by Jade Astor
From the couch, Darian surveyed the room. A large walnut coffee table sat in front of the sofa, displaying a few hiking and camping magazines along with a trade digest aimed at law enforcement officials. A brown pottery bowl decorated with painted loons held a set of car keys along with a few pencils and paper clips. On the other side of the room, a set of bare wooden stairs led to a short landing with two more doors, both closed. One, he assumed, was Argo’s bedroom.
“So, what do you think?” Argo asked, noticing his interest—or, perhaps more accurately, his nosiness.
“It’s nice. Practical and comfortable. Somehow I thought you’d have a dog—a big rambunctious one with a wide, slobbery tongue.”
“I’ve thought about it. But I work such long hours it wouldn’t be fair to the pooch. Then I considered a police dog, but I can’t get the city council to approve the funds for a training program. The crime rate around here doesn’t warrant the expense, according to them.” His good humor faltered. “Maybe that’s about to change.”
He poured them each some wine. Darian held out a hand when his glass was half-full. “I’d better not overdo it. Don’t want to catch a DUI on the way home.”
Ignoring him, Argo filled it all the way to the top. “Don’t forget that I’m a trained professional. If I see any signs of impairment, I’ll just let you spend the night here.”
Darian was so startled that he almost upended his drink on Argo’s cushions. “On the couch, you mean?”
“Maybe.”
Argo gave what seemed to Darian a flirtatious shrug and sat down across from him. Ironically, his friendliness put Darian’s defenses up. He couldn’t forget Argo’s trickery in his office, and he couldn’t discount the possibility that this invitation was part of a similar ruse. Argo was just brazen enough to try the same scheme again. Strangely, though, Darian felt less resentful than intrigued by his wiliness.
“I know you’re squirming to talk about the case, so I figure we should just get that out of the way right up front.” Argo slugged down some wine and rested the glass on the knee of his black jeans. “So go ahead. Ask me anything you like. I’ll answer as completely and as frankly as I can.”
“Seems fair,” Darian said, wondering what the catch would be. He thought for a moment before settling on a question. “Did you get the report on Timothy’s computer yet? Anything interesting?”
“Depends what you mean by interesting. Like most kids his age, Timothy spent a lot of time on social media. Some of his chats and messages were a little…well, not the sort of thing I’d feel comfortable writing or sending. But nothing suspicious so far.”
“So you didn’t see any emails between him and one of my colleagues?”
“Nothing outside of legitimate school-related communication. And before you ask, I’ve checked his phone, too. Nada.”
“Okay.” Darian felt guilty for being disappointed. He should have been relieved that no one from the Birchwood faculty had been exchanging inappropriate messages with a student, gap year or not. Of course, all that proved was that they hadn’t used electronic means to communicate. There were other, more old-fashioned ways of arranging a rendezvous.
Argo seemed to read his mind.
“I’ve got my tech people scouring the hard drive one more time in case we missed anything. And yes, we checked his deleted files. Nothing there that raised my suspicions. That doesn’t mean I won’t check into his last movements as thoroughly as I can.” Argo poured himself some more wine. “Maybe I’ll know more when I finally talk to Sebastian tomorrow. I might not be able to share the details with you, though. You’ll have to trust me.”
“I do,” Darian said, meaning it. “I can’t help wondering if Sebastian might know more than he’s willing to admit to. He’s convinced Timothy was meeting someone down at the pond. It’s possible he followed him there and found him…you know…stripped down and ready for action. Maybe Sebastian got jealous, started a fight, and pushed him in.”
“Mmm,” Argo said, his manner perfectly neutral. Darian knew he was listening, though.
“Argo, there’s something else I need to tell you about. I saw Jake downtown after I left your office yesterday. He told me he’s hosted Timothy and his parents at the restaurant several times. The last gathering wasn’t pretty. Jake was worried that Timothy and his father were about to come to blows.”
“And did they?”
“Well, no.” Darian tensed up when he heard that familiar strain of skepticism in Argo’s voice. “But I still thought it might be relevant. If Timothy had a poor relationship with his family, that could have contributed to some of the other problems that landed him…well, where he ended up.”
“It’s no secret that he and his old man didn’t get along.”
“I realize you’ve talked to his parents already. But people aren’t always forthcoming in these kinds of situations.”
“You might be surprised. Mr. Pryor, senior, was more than happy to fill my ear about how disappointed he was in his only son. ‘Not quite as masculine as he would have hoped’ was the way I think he put it.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. A real charmer, that guy. Of course, he was only willing to answer a few basic questions without meeting me face to face with his lawyer present.”
“Another lawyer, huh? Quite a parade of them coming through here lately.”
“You aren’t kidding. Anyway, that’s going to happen soon—right after I talk to Sebastian and his family attorney, in fact. Mr. and Mrs. Pryor, along with their entourage, will be here tomorrow to pick up Timothy’s possessions and get ready for the memorial service.” Argo scoffed. “Maybe they’ll all eat at Jake and Patricia’s restaurant. They can have a more peaceful meal this time, without the black sheep son to ruin all that manly conversation.”
“I have no doubt his father will find a way to look on the bright side of the whole sorry situation.” Darian shook his head in disgust. Little wonder Timothy had turned out cynical and manipulative with that kind of influence on his formative years. “That man has a lot to answer for.”
“Probably. But remember that it’s not our place to judge or get involved unless the old man’s actions have a direct bearing on the case.”
“And you don’t believe they do?”
“I’m sorry, Darian. I’ve told you….”
“Yeah, yeah. No need to say it again. Anyway, you don’t have to agree with me. I’m just throwing stuff out there. Trying to think of all the angles.”
“Well, you might be overlooking the most obvious one. I’m going to tell you frankly that I haven’t totally ruled out the possibility of suicide. That fits with family and roommate problems. Or it could even be an accident after all, towel or not. Maybe he jumped in on a whim and overestimated his ability to stay afloat.”
Stung, Darian chose his next words carefully, ensuring they would have the maximum effect. “I heard they called it an accident last time, too. But according to my sources at Birchwood, that wasn’t true.”
Argo had been about to take another swallow of wine. Instead, he paused and forced down a grimace. Darian could almost hear the muscles in his jaws straining. “This isn’t the same thing at all. A lot has changed in twenty years.”
“Really? Because Birchwood prides itself on not having changed much in the last century or so.”
Instead of answering, Argo stood up, wineglass in hand.
“Our food should be almost done. You sit tight while I get everything over to the table.”
The couch began to feel much less comfortable while Darian waited, trying not to drink too much wine too fast. He went back to scanning the room, this time noticing the framed pictures on the walls facing him. Some were generic landscape paintings and older photos of what Darian assumed were parents and grandparents, but one showed Argo posing outdoors, his arm around a tall woman who shared his sandy-brown hair color and prominent cheekbones. Two other people crowded into the shot as well: a teenaged girl in a baseball
cap and a man with a scruffy black beard that made him resemble a bear.
“That’s my sister, Maddy, and her husband and daughter,” Argo called from behind him. “They live a couple hours north of here.”
Darian turned toward the kitchen table, where his host was arranging a few covered dishes on trivets. He had already arranged the plates, silverware, and tumblers. A tall white candle, unlit, stood in the center. Argo had gone all out for this little dinner party, it appeared. Darian struggled to tamp down a burst of suspicion. Maybe he really was just trying to make up for the disastrous meal at the diner. Just the same, didn’t know if he should accept that simplistic explanation.
“Do you get to see them much? Looks like you’re pretty close, to judge by the photos.”
“We get along okay. You know what they say about absence and the heart and all that jazz.” Argo picked up a long-nosed barbeque lighter and fired up the sleek white candle. “Okay, everything’s ready. Come and get it.”
“Looks wonderful,” Darian said as he took a seat and allowed Argo to spoon meat, potatoes, gravy, and baby carrots onto his plate.
“It’s a treat for me, too. If I’m not near the diner, I don’t usually bother with more than a frozen entrée or a can of soup and some bread. An entire meal is too much for one person.”
“Same for me.” It occurred to Darian that he and Argo, both being on their own, could share meals almost anytime they pleased. Truthfully, he wouldn’t mind enjoying, or even preparing, a tasty spread like this one every once in a while. Was that why Argo had invited him over? To save time on meal prep every now and then? He was still sure there was an ulterior motive lurking somewhere. He just had to figure out the angle. “By the time I get home from school, I’m usually too wiped out to do more than heat something up. I did make a lasagna the other day, though. It came out okay.”
“In some ways, your job is just as draining as mine,” Argo said with an approving nod. “Do you like working up at Birchwood? And before you say anything, no, I’m not asking about the whole Timothy Pryor thing. I’m just asking in a general sense.”
Somehow Darian doubted that. He decided to play along, though. “I was happy to get the job. There aren’t a lot of openings for English teachers in private schools these days. It’s sort of like winning the lottery.”
“You must have had something special to offer. Good thing they were smart enough to see it. What do you do there, exactly? You have them write a lot of essays, I expect? Teach them the finer points of grammar and style?”
“There’s some of that, sure. We also read literature and discuss its meaning and relevance to our own lives. Once in a while we talk about current events. Being able to interpret news stories is a skill in itself these days.”
“Do you enjoy doing that on a day-to-day basis? I mean, from what I’ve seen of those kids, they’re a pretty entitled bunch. Too rich for their own good in a lot of cases. They probably look at you like they do their parents’ household staff members—there to make life even easier for them than it already is, being born into privilege and advantages most people will never have.”
Darian detected a note of bitterness in Argo’s tone. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it. Plenty of people imagined the staff and students at Birchwood, and places like it, as sensitive, pampered beings who spent their days lounging on pillows, reading gilt-edged books, and nibbling on imported bonbons.
“There’s a little of that, sure. Like a lot of young people, they tend to act tougher than they really are. Some of them are more fragile than you’d ever guess.”
“So we are back to Timothy, after all.” Argo put down his fork, but he didn’t look irritated. Darian assumed he had meant for the conversation to end up here all along.
“He might fit that description. Like I told you, I didn’t know him well enough to say. Suicide would seem to speak for itself.”
“What about your colleagues? Do they also put on a brave face while teetering on the brink of despair?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Darian looked down at his plate and concentrated on cutting up his baby carrots while he considered the best way to opt out of Argo’s tabletop fishing expedition. “The Birchwood faculty is no different than any other group of random people you’d assemble. The usual mix of strengths, weaknesses, and garden-variety neuroses.”
“Everyone has a few inner demons to wrestle, don’t they?”
Darian looked up. “Do you?”
Argo’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but Darian caught it. Then he shrugged. “I said everyone, didn’t I? Life is complicated at the best of times. Some handle it better than others. That’s the only real difference between people. How they play the hand they’re dealt.”
“I do feel like I’m playing a game sometimes,” Darian agreed. “One I don’t even know all the rules to. But no one is willing to explain them.”
“From what I hear, the people at Birchwood are a tight-knit group. Their main concern is for the school, its reputation, and its future. For that reason, they’ll do anything to protect the place, along with each other.” He shrugged. “In a way, I understand that. It’s sort of the same way with cops. Just depends how far they take it.”
Darian paused with his last forkful of pot roast suspended in mid-air. “So you do think there could be some kind of cover-up at the school?”
“I’m not saying there’s anything illegal going on. Unethical? Maybe. Obviously it’s crossed your mind, too.”
“I can only tell you what I would do in that situation. And I came to you with the information about Timothy’s possible relationship with a teacher.”
“I don’t mean you. You’re new there—not really one of them yet. I’m talking about the people who have made that place the center of their lives. The ones who have been there forever.”
Darian began to understand. He finished his food and set his fork down beside his empty plate. “You’re talking about Everett.”
“Among others. Birchwood has a lot of lifers, it seems. I just wonder how far some of them would go to keep things humming along smoothly—or maintain tradition, as they might put it.”
“I couldn’t tell you that. Like you said, I’m new there. Everett knows the place better than most, I’ll grant you that. But when it comes to how deep his feelings run for the school—or its staff and students—I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him.”
Tension settled over the room. Finally Argo shrugged, thankfully breaking the mood as well as the silence. “Hey, don’t mind me. I was just thinking out loud. I’m trying to get a feel for what your life is like, and I know Birchwood is a big part of it.” He got up to clear the table and returned with two slices of pecan pie on dessert plates. “Coffee’s on,” he said as he slid on in front of Darian. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes. I thought it would be better fresh.”
“Thanks,” Darian said. Since Argo had made the effort to lighten the atmosphere, he felt he should do likewise. He knew he’d sounded defensive and perhaps a little belligerent about Everett. The truth was, he didn’t really know where Everett stood on a lot of issues. Alienating Argo seemed a drastic step to take on Everett’s behalf. “I guess it makes sense you’d be interested in the school. It’s occupied a big part of your time this past week.”
“Don’t you get it?” Argo plunked back down in the seat across from Darian and sliced off a hunk of his own pie. “It’s not just the school I’m interested in. It’s you.”
All evening, Darian had expected to hear something similar. In the back of his mind, he had anticipated coming back with a response that was simultaneously witty, coy, and dignified. Exactly what that response would consist of he hadn’t quite managed to work out. And now it was too late. He had nothing.
Argo was back on his feet, moving around the table toward him. He placed one hand on Darian’s shoulder and the other on the table’s edge to brace himself while he leaned forward.
“I…I was afraid this was some kind of a trap,�
� Darian blurted. Soft laughter rumbled in Argo’s chest.
“Wrong,” he said. “It’s a date.”
And then his lips came down on Darian’s.
Argo’s kiss felt exactly the way Darian had imagined it would: rough, urgent, satisfying. His stubble-fringed mouth, lightly flavored with the salty sweetness of the pecans, roved hungrily over Darian’s while his left hand glided over Darian’s shoulder and down his back. His big fingers, surprisingly gentle, rubbed small circles through his sweater and shirt.
“I wanted to do that a long time ago,” Argo said when he came up for air. “It was just that….”
“That you were on the case and I was a potential suspect,” Darian supplied when Argo faltered. “I remember.”
“Yeah. That’s more or less the size of it.”
“So does this mean your investigation is almost over? Or just that I’m in the clear?”
Argo started to answer, but tensed up and stepped away instead. “I’ll get the coffee,” he said, shuffling back to the kitchen. Darian waited until he returned and served them both.
“Are you going to answer me?” Darian asked as he settled back into his seat and sipped from his cup as though nothing had happened.
“I still can’t talk freely about it. I’m looking into some developments. I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.”
“Does one of those developments involve that little piece of paper you showed me at the diner? Because I haven’t forgotten about it. In fact, I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think what it could mean.”
To Darian’s surprise, Argo shook his head and waved one hand as if shooing an insect away from his plate. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
“What? I thought that was an important clue. That was why you needed my handwriting sample. Don’t tell me all that was for nothing.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. It got you out to dinner with me. And eventually you ended up here, kissing me at my own kitchen table.”
The attempt at humor, however feeble, didn’t distract Darian as Argo must have hoped. Apparently something had changed after all. Had Argo decided the slip was just litter, as Darian had suspected all along? Or had he discovered what the numbers actually meant and who had dropped it?