“On the surface. Maybe there’s something going on that we don’t know about. Anyway, I’m going to join Detective Hilton and Jackson at the autopsy. Then I’ll check with you. If you’re free, we’ll go to the hospital together. The two will be lucid by then—I hope. But hey, get straight to the theater this morning, okay? Be careful about what you’re doing. Halloween is over—watch out for masked dancers in the street.”
He had meant to speak lightly, but he wasn’t feeling that light.
And she knew it.
“As I said,” she told him softly, “I’d already planned on tearing into the history of the place.” She sighed. “Now I’ll be doubling down on those efforts.”
He stood. He was too close to her. And her hair was disheveled, her skin sleek and bare.
But the day needed to begin. “Don’t go anywhere alone.”
“There are hundreds of people using the metro,” she assured him. “Go—get on that poor woman you and Jackson found yesterday. Don’t worry about me—I go from a gated community to a public metro system.” She shrugged, offering him a wry smile. “Not to worry—Thanksgiving is a month off. I have time to find out what’s going on.”
That was supposed to assure him. But Brent, in his delusional state, had given them a deadline to find out what had happened. And Thanksgiving was fast approaching.
“Not funny,” he assured her.
“Get out of here,” she said.
“I’m gone.” But at the door, he paused again. “Make sure you set the alarm.”
“I will. Promise. Go.”
It still took a minute.
“Go!” she commanded.
“Your fault,” he told her. “Look at you there. Dark gold cascades over naked shoulders, bedroom eyes, just looking at me with a come-hither sheen in your eyes—”
“This is not a come-hither look—it’s a simple ‘I’m barely awake and need to get moving’ look. Go!” she said, laughing and jumping up to tear into the bathroom, calling to him on her way, “Come to the theater when you’re able. I do want to be there to talk to Brent.” She halfway closed the bathroom door. “This just wasn’t…”
“People do slip. The best of people. And they start over.”
She nodded and closed the bathroom door.
Finally, he forced himself down to the garage and into the car.
As always, traffic was heavy, even though the hour was early. Still, he arrived in good time at the D.C. medical examiner’s office.
A staff of about eighty worked at the D.C. morgue, but that included assistants, clerical staff, and more. Thankfully, Adam Harrison, Jackson Crow, and members of the Krewe of Hunters and the FBI in general—and the D.C. police—were given priority. Dr. Frank Jeffries, who had come to examine the corpse in the Halloween cemetery, was often requested by members of the Krewe.
He was a strange man, tall and well built, and had been, once upon a time, headed to be a major player in the NFL draft pick. But to everyone’s surprise, he’d dropped football and headed to college for his medical degree. His profession was a calling to him. While “we speak for the dead” had become a popular slogan due to many documentaries and shows available to the public, Jeffries was as determined as any law enforcement officer to bring the truth to light.
Some officers and agents might have a problem with him. Some wanted facts and the ability to theorize on a crime themselves.
Brodie hadn’t known him that long, but the few instances that had brought him to the morgue as a “consultant” had made him find Jeffries to be dedicated. And Brodie never minded any suggestion that might solve a crime.
When he arrived, Jackson was just donning a paper cover to enter the room where the autopsy would take place.
Brodie quickly donned his own and as he did so, Detective Hilton arrived. “Well, leave it to you two. You found our girl. In a bad way, but…”
“Easy enough on Halloween to hide a corpse in a makeshift graveyard,” Jackson noted.
“Sad, so sad,” Hilton noted. “I’ve had people going through security footage from the museum. She was off the grounds before whatever happened to her—happened. Unless she willingly went somewhere, somehow…unless there are vampires running around D.C.”
“There are those who practice rituals as if they were vampires,” Brodie noted.
Hilton looked at the two of them searchingly. “They, uh, they don’t exist, do they? I mean, if they did, you guys would know, right?”
Brodie lowered his head, thinking that he’d let Jackson answer that one. He and Hilton had worked together before. Hilton might be curious about their methods, but not enough to really want to know.
“In my experience, no,” Jackson said.
“In my experience,” Brodie decided to add, “the truth is that when horrible crimes are committed, there’s someone alive and human—with a very sick mind—perpetrating the deeds.”
“So we’re looking for someone who thinks they’re a vampire,” Hilton said. “Or maybe convinces his victims he is a vampire, or that he’s made them vampires.”
He shook his head.
“Let’s see what the M.E. has to say,” Jackson suggested, indicating the door to the room where their victim lay.
Dr. Jeffries was already there by the body, suited up in his mask and white apron, recorder ready for his findings, and his assistant standing by.
Their victim appeared quite different now that her Victorian attire was gone. The corpse had been bathed.
She looked young and defenseless. Her hair was back, tied off to one side.
That made it possible for them to see the puncture marks on her neck.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Hilton said. “She was bled to death by a vampire?”
“No. She lost a great deal of blood, yes. But dying from loss of blood? No, I don’t think so,” Jeffries told them. “I’m just beginning, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that her heart gave in. Was she pierced in the neck and did she bleed there? Yes—but let’s see.”
He began his examination. Brodie still winced inwardly when he heard the crack of the ribs as Jeffries went in to study the internal organs.
An autopsy was structured. Still, it wasn’t that long before Jeffries weighed the heart and studied it and turned to them.
“We’re going to need toxicology reports,” he said quietly.
“Her heart did stop?” Jackson asked.
“This young lady, I believe, died of an overdose. Of what, obviously, I need toxicology to say precisely. The crazed way she was behaving might suggest PCP, or something of the like. Or a mixed cocktail.”
“She was bitten in the neck by someone or something—but she died of a drug overdose?” Brodie said.
Dr. Jeffries looked from him to Jackson and Detective Hilton. “Yes, and I believe that toxicology will tell us more. But from my findings right now, this young lady was in a weakened condition from lack of blood. She died from cardiac arrest—brought on by a massive overdose of a substance or substances to be discovered.”
* * * *
Halloween was being torn down.
Decorations, looking the worse for wear, were coming down from shop displays and walls—busy shopkeepers were clearing out their windows.
Christmas was replacing Halloween—only a few windows were sporting turkeys, pilgrims, or other acknowledgements of the American holiday to come before then.
When Kody arrived at the theater, Charly was in the box office, going through the computer and checking on his sheets for the opening of the show that would run through Thanksgiving. She greeted him with a good morning and he hurriedly came through the door that closed off the box office section to greet her.
“Kody, what happened—are Brent and Barry all right? I can’t begin to understand how such a change could take place so quickly!”
“I can’t either,” she told him. She didn’t want to discuss what had happened—she was still too disturbed. “Has anyone come in yet?” she asked him.
“You’re the first. I am expecting Adam Harrison, too. He wanted to tell you—and Brent—just how well he thought the last show went. I mean…before. Though he was incredibly proud of you—he said you saved the night. He’ll be here this morning.”
“Thanks. Okay, I’ll be sitting in the mezzanine,” she said.
“But—”
“Charly, as we have information, I promise we’ll share it.”
“It’s just that—I suggested Brent for the playhouse here. He loves the theater. And he’d worked so hard on being clean. I mean…”
“Hey, there could be a reason. We’ll see,” Kody said, walking away. At the moment, she wanted to escape him.
She walked into the theater. The set from last night had already been struck. The next show wasn’t due to open until the weekend.
She took a seat in the audience, four rows back from the stage, and tried to picture Brent’s strange performance as it had happened. She could see where Barry was to slip in to provide the mask and assistance at his cue, and imagined the laboratory set as it had been.
Barry would have had to have been there.
Barry, or…
Someone else.
But how could Barry have followed his cue in the delusional, nearly comatose state he must have been in for them to have found him soon afterwards unresponsive on Brent’s dressing room floor?
“I see your mind at work!”
Kody turned at the question. It hadn’t been spoken by anyone currently working at the theater; Maeve McFadden was making her spiritual presence known at last.
Kody smiled. Maeve must have been amazing in life, drawing attention with her unbridled energy and enthusiasm any time she entered a room. She’d been a beautiful woman, tall and slim, with stunning and refined facial features and brilliant eyes.
Naturally, Hamish was right behind her. They had taken seats in the row right behind Kody.
“I heard you were absolutely amazing, saving the show,” Hamish told her.
He was an older version of his sons, dignified gray entering his dark hair. In life, he’d segued from being a heartthrob of stage and screen into a magnificent character actor. Kody often wished she’d met them in life—then again, it was a bit disconcerting that her almost-in-laws were so present in her life, even though they were dead.
“I’m perplexed,” Maeve said.
“I knew we should have been here last night, my love,” Hamish said to his wife. “Halloween—always a rough time. People…well, people should have the opportunity to dress up and have fun. But as we know too well, there’s always an element out there to make ill use of the pleasure others might take during what should be an enjoyable occasion.”
“Darling, you wanted to see the concert at the park as much as I did,” Maeve protested.
“Of course, of course. But we weren’t here. And you have no idea of what happened, Kody? By appearances, Brent had a terrible slip, looped Barry into it, and threatened you on stage?” Hamish asked.
“He was very dramatic,” Kody said.
Maeve shook her head. “Overacting!”
Hamish remained serious. “We worked with Brent, years ago—he was a child actor in a dreadful movie we did.”
“Dreadful? It was a tremendous box-office success!” Maeve said.
Hamish winked at Kody and shook his head. “Terrible slasher flick. But that’s not the point. We should have been here.”
“We’d have probably been in the audience anyway,” Maeve said. “Enjoying the show—and not watching what was going on. Where was Clara—she was stage-managing, right?”
“And she was right where she was supposed to be—at her podium in the wings, calling action, lights, props…doing her job,” Kody said.
“Yes, of course,” Maeve said. “But from here on out—we’ll be here. And I intend to ask all of you—and dear Adam, naturally—that you not crucify Brent until we know the truth.”
“I’m wondering myself. But—who would want to do such a thing? A disgruntled actor, someone who wasn’t cast in a show…who would want to do their best to ruin a production?” Kody asked. “Here, I would think it would be difficult to sneak around. Anyone who knows anything about theater in this region would know Adam owns the theater—and he’s titular head of a renowned unit of the FBI.”
“Who indeed?” Hamish said thoughtfully.
Kody winced, and they looked at one another without speaking.
Because they all knew the answer to that.
Someone within. The threat—if there was one, if Brent and Barry had been duped—had to have come from within. From someone working at the theater in some capacity—someone who could walk by the management, actors, actresses and FBI agents without even being noticed.
Chapter 6
Brent Myerson—customarily a handsome, pleasant, and confident leading man—looked like bloody hell.
He was cognizant—completely cognizant. But he had been crying. His features were taut, pale, and almost ghastly.
Yes, the man was an actor.
Still, Brodie couldn’t help but believe every word that came out of his mouth.
“I didn’t! I swear I didn’t use!” he said, sinking back on his hospital bed and staring up at the ceiling.
He looked like a man declaring his innocence desperately as he stood in front of a firing line.
Maybe this was something like that.
After all, Adam Harrison had come to the hospital along with Jackson, Brodie, Clara and Kody—and his future, if not his life, lay on the line.
He had already professed his gratitude that he had a life to worry about.
Kody, by the bed, squeezed his hand, and Brodie knew she believed him too. Then again, looking at Adam and Clara, he believed they were convinced as well.
“Kody,” Brent said desperately. “You saw me at intermission—you saw me, we talked, and I remember every moment of it…I remember Barry coming to my dressing room and telling me the little chink in the mask had been repaired and then…nothing. Nothing—until I came here, and the doctors and nurses were talking to me about the overdose and…oh, God. I didn’t. I didn’t have anything, I would never lure Barry, I…God, you have to believe me!”
“Who did you see and talk to besides Kody and Barry?” Adam asked.
“Clara—I said I’d be back in the wings, pronto,” Brent said.
Clara nodded her agreement—that had happened.
“I passed half the theater!” Brent said. “The prop and set guys changing over to the laboratory. Chorus members down in the basement—our townspeople. I…”
“What about in your dressing room?” Brodie asked. “Did anyone come see you there?”
“Barry. And him coming is…it’s the last I remember. I mean, I get snatches. I see someone running around like a lunatic, talking about dying in a pool of blood. And then I see that it’s me! But there’s something, a voice in my head, saying the lines. I’m insane. That’s it. I’ve gone insane.”
“No one besides Barry came to the room,” Kody said, still holding his hand, her eyes filled with concern. “So, did you drink or eat anything?”
“My tea, of course. I always have tea in my dressing room between acts.”
“Who brings you the tea?” Adam asked him.
“Ginny. She’s an absolute doll about it. She’s busy with costuming changes between acts, but she makes sure it’s in my room. A pot of herbal tea.” He winced. “When I gave up drugs, I embraced tea. It was my new thing. I’d go to tea tastings, have something like a ‘tea cellar’ at my house now. Ginny brings it in about fifteen minutes before the intermission, and it brews. It’s perfect for a few quick cups between acts. I use honey and lemon—it helps keep the voice clear.”
“Ginny was in the wings with costuming during the intermission,” Clara murmured.
“Yes, she helped me,” Kody said.
They were all silent for a minute, and then Brent spoke passionately again. “I didn’t—I swear�
�I didn’t take anything on purpose. Someone did this to me—someone who wanted to discredit me. I don’t know why—I didn’t think that I had any enemies.” He stared at Clara suddenly. “I know…I know, maybe that Gerrit Lambeth guy—he wanted the role. And he tried out for the pilgrim play we’re doing for the next show—he wanted my role in that, too.”
“Someone would have seen him, Brent,” Clara said.
“I don’t know! I swear—I didn’t do this to myself. I wouldn’t. I was working—happy. I had a problem, yes, still have a problem, but I fight it. I fight the good fight!” Brent swore. “Maybe…maybe—I don’t know. There were so many people dressed up.”
Brodie glanced over to where Kody was sitting by the bed, still holding Brent’s hand. She would have been sympathetic to anyone, but she knew Brent. She’d worked with him. She’d talked about him being a wonderful co-player, that he’d helped her in many ways. She was such a newbie to what they were having her do.
But he believed the man, too.
Brent looked straight at Adam. “I swear on my life, I had no idea I was consuming drugs. I do remember feeling good, but…the play had a great run. I was proud of it. Happy—it was natural to feel good. Trying to feel good is why people take drugs, but I didn’t need to—everything was great. Please, please, don’t fire me. Please.”
“We’ll keep investigating,” Brodie promised.
“Are you accusing Ginny of having done this thing?” Adam asked.
Brent shook his head helplessly. “Ginny wouldn’t hurt me. She wouldn’t hurt anyone,” he said. “She did me a favor, setting my tea to brew every night. We’re not the…not diva oriented. She has done it since we opened, just because she’s so nice. And because the little green room has a water heater. She said she was happy I was on tea. That I was a super actor and nice guy, and she’d help me in any way she could. Talk to her—I know she didn’t do it!”
Yes, they would talk to her. But if the woman had done it, it wasn’t something she was going to admit. Still, they didn’t need any search warrants—Adam owned the building. No one leased anything. It was his property and he had the right to do with it as he would.
Haunted Be the Holidays Page 7