“Well done, Darian,” Lanislaw said. “You might make a writer of him yet.”

  “Anyhow,” Argo said, clearly fighting back a blush, “I’m pretty sure forensics will back up my preliminary findings. You cleaned up some of the sawdust and other particles that fluttered to the ground, but not enough to fully disguise what you did. I figure the tool you used can’t be very far away, either. In the woods, most likely, or even somewhere in this cabin.”

  Sighing, Hammond gazed into his shotglass, the perfect picture of misery. Darian would have felt sorry for him if he hadn’t already predicted the excuse he’d try to float, and what Argo’s response would be. He proved correct on both counts.

  “Very well. You’ve caught me fabricating the arrow attack. I’m sure even someone as unimaginative as you can understand why I did it, Argo. It’s ready-made publicity for my next book. True, I had no idea Greg Hodge had been revealed as the actual killer. If so, I would have jettisoned my foolish, alcohol-fueled plan. I hope you can forgive me. Aubrey, I’ll be happy to pay for the damage to the cabin. I’ll also be happy to compensate all of you for keeping this information to yourselves, if you know what I mean.”

  “I have no interest in pursuing a vandalism case,” Argo said, but Hammond’s visible relief at his words proved short-lived. “I’m not willing to ignore multiple murders, though.”

  “You really are off on a wild tangent, Sheriff. And here I’ve been feeling guilty about the amount I drink. Are you sure you haven’t been sneaking into this cabin and helping yourself while I’ve been staying with Aubrey?”

  “Absolutely sure. However, you probably are tired of listening to my voice. Why don’t I let Darian pick the narrative up from here? I get the sense he and I are on the same wavelength. Darian, why not start with Cole, and the way we all misjudged him? I’d say we all share some guilt where he’s concerned.”

  Lanislaw straightened up in his chair, startled. Despite the nervous flutter in his stomach, Darian nodded. After taking a deep breath and a moment to organize his thoughts, he plunged ahead.

  “I think what Argo is referring to is the way we all pegged Cole as a typical gold-digger…and worse. In reality, you were the one who was after his assets. What he inherited from Roger Braddock, a doctor with a thriving private practice and an upscale home, was likely a substantial sum. Meanwhile, you needed an infusion of cash.”

  “I can confirm that,” Marc said. “He’s been in debt for years…until recently.”

  “Total garbage. I had plenty of money from my book. Highway to Him has been a perennial bestseller for three decades. Which is more success than any of you will ever get from your paltry scribblings, let me tell you.”

  Marc shook his head. “Nah. The book generated a lot of income at first, but it dwindled as the content became more dated. Happens all the time. Don’t bother to deny it, Hammond. I’ve been shadowing you for a while now, though I’m sure you never knew it.”

  Hammond blanched. “But why?”

  “We’ll get to that in due time,” Marc assured him.

  “Roger Braddock was your longtime friend,” Darian continued. “You knew how much he was worth. You planned ahead, like any good novelist mapping out a saga with a huge payoff—and I do mean that literally in this case. Roger probably mentioned Cole and Evan to you, maybe in the context of wishing he could seduce Cole away from his first husband. So you encouraged Roger to court and then marry Cole. Of course, first he had to push Evan out of the way. As his therapist, it wouldn’t have been difficult for him to manipulate Evan into a relapse, even an overdose. You gave him tips on exactly how to do that, and Roger was willing to play along. His reward—Cole—seemed well worth the risk. I’m sorry, Stuart.”

  “So am I,” Lanislaw said fiercely. “Sorry Roger’s dead. Otherwise I’d wring the truth out of him myself and make sure he paid for what he did.”

  “Well, the good news—or the bad, depending on your perspective—is that he eventually paid the ultimate price. You arranged Roger’s death, Hammond, making sure Cole wouldn’t be implicated so he could inherit his older husband’s entire estate.”

  “I always suspected it was a hit,” Lanislaw said. “We didn’t have much to go on at the time. Our cold case unit might be able to revisit his death and get somewhere with it this time.” He bared his teeth in a sharklike smile when Aubrey and Hammond exchanged a nervous look. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t I mention that I’m a cop, too? Came all the way from Florida just for the purpose of meeting you and your late husband. There’s more to our connection, too, but I won’t get into all that right now. Plenty of time to explain later.”

  “When Roger died, it seemed only right for you to look after Cole in his hour of need,” Darian went on. “People suspected Cole, being so much younger than you, was behind Roger’s murder. In truth, you didn’t mind if they gossiped, because it made him cling harder to you for support and protection. It must have amused you to know it was actually the other way around. Now you had Cole and Roger’s fortune. Life was looking good—for a while. Soon enough, though, you needed more money—and the best way to get it was to kill Cole and claim what was left of Roger’s money for yourself.”

  “There’s always insurance, too,” Marc said. “Lots of it, most likely. Just the thing to get you out of your financial hole.”

  “You’re wasting your talents on academics, Darian. You should go into churning out potboilers,” Hammond snarled. Sweat was pooling on his forehead now. A few droplets snaked down into his eyebrows. He swiped at them irritably.

  “It would be interesting to learn where Aubrey was when Roger Braddock died,” Argo said.

  “As it happens, I can help with that, too,” Marc volunteered. “You’ll find the answer interesting.”

  “What do you know about anything, Fresno?” Aubrey demanded. “I’ve suspected from the beginning that you’re behind some of this mayhem. Setting others up to take the blame for what you did, is my guess. Prove me wrong!”

  “I’ll take you up on that challenge, and happily so.” Marc smirked. “The fact is, I’m very interested in the two of you—but not because I’m a fan of your work, Hammond. I’m more interested in the story behind the story, as it were. And how Aubrey fits in. Which he definitely does.”

  “Madness,” Aubrey shot back. “Hammond and I are acquaintances, yes, but I wouldn’t call us especially close friends. I just hired him to teach a workshop. The connection between us is strictly economic at this point.”

  “That’s somewhat true, but there’s so much more. Trust me, I know. Okay, yeah, you two looked a lot different when you were young. Acted a lot different, too. It was what, the late ’80s, early ’90s? You were still practically teenagers, having a great time. From what I hear, the Florida party scene back then was out of this world. Literally something from an alien planet. Sometimes I’m sorry I missed it.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Aubrey ground his teeth audibly.

  “No? Luckily, I do, so let me fill you in. I’ve been looking into some old reports that describe plenty of unsavory goings-on down there. Mostly low-level robberies, drug and prostitution deals gone bad, and other petty stuff that happens in a party atmosphere. But buried in all the muck was a description of something way more serious. A wealthy guy on a business trip wanted to frolic with other guys. He ran into two who invited him to hang out—then they rolled him and stole his valuables, including a Rolex and a diamond ring, not to mention a large wad of money. He wasn’t in town just to buy carved coconut heads and dolphin magnets, if you know what I mean, so he had a big bankroll with him. No one ever found that cash again.”

  “That’s all very sad,” Hammond said, squirming, “but it happened many years ago, as you said yourself. What can we do about it now? Aubrey, I want to leave now. Kaz and Darian can complete the workshop in my absence, but I’m checking out.”

  “I think not,” Argo said. Casually, he moved sideways to block Hammond’s path to either the front door or the glass sliders.

  “Sit down, Prescott.” Aubrey’s voice sunk to a growl. “Let Mr. Fresno finish. I, for one, would like to hear the end of this ludicrous fantasy he’s spinning. You should listen, too. It might make a good plot for your comeback novel.”

  Marc nodded and went on. “The rich guy they rolled? He died a few days later from his head wounds, sustained when they beat him senseless in his hotel room. Sure enough, turns out he was married. He had children, too. They were very young at the time, but now they’re adults who want answers. They don’t care if he was gay or not. He was their dad, and he was murdered. They can afford to investigate until they get them.”

  “So those are your clients,” Darian said. “They were smart to hire you, Marc. You’re damn good at what you do.”

  “So are you,” Marc said. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I wish I’d had more English teachers like you.”

  “We can help you, too,” Lanislaw spoke up. “Florida cold case detectives are damn sharp. A few of them owe me some favors.”

  “Tell us what happened to the guys who ambushed him,” Argo prompted.

  “Oh, right. Well, they used that blood-soaked money to start over. They didn’t stick together, since that would have been too obvious. One of them went into business. He knew the gay community well and he knew how to throw a party. He bought a couple of venues—bars, nightclubs—and made a name for himself. He kept moving. What if someone from his Key West days spotted him? He couldn’t take the chance. Changed his appearance, too. Put on muscle, grew a beard. It worked, for the most part. Then, like everyone, he started getting older. He wanted to slow down and settle somewhere. So what was his next venue? A remote campground. By then, he wasn’t worried about being recognized.”

  “And the other guy?” Lanislaw asked.

  “He went a different route. Used the money to buy an education. Discovered a talent for writing. Funny. So many authors have been accused of fabricating events and excitement to sell their memoirs. This guy did the opposite. He disguised his adventures—and his crimes—as fiction. You have to read between the lines.”

  “Luckily, we have an English teacher on our team. I suspect a close reading of Highway to Him will fill in a lot of blanks,” Argo said with unmistakable pride.

  “Killing is a way of life for these two,” Marc said. “I’ve known for a while. It was just a matter of proving it.”

  “Ah, yes, the matter of proof. I suppose the four of you think you’re terribly clever,” Hammond said. “But there’s one thing you’re forgetting. Aubrey and I couldn’t have killed Cole or poor Greg Hodge. We have alibis for both of those deaths, as Darian and Argo can personally attest. Now can we end this ridiculous game of charades? I really would like to pack my things and hit the road.”

  “He’s right,” Aubrey joined in with obvious relief. “So sorry to disappoint you fellows. I suppose that’s what you get when you overstep your bounds. Better go back to strumming your six-string by the campfire, Stuart. You make a better folk singer than you do a detective.”

  The mention of the guitar made Darian’s mind ping. He remembered what Lanislaw had seen in Aubrey’s storeroom when he’d borrowed the guitar.

  “The karaoke machine,” he blurted. “They recorded their voices. That’s how Hammond killed Cole. It was just like Phillip said, after all—the murder was all so staged and theatrical. All it took was pretending to be drunk, closing Aubrey’s office door, and turning on the machine. We thought they were inside, arguing, when Hammond was really slipping out the window and heading over to take care of Cole.”

  “How’d you lure him outside, Hammond?” Argo asked. “Suggested a little hanky panky out in the open air? Had him close his eyes as part of what he thought was a kinky game? Or did you just surprise him while he was sunbathing? His being nude worked out in your favor. We assumed he was up to something illicit, like cheating on you. But you actually used his trust in you to take him by surprise.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hammond said. He choked a little on the last syllables.

  “We assumed whoever shot him with the arrow was an expert marksman. He didn’t have to be. You fired at such close range you couldn’t possibly have missed.”

  Argo stopped and Darian picked up where he left off. “When it was Greg’s turn, they switched roles. Hammond blathered on to me and Kaz at breakfast, making sure to distract us, while Aubrey hid in the shed and waited for him to show up with his tools. Again, the element of surprise was the key. Greg trusted Aubrey just like Cole trusted Hammond. Getting up close and personal was almost too easy.”

  “A quick thrust right through the heart with an arrow. Stabbing him in the back would have been more fitting.” Marc held up his phone. “May I do the honors?”

  “It shouldn’t take the deputies long to get here,” Darian said. “Most likely they’re still on the grounds.”

  “You idiot,” Aubrey said again, but by then Hammond was sobbing too loudly to hear him. He was crying for himself, Darian suspected, and not for his victims. His crocodile tears were still flowing when Chief Creed and his team appeared on the steps.

  Chapter 15

  They sat in front of the TV in Darian’s mostly-boxed up living room with a Sunday football game playing. Their team was losing, but neither of them minded as they enjoyed an after-lunch treat of warm apple pie with rocky road ice cream on top. Darian would finish moving in soon and things were going well. Best of all, the violence lay behind them. He and Argo had stayed at the campground until the weekend, long after the last of the writers had gone, but at last they had turned all their findings over to Creed and headed home to rest.

  After Argo had revealed Aubrey and Hammond as the killers, and Creed had seized the karaoke machine and other assorted pieces of evidence, the two killers had quickly turned on each other. To hear Aubrey tell it, he was Hammond’s brainwashed dupe. According Hammond, Aubrey was a bully who forced him into all manner of nefarious deeds. “No matter,” Argo had said after the pair landed in jail, awaiting trial not only locally, but in Florida as well. “They’ll be charged equally, no matter whose idea the killings were. Most likely it was fifty-fifty the whole time, and in any case there are enough victims to go around.”

  “Agreed.” Darian could only shake his head in wonder. “So they were having an affair on and off for years? All Hammond’s other relationships were just a smoke screen. Amazing they could be so patient.”

  “To them, the money was worth all those decades of planning and sneaking around. They’d almost made it when Gregory got in the way. Poor guy. He never had much love in his life, and his psychological damage prevented him from recognizing Aubrey’s sociopathy. He thought his boss really cared for him.”

  Aubrey had eventually admitted that he and Hammond planned to flee the campground, abandoning Greg there while the two of them started over in the Caribbean. Greg had made things difficult by becoming too attached and knowing too much about their secret relationship. In hindsight, Aubrey’s offhanded remark about Greg being “always in the wrong place at the wrong time” made a macabre sort of sense. Greg hadn’t just wandered in front of a stray arrow. He’d been lurking and eavesdropping from the moment Hammond and Cole arrived at the campground. Thus he had to go.

  Luckily, Marc Fresno located Greg’s long-lost sister, who hadn’t heard from him in many years but vowed to give him a dignified funeral and peaceful resting place. She had been genuinely distraught over his sad fate. Aubrey had, it turned out, encouraged Greg to turn his back on his family in order to keep him in thrall.

  Darian wondered how Greg’s sister, the tourist’s children, and Lanislaw felt knowing their loved one’s death had resulted from love—not for other people, but for money. Maybe, as far as Hammond and Aubrey were concerned, that was the only real kind.

  All of that seemed too painful to keep talking about, though, so now that they were home, they preferred to concentrate on packing, planning, and sorting out Darian’s mountain of books. There was one other bright spot they’d referred to only in passing, not wanting to jinx a potential good thing. After they had said their goodbyes and headed out of the campground, Darian was sure he’d heard Marc Fresno and Lanislaw making plans to have dinner together off-site. No doubt their meeting would revolve around charging Hammond and Aubrey with their Florida crimes. Hopefully they’d find some time to discuss more pleasant topics, too.

  The game shifted to halftime, and Darian was about to suggest they make another pot of coffee when the doorbell rang. Rory Zinski, the Birchwood librarian who was helping Darian with his research, stood holding a cream-colored envelope in both hands.

  “Sorry to bug you on a Sunday, but this couldn’t wait. It’s amazing news for you, Darian.” Rory peered around Darian’s shoulder at Argo. “Oh, hey, Argo. Hate to interrupt, but you’ll understand why in a minute.”

  “Not a problem,” Argo called across the room. “Come on in. Have some pie.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Rory beamed and stepped inside. He surveyed the heaps of boxes and crumpled newspapers scattered around his feet. “How’s the move coming along?”

  “Fine. We figure another week or so and we’ll be all moved over to Argo’s. I’ll miss this place, but not too much. Plenty to look forward to in my new digs.”

  “Got that right,” Argo said with a grin. He went to the kitchen to get Rory’s food.

  “So what’s up?” Darian prompted.

  “Remember that inquiry you had me run on rare volumes and letters from Wilfred Baine? Well, I got an amazing response.” Rory popped the envelope and pulled out a letter on letterhead stationery. “It came to the library, so I opened and read it. I had to wait until my shift ended for the day, but as soon as we closed at noon, I rushed right over.”

  “An actual letter?” Darian held it up as though it were some rare artifact. “Who writes letters anymore?”

  “No kidding,” Rory said, laughing.