Chapter Thirteen
Archie had no specific memory of the first time he’d seen Beau Langham.
Starting high school, even in a new town, had been nothing compared to what he’d already been through that terrible summer. He’d been utterly indifferent to everything except getting through the next few years as quickly as possible so that he could regain control of his life.
Perhaps somewhere in the very back of his mind had been the nebulous idea that once he was free of John’s guardianship, he could somehow return to a semblance of his old life, but that had simply been a grief-stricken kid’s wishful thinking, a yearning for what was lost forever.
The beauty of not giving a shit was his imperviousness to the usual high school jockeying for social status. Not only did he have zero interest in infiltrating the cliques of “populars,” “jocks,” “floaters,” and “good-ats,” he had no idea who those people even were. Ironically, the teenagers surrounding him mistook his emotional detachment for a kind of ultimate poise, which gave him a certain new guy cachet.
Anyway, it turned out that he shared a few classes with Beau Langham. Since they both favored the back row of every classroom, they frequently sat near each other. Even as a freshman, Beau had been a big man on campus. Maybe it came from being the son of the police chief, maybe it came from his already notable athletic prowess. Whatever it was, Beau had an enviable confidence. He had not been the class clown, by any stretch, or a smartass, really, but he didn’t hesitate to voice his opinions out loud—or make little jokes under his breath.
He was actually pretty funny, and occasionally Archie laughed, very quietly. Eventually, it dawned on him that those little jokes were for his benefit, that Beau was directing his commentary to him . Once in a great while, Archie would make a joke, too, and Beau always laughed. If Archie glanced over at him, Beau would smile right into his eyes.
Archie had understood a few key things about himself since junior high. He didn’t think Beau shared that self-knowledge. But he did know that Beau was not accidentally locking gazes with him, and it was the nicest thing that had happened to him in what felt like a very long time.
It was always an odd friendship, though.
Beau’s pals were all other jocks, and they didn’t see whatever Beau did in Archie.
Archie did not want problems or distractions, so he’d mostly tried to avoid Beau when he was with his crew.
But the other thing about the teenaged Beau was that he was very kind.
His dogs—he had two—were both strays he’d rescued. Nobody got hazed or bullied or mocked when Beau was around. He carried groceries for old ladies and raked the leaves for his widowed neighbor. He humored his parents and went to church every single Sunday morning. He was…soft-hearted.
So, it was possible that his initial efforts to befriend Archie had been motivated by the instinct to be nice to the new orphan in town—Archie’s sad backstory was common knowledge in Twinkleton. How could it not be? But over the months, the friendship had strengthened, and Archie had become fully vested—probably around the first time Beau had kissed him—and he’d felt it necessary to stake his small claim in Beau’s very large social circle.
Not everyone welcomed him, but most of Beau’s friends tolerated his presence. The exception had been Mike Sullivan. He and Beau had known each other since kindergarten, and Sully did not care for Archie one little bit.
Things had come to a head one afternoon when a bunch of them had been hanging out at Beau’s parents’ house, watching yet another football game on TV. Sully had made some dig about Archie always tagging along, and Archie had shot back with something equally rude about second-string linebackers. Sully had turned the color of Mrs. Langham’s prize-winning American Beauty roses, and the other guys had sucked in their breath with a collective whoa .
The point wasn’t what Sully said or what Archie said. A decade later, Archie couldn’t even remember—people had called him plenty worse since. The point was, Beau had watched the exchange in frowning silence, then turned to Archie and drawled, “Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?”
Everyone had laughed—though probably not Sully or Archie—and somehow from that moment forward, Archie’s position as Beau Langham’s sidekick had been cemented in Heceta High’s social hierarchy.
But the truth was, Archie wasn’t anybody’s sidekick. He had not seen any future for himself in Twinkleton. Even when, for a brief period, he had believed there was a future for himself and Beau, he had not pictured it happening in Twinkleton.
And Beau had not been willing to consider a future anywhere else.
So really, their relationship had always been doomed.
Archie had come to see that. He assumed Beau had, too.
Given that Beau was the one who’d pulled the plug.
Which was why Beau’s previous hostility had been so baffling. And why his subsequent cessation—seeming cessation—of hostilities was nearly as puzzling.
The youthful Archie had been confident he knew Beau Langham as well as one person could know another. The adult Archie wondered if he’d ever actually known Beau at all.
It was all water under the bridge now.
There was no going back. And, in reality, there had probably never really been a way of going forward.
But if they could find a way to work together for the brief time Archie was in Twinkleton, that was all to the good. Archie needed Beau’s help and Beau damn sure needed his, with all due respect to the peace officers of Twinkleton PD.
Unfortunately, though, Archie was not a genius profiler in a weekly TV series. He could not read over a police report and a handful of interview notes and instantly come up with a brilliant deduction. Frankly, he wasn’t sure legendary FBI BAU Chief Sam Kennedy would be able to wring much out of this skinny case file.
Both Leo Baker and Priscilla Beckham brought up the conflict with Professor Azizi as well as Jon Monig’s claims that John was his father. Mila Monig brought up the situation with Professor Azizi but, perhaps understandably, did not mention her son in any context.
It was a relief to Archie that no one came right out and accused him , although several witnesses mentioned he appeared strained and agitated when asking about John’s whereabouts. Desi and Arlo both described him as “off,” although Desi tactfully observed that was normal for him. Judith was the only person who actually described him as “wild-eyed.”
But then, most people who had to spend much time around Judith looked wild-eyed.
No one had suggested he was responsible for John’s death, so presumably that theory had surfaced after the reading of the will. There was a note that Judith had phoned Chief Langham, but Chief Langham’s notes were not included. Either because Beau was sparing Archie’s feelings (unlikely) or choosing to keep some of his cards to himself (highly probable).
The notes on Archie’s interview were also not included, so he was definitely getting a curated version of the case. It made sense from Beau’s perspective. Archie would have done the same.
He read every single witness account, every word of every interview, pored over the crime scene photos, and came to the inevitable conclusion that it was still early in the investigation.
Typically, the next steps would include re-interviewing witnesses or persons of interest (besides himself), following the forensic trail, analyzing John’s phone and financial records, and searching for additional witnesses—oh, and coordinating with outside experts. Like the FBI. Which Beau was sort of doing by giving Archie access to the file, although they both knew that wasn’t really the same as contacting the Bureau’s regional field office.
Beau had not specifically said Twinkleton PD had issued a BOLO on Azizi, but it was an obvious step.
Archie would have liked to have seen indication of an affidavit for a warrant to search Jon Monig’s home, but either Beau believed at this stage of the investigation the request would be denied, or he didn’t think there was enough evidence yet to pursue the Monig angle.
He was probably right about that.
The bottom line was, a homicide investigation, any homicide investigation, required a huge investment of time and effort. Beau had already acknowledged he didn’t really have those resources. So, did that mean he was going to let Archie take a larger role in the investigation?
He suspected he knew the answer, although Beau handing over this file, even if abridged, indicated Beau was more open to the idea than he had been.
It was a long afternoon.
Archie read through the file a second time. He stopped only to go downstairs to collect his DoorDash late lunch/early dinner order from the lobby front desk—and to take a couple of quick naps each time he dozed off reading.
Despite the stresses and strains of the last couple of days, and as little as Archie wanted to admit it, the enforced extra rest was helping. The pressure in his head, the dizziness, the blurry vision and sensitivity to light and noise, were all getting better. He was a long way from one hundred percent, and he was still easily fatigued, but the most worrying symptoms of his head trauma did finally seem to be going away.
In fact, he was feeling well enough to get restless.
Other than the distant sounds of hammering and drills, the inn was very quiet. It was also very warm in his corner room. Air conditioning was not a thing at the Fraser Inn, and Archie’s room was positioned to catch the sun from every angle of the day.
He grew increasingly uncomfortable and bored.
He had not heard back from Beau since he had dropped off the case file, so he had no idea if he was moving back into McCabe House that evening or not.
He did hear from Ms. Madison, inviting him to a second, private, meeting the following day to go over some of the specifics in John’s will, and he heard from Judith informing him that the ME had released John’s body for burial and the funeral would be held on Thursday.
This time Judith did not ask for his input regarding funeral arrangements, and Archie did not volunteer anything beyond saying he would be there. That seemed to be more than enough for Judith, who offered a chilly, “very well,” and hung up.
Archie had not been concerned with Judith’s opinion of him before she’d accused him of murdering John. He was attending to funeral out of respect for John, not to win brownie points.
He still didn’t think she had anything to do with John’s murder.
But it was difficult to completely clear anyone until they had a better understanding of the last few weeks of John’s life. Granted, a chunk of that time had been spent at Archie’s hospital bedside in Wyoming. Archie had not been at his most observant, but he tended to think John had not been actively disturbed or worried (outside of his concern for Archie) until they returned to Twinkleton.
Maybe this was where he could be of practical help in Beau’s investigation, because there did not appear to have been an attempt to create more than a cursory profile of John. Ideally, there should have been notes on John’s personal relationships, finances, health, recent arguments—anything that could provide a potential motive. There just wasn’t much there, unless Beau was withholding that material, too.
It was almost six when Archie closed John’s case file for the final time and pushed his notes aside. By then, his restlessness had escalated to full-out frustration. He didn’t like inaction at the best of times.
He phoned Beau, but the call went straight to message.
Beau couldn’t still be in court. Archie understood that his sleeping arrangements were not a high priority in the life of a police chief dealing with a murder investigation, but it was high priority for him. Was he moving back to McCabe House that evening or not? He just needed a simple yes or no.
Granted, if the answer was no, he was going to do his best to change Beau’s mind.
And maybe that was why Beau was in no hurry to phone him back.
When there was still no response an hour later, Archie decided the quickest way to verify whether the property was still being investigated as a crime scene would be to go check. It would be easy enough to tell from the street if the house was still off-limits.
It’s wasn’t as though he was under house arrest. He’d agreed to lie low, not go into seclusion. He was not sequestered in a safe house.
He phoned an Uber and went downstairs, a little relieved to see that Miss Eyes and Ears Langham was not on duty that evening. He didn’t feel he was violating the terms of his agreement with Beau—he was not planning to canvass the neighbors, for God’s sake—although he knew there was a high probability Beau would not agree with his assessment.
But Beau couldn’t seriously consider the Fraser Inn a safer a location than McCabe House. He just wanted Archie where he could easily keep tabs on him.
In any case, the relief of being outside in the cool evening air, of doing something, anything besides sitting around while his thoughts ran in never-ending circles, was worth the risk of aggravating Chief Langham.
Just as Archie expected, there was no indication McCabe House was still being processed. No crime scene tape, no security barriers, no notice of restricted access, no police presence, no forensic vans, no law enforcement vehicles, marked or unmarked, and thankfully, no reporters or media vans.
In fact, the old Victorian house, with its tall windows and elegant columns, looked shockingly normal. The deep green leaves rustled musically in the evening breeze, casting dappled shadows on the symmetrically cut lawn. The yellow porch lights gleamed in cheery welcome.
Other than the fact that the windows themselves were dark, it looked exactly as it always had all those years ago when Archie would arrive home late after bonfires on the beach or driving around listening to music in Beau’s Jeep or those other more important things he and Beau got up to when they were finally alone—and that , Archie had not expected: that fierce rush of emotion at all those long-forgotten memories.
He did not expect to feel a sense of homecoming.
Or that sudden upswell of grief.
Grief that John would not be there to welcome him.
That he would never see John again.
Since John’s murder, he had felt shock, anger, guilt, determination that John get justice, but he had not experienced—not let himself feel until that moment—simple, uncomplicated grief. Grief for everything he had lost. Grief for all the things that would never be.
He had not cried.
He was not prone to tears and he didn’t cry now, though his throat locked, his vision blurred, and his breath shuddered in his chest. He struggled with it for a moment, then walked through the iron gate, letting it clang softly behind him, went up the steps, and blindly inserted his key into the lock.
The lock turned; the door swung open on a darkness scented with lemony furniture polish and the mild industrial odors that occurred during the collection of evidence.
A woman screamed.