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have been left. After all, once we obtained the
passcodes to his accounts, we had the keys to his kingdom.
    We had insurance, too. A fact that was brought home when we
released Franklin, or rather Antoine Cranston into the safe hands of his lover…Mr.
Clive Ferrell, most recently of Fidelity Life and Trust. Archer had personally
escorted the investigator to our library for the obligatory fireside chat when
all was revealed.
    “How did you know?” Clive asked.
    Taking his time, Archer removed his jacket, then loosened
his tie. Next to me, Jeremiah shifted slightly, and I touched his arm lightly
and shook my head. This was Archer’s show, now. We all watched and waited as he
poured himself a drink. Still studying the amber liquid, Archer began to speak.
    “Old D.W. Hartfield was a rich bastard who always tried to
control his son’s life, even from beyond the grave. It’s inconceivable that he
wouldn’t have stipulated an investigation into his son’s death before any trust
monies were paid. An insurance payment—even one from a private trust fund—isn’t
going to be paid without a body. Not without lengthy litigation or
incontrovertible proof.”
    Archer looked up and nailed Clive with his gaze. “The
verification of death was the weakest part of the case, and had to involve
either the local police constable or the investigator.” The silence in the room
was deafening. Archer took a small sip as the clock ticked away the seconds,
and still no one spoke.
    “The good constable went home after the accident to his very
pregnant wife. There was no change in standard of living, however his bank
records indicated he received compensation from the trust for injuries
sustained during the boat accident. A slightly unusual move, since he was no
longer on Hartfield property at the time of his injuries, but not unprecedented.
A sum of five thousand British pounds deposited during the weeks following the
accident—you got off cheap, Franklin.”
    As if he’d received news of the death of a loved one,
Clive’s dark eyes stood out like sooty smudges on his pale skin. “So, if you
had evidence against the constable, why look for me? I thought it would stop
any investigation—not point to another partner. We could have been gone in
another week—”
    “Ahh, but you underestimated Franklin’s greed and the wrath
of a woman scorned. If you two could have settled for your half of the insurance
money, we wouldn’t be sitting here tonight—”
    Franklin jumped a little, then leaned forward in his chair. “Taking
the money from Margaret wasn’t my idea! I told you, Clive. It would have been
enough—”
    “Shut up. Don’t say another word.” A nasty flush climbed up Ferrell’s
neck, and his hands clenched the arm of his chair. I pushed back my jacket and
rested my hand on the butt of my gun. Obviously understanding my not-so-subtle
message, Ferrell leaned back into his chair, his mouth pressed into a thin,
angry line.
    “That explains so very much.” Archer sounded amused. “As I
was saying, Margaret knew Franklin had a lover in Atlanta and that he’d had
some plastic surgery here, as well, so it made sense to start our search
locally. Given the intricacies of trust and insurance payouts, someone with
inside knowledge of Fidelity’s procedures had to be involved. You were their
lead investigator—your reputation above reproach. Tell me, Ferrell, how long
were you planning this?”
    Ferrell relaxed his grip on the arm of the chair, leaving
damp imprints of his fingers. His face seemed to crumple and tears pooled in
his eyes, just before he dropped his head into his hands. “It—it—it just
happened.”
    Usually I let Archer do the honors, but that little
performance was more than I could stand. “Oh fuck me, Clive. Word of
advice…don’t quit your day job. Oh wait—too late.” Ferrell’s head whipped up
and he blinked owlishly at the unexpected rebuke. The twitch of Archer’s mouth
told me he’d found my