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Beau said briskly, “Right. Well, as of right now, this house and the garden are a crime scene. You’ll have to find somewhere else to stay during your visit. Let my office know where we can find you for any follow-up questions.”

“Yes.” Archie rose shakily from the table.

Swenson frowned, watching him. “Are you okay, sir?”

“It’s been a long night,” Archie said. He did not look at Beau as he left the room.

Chapter Three

He woke to the sound of a phone ringing loudly next to his head.

Archie’s eyes jerked open. He did not know where he was beyond an unfamiliar hotel room shrouded, thanks to blackout curtains, in gloom. He was further confused by the fact that the hotel phone was ringing rather than his cellphone.

He reached for the phone, knocked it off its hook, and had to lean over the side of the bed to retrieve it.

“Crane,” he grated into the receiver.

“Oh.” The voice was female and vaguely familiar. “I’m sorry. Wrong number.”

A loud click at the other end of the line ended the call.

Archie swore, fumbled the phone back into its cradle, fell back in the stack of pillows. It had taken him over an hour to find lodging the night before. When he’d finally managed to wrangle a room at the exorbitantly priced Fraser House Inn, he’d stumbled upstairs, stripped, taken four pain killers, and fallen into bed. He had not been trying to kill himself, but at that point, he wouldn’t have cared if he had.

Twelve hours of deep, dreamless sleep later, his headache had receded to a survivable background thrum, and he was glad he had not accidentally overdosed. He was still shocked, though no longer stricken, by the events of the previous night. That John was dead—murdered—still seemed impossible, but this was what everyone felt after losing someone to violent crime.

The phone rang again.

“Jesus Christ.” He snatched the phone up, growled, “Crane.”

“Archie, is that you?” The voice from earlier held a note of protest.

He blinked, matched the name with the voice, and modified his tone. “Judith?”

“Archie, where have you been? Why did you leave last night without telling anyone where you were going? I’ve spent over an hour trying to track you down. We thought you must have left town!”

Archie raised his head, peered at the clock on the nightstand, blinked and peered again. It was after one o’clock in the afternoon. He sat up cautiously, swung his legs over the side of the side of the four-poster bed. So far, so good.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

That was the truth. It wasn’t like witnesses were released back into the suspect pool after questioning. But even if it hadn’t been the truth, what did Judith imagine there would have been to say? It wasn’t like she’d ever been anything but skeptical of his role in John’s life. In fact, the first time he’d met her, he’d got the impression Judith felt John had been tricked into assuming his guardianship. Not a great feeling for a fifteen-year-old kid grieving the loss of his parents.

Still. Water under the bridge.

Judith was continuing on in that charming way of hers. “There’s always a choice, Archie. Granted, you made yours clear when you left Twinkleton and never looked back. However, I know that John would expect that we at least invite your opinion in planning his funeral. He remained fond of you, despite your lack of reciprocal feeling.”

This was a lot for a guy who had been dead to the world, almost literally, three minutes earlier.

Archie, wiped his hand over his face, said carefully, courteously, “I’m happy to do whatever I can, Judith. If you want my opinion—”

“Not particularly. But I know John would have wanted that.”

Unexpectedly, Archie’s throat closed. He would never again have the opportunity to ask John what he wanted regarding anything. Never see that little twinkle in his eyes, never hear his warm, easy chuckle, never get one of those calls out of the blue asking how he was, if he needed anything; those surprising reminders that someone in the world did actually care if he was happy and well.

It took him a moment before he could say, “What do you need from me?”

“How long are you planning to stay?”

Good question. There was no longer any personal reason for him to stay in Twinkleton. He would have to return to his apartment in Stafford to recuperate, unless he could somehow wrangle his way back to active duty. That was wishful thinking. He was not ready physically, mentally, or emotionally to go back to work. It never hurt to try, though.