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“No.”

“Was there a falling out of some kind?”

The question was unexpected, but Archie didn’t blink. “No. Depending on where I was posted, we sometimes got together for the holidays. We spoke on the phone. We kept in touch. But because of my job, I wasn’t able to get out this way.”

It sounded lame because it was lame.

Swenson clearly thought it was lame. He said, “Huh.” But it sounded like Hmm. It was definitely intended as a Hmm.

Archie, guilty and irritated, was unwise enough to be honest. “Frankly, I don’t like Twinkleton. I never have.”

Now why in the hell would he say that aloud? Because he was tired, recovering from a head injury, stressed, and increasingly edgy at the idea of Beau staring down the back of his neck? Probably all of the above. Which was still no excuse.

Swenson’s brows arched. “Why? What have you got against Twinkleton?”

“I don’t have anything against Twinkleton. It’s just…not my kind of place.” A tiny spark of old injury, ancient wrongs flicked into life, and he said, “There was never anything here for me.”

Despite the incessant clicking of Swenson’s pen, the room was suddenly very quiet.

“But here you are on your vacation.”

“I’m not—” Archie changed course. He did not want to talk about Wyoming or why he was on sick leave or any of the rest of it. He said, “John asked me to come home.”

The obvious question was any particular reason? But Swenson missed it. “What made you leave the party and go out to the gazebo?”

Archie answered carefully. “I thought earlier in the evening that there was something on John’s mind. Something worrying him. When Simmy—Mrs. Simms—said he’d gone outside to meet someone, something felt wrong. I couldn’t understand why he’d leave the party to have a private meeting in the back of the garden.”

“You think that was your special agent instinct?” Swenson asked.

Archie stared. Anyone else and he’d have suspected sarcasm. Swenson looked completely serious.

“It just seemed odd. I thought I’d go and check on him.”

Beau asked, “What time was that?”

Archie turned to look at him. “Around nine. Nine.”

Beau’s blue gaze studied him without emotion.

“Did you mention to anyone you were going out to the gazebo?”

“Not specifically. Mrs. Simms said John had gone out to the gazebo, and I think I said something like, that doesn’t make sense.”

“You didn’t ask anyone to go with you?”

“No. I figured I was probably overreacting.”

Beau continued to regard him consideringly. “Okay. You started across the garden. What did you see?”

“Nothing. It was dark. I didn’t see anything or hear anything amiss.”

Had there been something…

Yes, unease flittered—not a memory so much as a fleeting impression. Something that had been there? Or something that hadn’t been there?

It was gone. Replaced by the vision of the flickering lights he’d seen earlier. His lips parted, but he could imagine how that would go over. He decided that was one angle of investigation he’d pursue on his own.

“Sure about that?” Beau asked.