Chapter 7
SEVEN
Since the police had taken possession of Archer’s truck as part of the investigation, they made their way back to Scarlett’s house to grab her car. On the way there, Archer tried to make sense of what they’d learned about his old mentor. It helped to talk things through with Scarlett. She was a good listener.
“He taught me everything I know about carpentry,” he said, “and he was a tough mentor. But he’s not a bad guy.”
“What about the finger chopping thing?”
Archer grimaced. “Well. Yeah.”
“That never came up?”
“When he was teaching me how to scribe an uneven wall properly?” Archer glanced over at her, snorting. “Funnily enough, no. It didn’t. Although he did threaten to cut off my fingers a time or two. I thought he was joking.” The old man had a funny sense of humor. The threat hadn’t seemed out of character. It didn’t make him a killer. Archer wouldn’t be where he was without Ralph’s tutelage. He just couldn’t believe the older man would commit a cold-blooded murder.
But… What if?
The sun was high in the sky now, burning off some of the chill in the air. When Archer glanced at Scarlett, her jewelry twinkled in the sunlight, the purple stone shimmering at her throat. He traced the line of her neck with his gaze, wondering if he’d ever get to kiss that spot below her ear again.
He hadn’t savored her enough when he’d been allowed to touch her. In that darkened hallway, he’d pushed her against the wall and pinned her there with his hips, but he hadn’t memorized every detail. Archer regretted that now.
She’d been right to shove him away. He wasn’t the kind of guy who ended up with a woman like Scarlett. They’d be destined to burn hot and fast, and then all their friends would be left to pick up the pieces. It wasn’t fair on anyone.
He still wanted her, though.
“Where does Ralph live?” she asked, glancing over. The breeze carried the scent of her perfume, sweet and floral. In this light, her eyes were a hundred different shades of brown and hazel.
Archer tore his gaze away from hers and focused on the sidewalk ahead. “About ten miles north of town. He set up a workshop in the hills there. Only comes down for necessities.”
“And to go to Bussy’s when murders are happening, apparently.”
“He’s a nice guy,” he protested—but there was doubt there. What if Ralph was the murderer? What if he’d known Ethel somehow, things had boiled over, and he’d snapped? If he’d gone after his wife’s affair partner with an axe, wasn’t that evidence that he wasn’t entirely stable?
He shouldn’t have brought Scarlett along. It wasn’t safe. But he’d seen the stubbornness in the set of her shoulders. She wouldn’t let him leave her behind.
Besides, Archer had been telling the truth. If there was an option between spending time with Scarlett or doing literally anything else, he’d choose her every time. He liked feeling the brush of her arm against his. He liked indulging himself one too many times with touches to her back, her elbow, her arm.
Her presence was a drug. Archer was always chasing the next hit.
They reached her little house, and she clicked the fob on her keychain to open the attached garage. Inside was a purple Volkswagen Beetle. Archer stared at it for a moment, then glanced at Scarlett.
“That’s not conspicuous at all,” he noted.
She grinned. “Good thing we’re not trying to hide, huh?”
The front of the car sparkled where the sun hit it, and Archer couldn’t resist a huff of laughter. It matched her, somehow. Unique, impossible to miss, and attractive.
He angled for the passenger side when his phone rang. Glancing at the screen, he let out a sigh. “It’s my dad.”
Scarlett paused, her keys in hand. She arched her brows. “You need to go over there?”
The last thing Archer wanted to do was go to his parents’ house and walk the tightrope of their approval. He already knew he’d fall off at the first wobble.
But if he didn’t go when he was summoned, it would be worse. He was a suspect in a murder, but he’d forever be flogged for not spending the whole day with his mother, even though she probably didn’t want him there at all. The phone stopped ringing, but a text came through. Are you almost here? His father wrote.
Every hour that went by would be another tally against him. Archer would never live it down. Besides, what would the police think if they found out he and Scarlett were running their own investigation?
“I don’t think Ralph did it,” Archer finally said.
Scarlett nodded, understanding. “We’ll go tomorrow. I can’t get you flowers from my shop, but we could stop at the Barlows’ place and ask them if they mind us snagging a bunch back? I can rearrange them so they look fresh. Then I’ll drive you to your mom’s.”
“I was kidding about you owing me for the speaker and projector cords, Scarlett. Don’t worry about the flowers.”
She shot him a big smile—a genuine one, he thought. “The alternative is going inside and worrying about being arrested for murder for the rest of the day. I’d way rather go see Gus and Dolly and play with flowers.” She opened her car door. “Get in. I’ll drive us.”
So, a few minutes later, they were pulling up outside the Barlow residence. The front door opened, and Dolly appeared on the stoop. She waved, and a moment later, Vicky—Cormac’s mother—poked her head out as well. The two women smiled wide, two peas in a pod.
“Hi, Dolly,” Scarlett called out from her open window. “Archer needs flowers for his mother’s birthday, but I don’t have access to my shop. You mind if we raid your stash from yesterday?”
“Come in! I’ll put a pot of coffee on!” Dolly beckoned them in, and Scarlett shot Archer a sideways glance.
“We might have to tell them what happened last night before they let us leave with a bunch of flowers.”
“Fair price to pay,” Archer answered, grinning.
So, they ended up in the Barlows’ sunroom, clutching mugs of coffee, going over the previous evening in minute detail.
“And what was she wearing?” Vicky leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
“A skirt and a floral blouse,” Scarlett answered, surprising Archer. All he remembered was the blood and the dirt. And the wrench, of course.
“Hmm.” Dolly leaned back. “She never used to dress up. She used to walk around wearing those old stretchy pants and ratty T-shirts, remember?”
“That’s right. And she always had that cat with her,” Vicky said, nodding.
“The one she abandoned to Mr. Petrovski when she ran the first time?” Dolly clicked her tongue. “Horrible woman. Who abandons a cat like that? I don’t care what kind of den of thieves you call yourself the queen of, you don’t leave a poor creature behind to fend for itself.”
“In fairness, Dolly, that was the least of her crimes,” Vicky answered.
“It might have been the least, but it was the worst.” Dolly harrumphed. “But it doesn’t explain the clothing. Was she in disguise?”
“Wasn’t a very good one,” Archer said. “I recognized her right away.”
They all sipped their coffees. Archer sat on one of the rattan two-seaters, with Scarlett to his left. He shifted slightly, and his knee touched hers. When she didn’t move away, neither did he.
“Now, Scarlett,” Dolly said with a wicked sparkle in her gaze. “You’ll tell us what all that was about when you started your speech.”
Archer felt Scarlett go stone-still beside him. As casually as he could, he slung an arm around her, resting it on top of the rattan sofa back. The wavy mass of her hair pressed against the side of his arm, and he wondered how it would feel between his fingers. “You haven’t read Taken by the Shifter King , Dolly?” he drawled. “It’s a classic.”
Scarlett’s elbow was fireplace poker-sharp, a fact that Archer learned when it connected with his ribs. He wheezed out a breath, and the two older women hooted with laughter.
“If you’re so quick to judge my reading material, maybe you should share what’s on your list,” Scarlett quipped, eyes sparkling.
Clearly, she had no idea her jab had landed. It took Archer ages to read anything—and had done since he was a kid. But Scarlett didn’t know that, so he hid his pain with a smile of his own. “Why would I do that, when I can tease you about Magnus the werewolf king instead?”
“You’re horrible.”
“You’re lying.”
Scarlett’s cheeks flushed red, and she rolled her eyes to look at Dolly, who was cackling. “Dolly, I’m so sorry about that. I was so embarrassed.”
The other woman waved a hand. “Oh, stop it. I thought it was funny. Although I wasn’t too impressed by that Jimmy boy. Is that Jimmy from the Shell station just east of town?”
Archer’s gaze snapped to Dolly, then to Scarlett, whose flush had spread all the way down to her neck. “I was wondering the same thing,” he said, gently tugging a strand of Scarlett’s hair.
She shot him a vicious glare, which delighted him.
“Is it?” he prodded, fingers sliding through her strands. They felt like silk.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m just curious,” Archer said, shrugging.
“Scoping out the competition,” Vicky stage-whispered. Dolly whooped.
“There is no competition,” Scarlett said, slicing her hand through the air.
“Well, that’s pretty obvious,” Archer added, puffing his chest out, deliberately misinterpreting her words and bringing the older ladies to more fits of laughter.
“You look out for this one, honey,” Dolly said, wagging a finger at Archer while she spoke to Scarlett. “He’ll have you twisted into knots before you know what’s good for you.”
“I think you’ve got it the wrong way around, Dolly,” Vicky cut in, eyes flicking between Scarlett and Archer.
“You know what? Let’s just get those flowers and get out of here,” Scarlett grumbled, then nodded at the older ladies. “Thank you so much for the coffee.”
“It’s no problem at all, hon,” Dolly replied while Vicky winked at Archer.
A short while later, Scarlett had put together a spectacular bouquet from the wedding leftovers, found a ribbon somewhere, and presented it to Archer with raised brows. “Will this be okay?”
“It’s perfect, Scarlett,” he told her, taking the flowers from her. His fingers brushed hers, and he longed to tug her closer so he could wrap his arms around her to thank her properly.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
Vicky and Dolly were wrong about them. They had to remain friends; otherwise, they might blow up their entire friend group. It wasn’t worth the risk.
A short while later, Archer watched Scarlett drive away and prepared himself to endure a painful afternoon with his family. It started as soon as his mother Heather opened the door.
She arched a brow at the bouquet in his hands, lifted her nose in the air, and said, “You made it.”
“Happy birthday, Mom,” Archer replied, leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek. She ushered him inside to the living room, where Ryan sat with his feet up on the recliner, sipping a cup of coffee. His father John was on the other couch, feet on the ottoman, doing the same.
“Now,” his mother said, “cake for my favorite boys.” She smiled as she disappeared into the kitchen, then came back with two slices of cake for Archer’s dad and brother, then went back to the kitchen and reappeared with a slice of her own.
Archer stood there, blinking. “Do I get any?”
“Cut yourself a slice if you want,” Heather said, not looking at him.
Ah. So she was angry. He hadn’t called soon enough, or stopped by early enough, or made enough of a big deal about her birthday in general, and now he’d pay for it. Never mind that he’d had to give a statement to the police about an actual murder.
His mother waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen. “You might as well eat while you’re here. I know things have been tough lately.”
Archer tamped down his annoyance. This was a normal line of conversation from his mother. For some reason, she believed that Archer was barely making ends meet. She was wrong; he ran a business that provided him with more money than he knew what to do with. He was probably one of the most successful business owners in town, other than Fred Goodhew.
“What happened at work this week, honey?” she asked Ryan as Archer ducked to the kitchen to get himself some cake—and gulp down deep breaths that would hopefully lend him patience. On the end of the counter, the bouquet of flowers that he’d brought remained wrapped in the ribbon Scarlett had chosen. His mother hadn’t even bothered to put them in water.
His hand gripped the knife a little too tightly as he cut through the chocolate ganache cake, plopping it onto a small plate he’d fished from the cupboard. From the other room, he heard Ryan telling a mind-numbingly boring tale of a student asking for an extension on an Economics 101 assignment.
“And I said, ‘You’ve had the syllabus since the first day of class. This wasn’t a surprise.’”
“That’s right,” Heather said. “These kids need to learn that they aren’t in high school anymore.”
“Any word on tenure?” John asked, scraping his fork against the plate to get every bit of chocolate cake off of it.
Archer sat down next to his father and felt his mother’s stare.
“Don’t get any of that chocolate on my rug, Archer,” she scolded. “Chocolate will stain.”
He grunted in acknowledgment while Ryan said, “Tenure won’t be for a while, Dad. But my research is coming along well.”
“You think you’ll get published?” Heather asked, beaming at Ryan.
“There’s a good chance, Mom.”
“I’m so proud of you, honey,” she said.
Archer ate his chocolate cake, but it tasted bitter on his tongue.
“How about you, son?” John asked, turning to Archer. “How’s the carpentry going?”
“Well, Dad, I haven’t been doing carpentry for almost a decade now. I’m a contractor, so I do a lot more than just that.”
“You know what I meant,” his dad said, waving a hand.
“It’s going well,” Archer replied, injecting a bit of extra cheer into his voice. “I just won the contract to restore the Old Road Hotel’s grand ballroom. It’s a really big deal, actually. The permit application had some complexity because of the heritage status of the hotel, and?—”
“Are you all done with your cake, my sweet boy?” Heather stood and reached for Ryan’s plate.
“Take mine too,” John said, then turned to his favorite son. “There’s a company I wanted to run by you, Ryan. I’m thinking of investing in lithium.”
Archer blinked and let out a long breath. That was the extent of the interest anyone in his family would show in Archer’s life. He should have been used to it by now, but it still stung. He finished his cake and got up to bring the plate to the kitchen, where his mother was loading the dishwasher.
Heather took his dish, then straightened and gave him a squinty-eyed stare. Archer braced himself. She inhaled, like she needed an extra-deep breath to get through her oncoming tirade. “Now. Are you going to tell me about this business with Ethel Brown? How many times have I told you to stay out of trouble, Archer? And on my birthday! You had to get involved in something like that, didn’t you? I should have known. I should have known !”
“Mom, I haven’t done anything wrong. I had nothing to do with the murder.”
“I don’t want to hear it! The whole town is saying you and that hussy were there when it happened.”
“We were there after it happened,” Archer gritted out, “and don’t call her that.”
“Well. Am I wrong? She’s had men panting after her since she moved to town.”
Archer put his palms on the counter, trying to use the cool stone beneath his hands to chill his temper. “She’s an attractive woman, Mom. Men are attracted to her. That’s not her fault, is it?”
“I heard even today, some stranger was asking about her. Even after a murder in her own shop! Can you believe it? You’d think a dead body would be enough to calm the constant flow of suitors down, but no. She encourages them, the little?—”
“Stranger?” Archer asked, whole body tense. “What stranger?”
“I want you to stay away from her, Archer.”
“Mom, what stranger?”
“Oh, some big shot from Boston. Martha thinks he’s an old lover. Lord knows she’s had enough of those.”
Archer took a long, measured breath. Half of him wanted to shake his mother and demand answers. The other half knew it would be pointless.
“Now. Did you hear me? If you love me, you’ll stay away from her.”
“Mother, my relationship with Scarlett has nothing to do with you.”
“She’s trouble.”
“She’s a good person.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she killed Ethel herself. You know, Ethel was a nice woman. Misunderstood. And, you know—misguided.”
“Ethel Brown was a criminal who should be in prison. She stole from people for decades, and then ran a counterfeiting operation right here in Stirling, and then threw her son under the bus at the first opportunity.”
Archer knew he shouldn’t have engaged. It never helped. And this time, it might have even made things worse. This was a fact that was made plain a moment later, when Archer’s mother looked him right in the eyes and said, “Well, sometimes our children disappoint us, Archer.”
He didn’t stay long after that particular punch in the gut. The sun was sinking fast, the days now noticeably shorter. He inhaled a lungful of cool air and tried to release his temper. It didn’t work. His feet carried him toward downtown Stirling, but his mind was elsewhere.
He thought about the stranger who was asking after Scarlett, and the way she’d looked at him when they’d sat next to each other in the sunroom. The glinting of the stone at her throat. The way her lips moved when she took a sip of coffee.
She was a complicated, sensitive, strong woman. She was gorgeous—and far too good for Archer, who couldn’t even manage to have a simple conversation with the members of his family without wanting to snap.
His parents would never be proud of him, whatever he did. Their disappointment had hurt as a child, when he’d struggled to make sense of letters and numbers and reading. It had hurt when he’d failed, or nearly failed, countless tests. It had hurt when they didn’t congratulate him for graduating even though it had felt like an impossible task. Even as a grown man, it hurt.
He should have been used to the pain by now, but he wasn’t. He felt stupid and weak and small.
As he walked under wrought-iron streetlamps and watched a shopkeeper flip their sign from open to closed, he listened to the rustle of the leaves and the snippets of conversation from people he passed. A crow cawed somewhere above his head.
He nodded to the man who owned the bicycle rental store; Eddie would be closing up for the winter soon. His feet took him past Pushing Daisies and around the next block. Music tumbled from Bussy’s. Archer felt apart from it all, separated from all these people by an unseen wall, and he kept walking.
It wasn’t until he saw the red shutters framing Scarlett’s windows that he realized where his feet had taken him. He stood on the sidewalk outside her house, knowing he should’ve gone home. He couldn’t keep pretending that he was happy to be mere friends when every minute they spent together made him sick with want.
One more deep breath, and he’d leave her alone for the night. He’d keep walking and deal with the mess that was his life in the morning.
But as he turned to leave, Scarlett’s front door opened. She wore a long sweater that buttoned down the front, revealing both her clavicles and the dip between her breasts. Her pants were loose, and her hair was gathered in a messy bun. She looked gorgeous and undone. Leaning against the jamb, she arched a brow.
“Are you just going to keep standing there, or are you gonna come inside?”