

“You don’t get to make that call.”

“It’s related to an ongoing case, which I can’t discuss.”

“I’m not asking you about your goddamned ongoing case. I care about my ongoing case.”

Archie let out a long breath. “That’s…legit.”

“Gosh, thanks, Special Agent Crane!”

Archie ignored the sarcasm, “But I’ve told you the truth. My being here has nothing to do with John’s death. I had nothing to do with John’s death.”

Beau said nothing.

“I don’t know why Judith said—I can’t believe she seriously thinks I would ever— I don’t give a fuck about the will, John’s money, any of it. I don’t care about that.”

Beau said a little wryly, “Yeah, I’ll give you that. Money, position, none of that stuff, ever meant anything to you.” He seemed to recollect that they were not alone, and glanced at Swenson. He turned back to Archie. “All right. I think that’s it for now, Agent Crane. I’ll give you a ride back to your hotel.”

Swenson threw Beau a quick look of surprise, but said nothing.

Archie also said nothing. He was relieved at this sudden reprieve, but also confused. He’d had the impression Beau was just warming up. Maybe not. So, what was this about? There had to be something on Beau’s mind because Archie couldn’t think of another reason for him to waste his valuable time chauffeuring witnesses or suspects around.

He pushed to his feet, saying brusquely, “Appreciate it.”

He was more skeptical—and possibly uneasy—than appreciative, and Beau’s mocking expression, as he politely held the door open, seemed to recognize that.

As he preceded Beau down a narrow hall, walls lined with framed photos of local heroes and historic events, Archie felt the weight of Beau’s gaze between his shoulder blades, felt the loaded silence between them like something electrical and alive.

“Go left,” Beau ordered, and Archie automatically turned down a short corridor leading to a pair of exit doors. He was happy to skip a stroll through the bullpen—the gauntlet of curious stares and abruptly hushed conversations—though he assumed using the side entrance was convenience, not courtesy.

Generally, he wasn’t sensitive about what others thought or said about him, but something about this place, Twinkleton, not the police station, got to him. The idea that these people thought he might be a murderer? It bothered him more than it probably should have.

And there was the additional discomfort of a few folks maybe remembering that a very long time ago there had been a little bit of a scandal regarding the friendship between the current chief of police and America’s Most Wanted. Though that was more Beau’s problem than his.

As they stepped into the warm evening air, Archie shot a quick glance at Beau’s stoic profile. Did that kind of thing still bother Beau?

Unlikely.

Tender feelings and a career in law enforcement were not compatible.

The exit door swung shut behind them with a little bang. The air was still warm, but the shadows from the old brick building had lengthened across the asphalt lot. It was later than he’d realized.

Neither spoke as they crossed the little car park. Beau pressed his key fob and the locks of an unmarked vehicle turned over, clicking loudly in the quiet air. No beep. LE vehicles did not beep warnings to suspects and fugitives. Beau held the passenger door for Archie—so no pointed effort to remind him he was still a suspect, though, of course, he was.

Archie got in. The car was overly warm from sitting in the sun all day. The interior smelled of leather seats, sanitizer, and the subtle but distinct smell of electronics and wiring. He was still on guard, pushing back the fog of fatigue as he watched Beau turn the key in the ignition. The roar of an older model heavy-duty police vehicle engine filled the silence between them; static from the radio, bleeps and dings of all that electric equipment coming to life.

Typical of Beau, there was no abandoned paperwork or stray handcuffs or extra flashlights, no crumpled coffee cups. The interior of the car was as spic and span as a hospital O.R.

The only clue that Beau was ever off the clock was a red Hot Wheels fire engine parked on the dashboard.

Archie felt a pang at the sight of that tiny die-cast emergency vehicle. He wasn’t even sure why. It’s not like he didn’t know Beau had married, had a kid, had gone on with his life.

He’d gone on with his life, too, after all.

Beau followed his gaze and retrieved the toy car, dropping it into his uniform pocket.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Beau remarked, “Saturday night, you let us think you’d flown in from Virginia at John’s request. We know now that you and John flew back from Wyoming together.”

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t what?”

Archie sighed. “I guess I did. And that seems suspicious to you? It wasn’t intentional.”

“What seems suspicious is your instinct to conceal information that you yourself insist is not relevant.”

Archie shrugged.

Beau glanced at him. “That’s it? That’s your answer?”

Archie struggled with himself, admitted, “It wasn’t a conscious effort to be deceptive. It’s habit. Keeping things to myself.”

Beau, eyes on the road, gave an odd smile. “Now that, I’ll buy. You were always secretive.”

It was unfair, but at the same time, Archie knew why Beau thought that, felt that. In truth, his natural reticence was part of why he was so good at his job—and why he was so lousy at relationships.

He changed the subject. “Out of curiosity, am I your only suspect?”

“No. But you’re my best suspect.”

Archie made a sound that was partly amusement, partly scorn.

“You think it’s personal on my part?” Beau challenged.

Archie glanced at his profile, said honestly, “I think it’s partly personal. Hell, yeah.”

“You have the most to gain from John’s death. That gives you the strongest motive.”

“Both of those are assumption on your part.”

“Fact.”

“Bullshit.”

Beau ignored him. “You haven’t been back in how many years? Seven? And not forty-eight hours after you fly in, John is dead.”

“That’s barely even circumstantial. It’s coincidence at best.”

“You discovered the body.”

Archie said nothing because, yes, discovering John’s body was guaranteed to put a spotlight on him. That was just the way it worked.

“And witnesses describe your demeanor before you found John as agitated, disturbed, strange...”

“Off,” Archie said tersely. That one stung.

“Off,” agreed Beau.

“Which is subjective opinion not expert objective evidence.”

“Agreed, but that opinion was pretty much unanimous.”

“I hate this town,” Archie said bitterly. “I hate these fucking people.”

Which was neither reticent nor smart.

“Oh, we know,” Beau said. “We got the message a long time ago.”