The guys had finished supper and were doing dishes when Spence got a phone call. When he answered, a man asked, “Is this Spencer Harden? Do I have the correct number?”
“It is. How can I help you?”
“You probably don’t remember me. I’m Franklin Vernon. I knew your parents. I fact…” He hesitated for a second. “They were at our house the night they died.”
“I know,” Spence replied, his hand tightening on the phone.
“I didn’t know you were back in town until I saw you walk by our house a couple of days ago. I almost came out to say hello but, well, that’s beside the point right now. This will undoubtedly sound strange. I’d like to talk with you about what happened.”
“Why?”
“Your father said something to me that night that might relate to why he was killed.”
“I presume you told the police.
