Ghosted

Chapter Fourteen

The scream came from across the room, just a few feet away.

Shock froze Archie.

For an instant. But he knew that voice, that scream.

Well, not that scream, but a version of that scream.

“Mrs. Simms—Simmy, it’s me!”

The otherwise intrepid Mrs. Simms had a fear bordering on phobia of mice, and more than once Archie and John had been startled out of whatever they were doing by a sudden shriek from the kitchen or pantry when Simmy discovered a rodent invader.

Archie reached automatically for the wall switch. The bronze and frosted ivory glass lamp came on overhead, flooding the elegant front parlor with warm light.

Mrs. Simms stood paralyzed in the hallway, staring as though she’d never seen him before. “ Archie ? I heard the door. I didn’t realize…” She was clutching a carton of half-and-half.

At the same time, Archie said, “I didn’t mean to scare you. What are you doing here?”

“Chief Langham asked me to make sure the house was in order. He said you might be moving back in tomorrow.”

“I wish he’d told me.” Archie couldn’t hide his exasperation. His heart was still thumping in his ears. “I wasn’t sure the house had been cleared. I came to have a look.”

Simmy nodded, but she wasn’t listening. Her face twisted and she came to him, saying, “I’m so sorry about Dr. Perry.”

Archie nodded, hugged her, said over the tightness in his throat, “I know. Me, too.”

“He was such a good person. A good friend. A good…employer. A great man.” Her voice was muffled against his shoulder.

“Yes.”

Simmy drew back, stared up at him. “I still can’t understand it. I keep thinking about it and thinking about it. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Not yet it doesn’t.”

“Everyone loved him.”

“We loved him. That’s…” Archie’s voice faded as he recognized the truth of it. He had never really thought about it, never put it into words, but of course he had loved John. John had been like a father to him.

In fact, John had been a fixture in Archie’s life for longer than his actual father.

It should not have come as such a revelation.

“Simmy, Saturday night when I was looking for John, you said a message came for him. What happened to that message?”

She had to think about it. “It was lying on the kitchen counter. The doctor took it with him. He put it in his pocket.”

There had been no mention of a note in John’s possessions.

“You said you thought it was hand-delivered. Was there an envelope?” Archie asked.

Simmy’s forehead crinkled in thought. “I think… Yes. There was an envelope. A plain white envelope.”

“Was there writing on the envelope? Did you recognize the writing?”

She shook her head. “It was just his name. John . Printed. There was nothing special about it.”

“Did you see him open the envelope?”

“Yes.”

“Did he seem—how did he seem?”

She seemed confused by the question. “Nothing, really. He raised his eyebrows as though he was a little surprised, maybe? But not completely surprised.”

Archie considered. “What happened to the envelope? Did he take that, too?”

Simmy’s eyes widened. “No. He crumpled it up. Absent-mindedly, I think. He tossed it in the trash.”

The forensics team would—should—have collected the trash. There was no mention of the note or envelope in the case file.

“Did you mention the note to police when you were interviewed?”

Simmy nodded. “I did.”

“Did you mention the envelope?”

She looked guilty. “I never thought of it again. They didn’t ask.”

Uneasy suspicion had Archie asking, “Did the police collect the trash from that night?”

“I don’t think so. No. I think everything was still there when I arrived this afternoon.”

Without a word Archie moved past her and strode down the hall to the kitchen. The overhead light was on, illuminating gleaming counters, polished floor, and immaculate appliances. Everything in apple-pie order , as Simmy used to refer to it. He went to the sink, banging open the white cupboard doors that concealed the trash and recycling bins.

“I emptied everything into the trash bag by the back door,” Simmy said from behind him. “I was going to toss the bag in one of the barrels on my way out.”

Archie turned to the door, located the trash bag, and carried it to the kitchen table where, to Simmy’s horror, he emptied the dirty wrappers, dripping paper cups, crumpled napkins, and stained paper plates across the glossy wooden surface.

“Archie!”

“I’ll clean it up,” he told her. “Can I borrow a pair of gloves?”

Simmy set the carton of half-and-half on the sink counter and brought Archie a pair of orange latex gloves. She watched in silence in as he delicately sifted through the napkins, paper plates and towels, and empty food containers. He located the crumpled ball of envelope without any trouble.

He didn’t need to ask; Simmy handed over a gallon-size freezer bag.

Archie dropped the crumpled envelope into the plastic bag, pulled out his phone, and called Beau.

This time Beau answered on the second ring.

“Sorry. I was just about to phone you.” Beau sounded uncharacteristically tired.

“Right. Well, I’m over at McCabe Hou—”

“ Goddamn it, Crane . We had a deal.”

Archie said quickly, “And I’m sticking to it. The deal was I stay out of the investigation.” He had to speak louder over the irate noises coming from the other end of the call. “I did exactly as you asked, Beau. I read over the file, back to front. Twice. That’s it. I didn’t go out and I didn’t talk to anyone. But when you didn’t get back to me, I thought I’d swing by the house to see if it had been cleared.”

“That was not our agreement,” Beau snapped. “Our agreement was, you lay low. You don’t make trouble for me. Or yourself. What the hell does one fucking day matter?”

“I don’t think I’m any less safe—” Archie caught Mrs. Simms’s eye and changed what he had been about to say. He lowered his voice. “Jesus, Beau. I just want to sleep in my own bed.”

“What the hell does it matter ?”

That furious outburst was so unlike Beau, it took Archie aback. “I-It’s just I’ve spent most of the last seven years sleeping in hotels and motels or tents or nothing but a sleeping bag on open range. Or a-a goddamned hospital . I just need…” It sounded ridiculous, Beau was right to be exasperated, and Archie stopped himself right there.

To his surprise, Beau said nothing.

Into that sudden silence, Archie drew a steadying breath, said more calmly, “But if you have a legitimate reason you don’t want me to stay tonight, I won’t. Okay? And yes, I guess I could’ve—should have waited to hear from you. Anyway. I found the envelope for the message luring John out to the gazebo.”

“On my way.” Beau disconnected.

Archie’s hand was shaking a little as he slid his phone in his jeans pocket. Why did every—nearly every—conversation between himself and Beau feel like a fight for survival? He caught Simmy’s thoughtful expression.

“Language barrier?” he suggested.

“Oh? As I recall, you both always managed to get your point across.”

Archie’s smile was mostly a grimace. Back in the day, John and Simmy were probably the only two people in Twinkleton who knew that Archie and the police chief’s son were more than study buddies.

Not that Archie had discussed it. He’d never said a word to anyone until the afternoon Beau ended things between them—but Simmy and John had seemed to understand from the first. And been unfazed by the knowledge. Teenaged Archie had assumed they didn’t want to know or simply hadn’t recognized what was really going on. As an adult, he realized they had probably been scrambling to figure out the best way to provide responsible adult supervision while respecting both his and Beau’s desperate need for privacy.

What a strange complication Archie must have presented when he’d unexpectedly turned up in John’s orderly life.

Now he said, “You don’t have to stay, Simmy. You’re not—” He started to say none of this was her problem, she was no longer John’s housekeeper, but realized in time that John’s devoted Mrs. Simms was probably not going to take that the way he intended.

He said instead, “I don’t need the sheets changed. I’ll wait for Beau on my own.”

“Of course, the sheets are changed,” Simmy said with a hint of asperity. “I’ve been here all afternoon. There are groceries in the fridge. And a letter for you in the study.” She scrutinized his face. “Does the chief think that you’re in danger, too?”

Archie said vaguely, “I think he’s just being extra cautious because we don’t know why John was killed.”

“But you haven’t been home in years.”

Archie shrugged. She was right, but maybe his return had somehow served as a triggering event? Had his arrival in Twinkleton been the precipitating factor which led to the offender’s decision to eliminate John?

But then, what could be the actual motive?

It was hard to see how his return could in any way have influenced the situation between John and Professor Azizi. But perhaps it did have some bearing on Jon Monig’s resentments and bitterness? He didn’t sound like the most stable guy in the world.

“Maybe the chief is right. Maybe it isn’t safe for you to stay here,” Simmy said.

“I don’t think my safety is Chief Langham’s concern.”

Simmy raised her brows, and Archie was instantly reminded of how it felt to be fifteen and suspect the adults around you were politely humoring your nonsense.

She murmured something that sounded suspiciously like, “You know best,” and dumped the spoiled carton of half-and-half down the sink. “Shall I clean up this mess?” She indicated the trash spread out across the kitchen table.

“No, no. I’ll take care of it,” Archie assured her.

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Archie opened his mouth, caught her gaze, and closed it.

“See you tomorrow,” he said meekly.

But really, eventually they were going to have to have some kind of conversation about Mrs. Simm’s continued employment. Unless she had accrued some serious debt, John had surely arranged matters so that she no longer needed to work? Either way, Archie didn’t need a housekeeper. Even if he couldn’t sell the house right away, he wasn’t going to stay in Twinkleton.

The back door screen banged shut behind Simmy, as Archie headed down the dark hall to John’s study.

The house suddenly felt very quiet, very empty.

He reached John’s study, pausing in the doorway to survey the room by moonlight.

Strangely, in the silvery gloom it was easier to believe that John was still here, that he had simply stepped into another room. There was something comforting about the familiar outline of bookshelves and furniture, the sheen of pale wood and glazed bricks, the faded print of upholstered roses, the gleam of painted eyes in the portrait above the fireplace.

Archie moved across to the desk, switched on the lamp, and sat down in John’s chair. He could almost imagine he caught the scent of John’s aftershave—the basil, cucumber, suede notes of Polo Blue blended, always, with an undernote of disinfectant and mouthwash.

He smiled faintly at the thought. He was not about to go all woo-woo, but it was hard to shake that sense of bittersweet nostalgia.

A large stack of mail addressed to John sat on the desk’s ink blotter.

A single envelope addressed to Archie was propped against the brass base of the green banker’s lamp. His initial excitement that this might be the letter John had left for him instantly faded. He recognized the black sprawling penmanship as that of his former partner, Bettina David.

He picked up the envelope and heard the slide of something small and light. The hair on his nape prickled.

Was this what he thought it was?

Had Betty been on-scene that day? She was about the only person who would have recognized that tiny circle of silver for what it was.

He opened the pencil drawer, looking for John’s letter opener.

The screen door banged from the kitchen, announcing Beau’s arrival.

“In here,” Archie called absently. He slit open the envelope, squeezed the sides, and peered at the contents. A folded note and a glint of silver.

Then he raised his head, listening to the squeak of a floorboard down the hallway.

Instantly, he realized his mistake.

Beau might let himself inside the house, but he’d sure as hell call out. He wouldn’t silently tiptoe down the hall to the study.

Archie snapped out the lamplight, moving swiftly, soundlessly from the desk toward the fireplace, avoiding the obstacle course of end table and lamp, chair, ottoman. His outstretched hand felt through the darkness until he could grab the handle of the poker, which chimed softly against its iron stand. He flattened himself against the wall, stayed absolutely motionless in the shadows, alert and ready—as ready as he could be with only a poker to defend himself.

Despite the thump-thump, thump-thump of blood pounding in his ears, he felt surprisingly steady. This was familiar terrain.

Another squeak. Closer now.

The house did not have a security system. There were security cameras in the front yard, but no cameras inside.

He waited, seconds ticking by, gaze trained on the doorway, and felt a little jolt as the light from the kitchen backlit the outline of a tall silhouette standing in the doorway.

Impossible to make out more than that: a tall shadow.

One shadow. So that was good.

Better, anyway.

Archie hesitated. He thought the intruder was looking for him at the desk—so, someone who knew the layout of John’s office? Or just a lucky guess?

His instinct was to go on the offense, but he was not as fast or strong as he had been a couple of months ago and, if the intruder was carrying, he was going to have trouble avoiding repeated fire in an enclosed space.

As he ran through his options, the intruder seemed to realize he had lost the advantage of surprise, and suddenly retreated, turning and sprinting down the hallway. His rubber-soled footsteps pounded on the parquet floors.

Archie sprang from concealment, racing after him, poker in hand.

“FBI. Halt .”

Only once in his entire career had anyone actually halted when he yelled halt , so Archie was not surprised when the intruder vanished through the kitchen doorway. Archie reached the kitchen in time to nearly crash over a fallen chair that was sent skidding in his direction. He leaped over the chair, and hurled the poker at the back of the intruder as he reached the back door.

The poker hit the figure in black squarely across his shoulders. The man grunted, staggered, but made it out the door, jumping down the short flight of steps and fleeing across the wet grass toward the drive and the street beyond.

Archie followed, also springing over the steps, wincing as he landed, but giving chase through the gloom. He was swearing, his heart banging with anger and adrenaline.

He was not going to be able to sustain this pace for long; his muscles were already burning. He sped up and managed to gain a few feet as they burst out of the drive onto the sidewalk, the other still a few feet ahead.

Out of the corner of his eye, Archie glimpsed the black outline of a police vehicle approaching from the left. He put his fingers to his lips, sucked in enough breath to whistle. The SUV’s red and blue flashers came on.

The intruder, with Archie on his heels, launched himself across the street—straight into the path of a car approaching from the right.