Annabelle scrambled for her cover-up.
Nikki was already walking up the path and stretched out her hand as she introduced herself. “I’m Nikki Gillette. With theSentinel.”
Archer took one look at her, then swept his gaze to the hot tub, where Annabelle was cinching up her short robe. “Oh God,” he whispered and, ignoring her, zeroed in on the girl. “You’ve been talking to her?” he accused. “Didn’t I tell you not to … oh, dear Jesus.” His gaze had landed on the table to take in the pistol, wineglasses, and empty bottle.
“She writes those crime books I like!” Annabelle explained. “And she’s one of my student’s aunt.”
“She’s a reporter!” he strangled out, dropping the white bag onto the ground. “I told you not to talk to anyone.”
“You said the police,” Annabelle argued, a bit petulantly.
“She’s married to the detective in charge of …”
Nikki waited as his voice faded.
Archer cleared his throat. “Ms. Gillette’s husband is a homicide detective, and she,” he went on, pointing a condemning finger at Nikki, “is here to try to create some kind of story where there is none.”
“But we’ve got nothing to hide,” Annabelle said, walking up and snaking her still-wet arms around his waist.
As if she’d burned him, he pushed away from her embrace, taking a step backward. “Don’t,” he warned. “And you,” he added, squaring off with Nikki. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“You left the card game early,” she pushed, sensing this might be her only chance to interview him. “I checked with the bartender at the Stag and Boar.”
“Wait a minute.” Annabelle appeared bewildered as she bent down to pick up the sack that Archer had dropped. “What’s she saying?”
“I’m talking about the night Mavis was killed,” Nikki explained and positioned herself between the man and the table where the gun lay. Just in case anyone got trigger-happy with her line of questioning. “Archer wasn’t where he said he was.”
Annabelle’s pretty face clouded. “You lied, Archie?”
“I didn’t lie,” he snapped. “I was trying to protect you.” Sighing, he raised his eyes to the cloudy heavens, as if for searching for divine intervention.
“I don’t need protection.” Her fingers curled over the edge of the sack, which was now turning brown, something inside leaking.
“Yes, yes, you do.Wedo. Or we did. Dear God. Don’t you get it?” he snapped, dropping onto a chaise near the bubbling tub. Distraught, he held his head in both hands. “I just wanted to keep Annabelle out of this,” he explained.
Nikki said carefully, “I don’t see how that’s possible.”
Then, as if silently conceding defeat, he sighed and glanced up at her. “Look. Annabelle and I are involved. We have been for a little while.”
“She told me.”
“Not involved,” Annabelle corrected, slamming the sack down again. “Inlove.”
“And I was trying to be discreet, to save Mavis some embarrassment.”
And save your own ass, Nikki thought, but held her tongue.
He went on, “As you’ve probably figured out, I was with Annabelle that night, before I went back to the house to pick up a few things and attend that stupid thing Mavis wanted to go to, a barbecue or some kind of party at the Honeywells. I’d gone to my usual card game, swung by here, and then, went home and found …” He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “I found Mavis.” His voice had lowered to a whisper, and even in the dark night, it was obvious that he paled at the memory. “I panicked for a second or two before I made the call to 911 and … and waited for the cops to arrive. I was hoping that this”—he motioned to the space between himself and Annabelle—“wouldn’t be found out.”
“Is that why you tried to get me to move back home?” Annabelle demanded, as if she suddenly understood the implications of their affair and Mavis’s homicide.
“Temporarily,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously for the first time. “Are youashamedof me? Or, or, of us?”
“Of course not!” He jumped to his feet, hands outstretched. “Annie, honey, you know how I feel.”
“Do I?” Crossing her arms under her breasts, pushing them upward so that her cleavage with the little cross was in full display, she pouted at him.
