And a man had been murdered.
He stood up and got dressed again; he wasn’t going to sleep.
Jake left his room, pausing to listen at Ashley’s door, but all was silent. He flushed, glad that she didn’t suddenly swing the door open and see him standing there.
Downstairs in the darkened dining room, he heard voices. Looking out, he saw that the police were still there—at least, the patrol cars.
A drone of voices from the study alerted him to the fact that Jackson was still in with Mack Colby, and maybe Cliff. He didn’t know.
He frowned; the commotion from outside had grown louder. Curious, he walked out the roadside door and looked down the avenue of oaks.
The police were blocking the entrance to the plantation, but he could see that several news crews were out on the road. Crunching down the drive, he reached the officers. Drew Montague was standing in front of his police car, arms crossed over his chest, a look of pure annoyance on his face.
Montague saw him. “I don’t know how the word got out so fast. They’re like flies on a corpse. If you’ll excuse the expression.”
“Has anyone spoken to them?”
He shook his head. “I told them that it was a crime scene, and that they couldn’t come on the property. That’s all. Luckily, it is private property, so it makes it easier to keep them away.”
Jake leaned on the police car next to Drew Montague, trying to listen. There were three reporters with their camera crews situated so as to pick up the plantation house in the background of their shots. He recognized the local network-affiliate anchorwoman, Marty Dean—he’d actually gone to high school with her—but the other two reporters were men he’d never noticed on the news before.
Perhaps they thought this story would be picked up by a national network. He was sure that the information that a man had been murdered on the property was out—they were living in the era of cell phones, texts and instant communication, and Donegal Plantation housed many guests.
He could hear Marty clearly.
“Donegal Plantation, historically a place of tragedy and loss, and filled with strange and eerie happenings throughout the years. Have the ghosts of Donegal arisen? Unconfirmed reports state that the body of a man in a Confederate uniform was found in the family cemetery on the estate. But other deaths have occurred at Donegal as well. Some are documented, and some are rumor, such as the hanging of a house slave after the murder of the master’s wife during the first half of the 1800s. The Civil War–era master of the estate, Marshall Donegal, a brilliant tactician who might have served the Confederacy well, died within that cemetery. Perhaps he is still waging war against his enemies!”
That was too much.
Jake pushed away from the car and approached Marty. She saw him; her eyes widened, she smiled with pleasure.
“I see a Donegal guest now,” she said into the microphone, nodding at her cameraman.
Jake felt the camera come his way. It didn’t disturb him or stop him.
“Jake Mallory, one of our local heroes, seems to have been staying at Donegal Plantation. Mr. Mallory, can you tell us what has happened here? Some speculate that the ghosts are murdering people!”
“The police will give the media everything when they have something to say, Miss Dean. I’d just like to point out that Donegal Plantation is far more than a place of tragedy and loss. I think it’s rather foolish for anyone to imply that ghosts might be running around murdering people. A man is dead, and first and foremost, his death is a sad occasion. I’m sure that everyone involved with responsible media will see to it that our sorrow over his death is respected and that an historic residence and business which has offered education and entertainment to visitors for decades should not be maligned in any way. Thank you, Miss Dean—I know that you will report responsibly.”
He turned and walked away.
“Jake—wait!” Marty called after him.
He ignored her. The other two newsmen had seen him, and he walked quickly by Drew Montague. Montague grinned, liking what he had said. As Marty chased Jake, Montague stopped her.
“Crime scene, ma’am. I’m still not cleared to let you in.”
“But you just—”
“Mr. Mallory is an invited guest at the plantation, ma’am.”
With a smile, Jake kept walking. He didn’t turn back.
* * *
There was just no way out of it.
Ashley felt the scream escaping through her lips, though it was more like a gasp or choke than a scream.
The ghost swore beneath his breath and faded into nothing, and she was left staring at an empty room, wondering if she could wake herself up. But she wasn’t sleeping. She was wide-awake—and seeing things.
She leapt up and ran around, turning on every light in the room. It wasn’t all that necessary—it was going to be light outside soon. But she didn’t want the shadows that were created when the sun first began to rise; she wanted light, brilliant light, and a lot of it.
But she froze when she heard a light tap at her door and then a voice.
“Ashley?”
It was Jake. And she suddenly felt that dreaming about him had caused her to have dreams or nightmares about a body in the graveyard—before it had been there—and Confederate soldiers who somehow got into her room and faded away as swiftly as she could blink. She was overtired, she knew.
She was losing all grip on reality.
She walked to her door and threw it open, staring at him. “Yes?”
“I was just making sure you were all right,” he said.
As at all times, he was so damned easy and confident. And he couldn’t have heard her—the scream she emitted hadn’t even been a squeak when finally uttered.
How the hell did he just know things?
“I’m fine, just fine.” Was Jake’s presence here making her think that she had seen a ghost?
He believed they existed, even if he hadn’t said as much. And his special team seemed to have some kind of insight that others didn’t have—surely that was why they were so special.
She was glad to have him here; she would have willed him here, if she could have done so.
But now she was frightened again.
“I know you think you…see things, know things, that others don’t. But please don’t suggest that the ghost of Charles Osgood is telling you things to tell me, all right? If you’re an investigator, investigate. Real things. Blood. Fingerprints.”
He stared back at her easily, with absolutely no show of emotion.
“I heard you walking around the room. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I’m fairly new in my actual position, but Jackson has been with the federal government for years. He’s excellent at following blood or DNA trails and fingerprints. Good night, again, Ashley. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
He headed down the hall. She watched him, her stomach knotting, her heart sinking. Well, she had to be looking like a schizophrenic now, welcoming one minute and greeting him like a shrew the next.
Because, once again, she was afraid. She was afraid that she could see things that others didn’t sometimes, and that was truly terrifying.
This time, she couldn’t shut herself away; she had to be reasonable, and she even had to learn to accept what Jake said. And what she saw.
A man had been murdered.
She needed sleep. Ashley decided to leave the lights on. It was nearly six now, she saw by the bedside clock. Daylight would come quickly, but until then, she would be glad of the lights.
And the television! A television would distract her. But when she turned on the television, she saw Jake. They were repeating a newscast.
She started to change the channel, but she paused, listening to him, his strong and authoritative manner—and the way he pegged the pretty anchorwoman. She had to smile.
She changed the channel. It seemed that half a dozen channels bought footage from Marty Dean’s newscast. There was Jake, once again.
She hit the remote.
And again.
He couldn’t possibly be on Nick at Nite! She hit the changer until she came across Dora the Explorer, and at last, satisfied, and hoping that maybe she’d even learn some Spanish through her subconscious mind, she eased her head down on her pillow.
And slept soundly and without dreams intervening.
* * *
Jake took time to speak with Jackson and Angela, choosing the study for the privacy it offered. He briefed them on the events that had occurred before their arrival, and Jackson told him about the last of the interviews.
“It’s absolutely amazing that no one saw anything,” Jackson said.
Jake shook his head. “No, not really. I mean, obviously, I wasn’t here for this reenactment, but I’ve been here before when they’ve gone on. There’s so much confusion. There’s black powder in the air everywhere. When the fighting is over, everyone is paying attention to the riverside porch where Ashley and her grandfather are speaking, finishing up the event. It’s a patriotic moment—everyone sings ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic.’”
“Did you know Charles Osgood?” Jackson asked him.
“I met him a few times years ago. He was part of the outfit, but his stepfather was alive back then, and so Charles wasn’t asked to take part in the battle. There are only six Confederate roles to be played, and there is a strict pecking order to who gets to do what when.”
“We need that pecking order written down,” Jackson said.
“Here’s the strange thing, from what I’ve understood so far. Charles shouldn’t have been playing Marshall Donegal. The role should have gone to Ramsay Clayton, but Charles was apparently causing a stink about having to play a Yankee—they were short a Yankee—and Ramsay decided to let Charles have the honor and play a Yankee himself.”
Jake realized that they were both staring at him. He sighed. “Slavery was obviously wrong, but for some reason, it’s more romantic to be a rebel now. Especially if you are from the South. Don’t look at me like that.”
Angela chuckled. “Hey, I’m from Virginia. I’ve seen plenty a Civil War roundtable.”
“Me, too,” Jackson said.
“Then why are you staring at me like that?” Jake asked.
“I was staring at you because it seems that Ramsay Clayton is the first man we have to investigate,” Jackson told him. He cleared his throat. “Get anything you can on the man off the computer. See if he made any waves anywhere—angered anyone.” Jake nodded.
“But first let’s head down to the local police station. I want to see that our use of their forensics department is going to be respected.”
Jake nodded again. He didn’t really want to leave the house, but he usually accompanied Jackson on their police liaison.
“By the way, nice handling of the media,” Jackson said.
“Oh? I thought I walked onto a live broadcast?” Jake said.
Jackson grinned. “Apparently, it was bought by several stations. Anyway, you handled the anchorwoman well.”
“I knew her.”
“Great. I’d bet big-time that she’ll be traipsing around here a lot. You can take the press on this one, too.”
“Sure. It’s hardly my expertise—”
“No, you just didn’t know it was your expertise,” Jackson told him. “I’ll meet you in front in five minutes,” he added, rising to leave the room.
Angela was still there. She looked like an angelic piece of fluff, but she could handle a Glock as if she’d been a shooting champ for a hundred years.
She set her hand on his. “I’ll be here,” she told him.
He grinned. “The place is riddled with ghosts, isn’t it?”
“Probably,” she said.
“Have you met any yet?”
“I haven’t tried. But I promise I’ll be getting right on that. And,” she added, a curve to her lips and a light in her eyes, “you know me—I usually need a little time and quiet. God knows why—most ghosts are shy of disbelievers. You’d think it would be the other way around.”
“You’d think Charles Osgood’s spirit would be around here somewhere,” he said.
“You never know who lingers and who moves right on,” Angela said. “Remember, death doesn’t make the soul all-seeing. Sometimes, ghosts don’t know what’s happened—we all know that.”
“Great,” Jake said. “Death is as confusing as life.”
“Don’t worry today,” Angela said. “I’ll keep my eye on your Miss Donegal—and her grandfather, of course.”
“Thanks,” Jake told her.
“Want to tell me about it?” Angela asked him.
He shrugged. “We were close, intimately close. Her father died, but I knew when he first went into emergency, and I shouldn’t have. And I related a dream I’d just had about him, in which he said how much he loved her and that he was all right—and two seconds later the nurse walked in to say that he was dead. In that moment, I became a pariah.”
Angela nodded sympathetically. “That’s why we learn to keep our own council. But you’re okay, right?”
“Yes, I swear it. Don’t worry about me. I’m working, and my emotions won’t sway me in any way,” he assured her.
“Our emotions always sway us,” Angela told him. “Just so long as they sway us in the right direction, we’re fine.”
He left her, ready to head to the front of the house. But he heard noise in the dining room and stepped in. Ashley was there, pouring herself coffee from the samovar on the buffet.
“Ashley, can you get me a list of the Yankees and the rebels who took part in the reenactment? I’m sure the police asked you for your rosters, but would you write up the names—and what they do and how long they’ve been involved with the plantation?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
That morning she was in jeans and a T-shirt. She still appeared as gloriously beautiful as she had in flowing white. She had that same air of dignity that sat so well on Frazier.
And elegance. Even in jeans.
And she seemed to have forgotten her earlier tirade.
“Of course,” she repeated. She looked away for a moment and then back to him. “Sorry about earlier. I was really tired.”
“Don’t worry. It meant nothing.”
She looked down. “Of course not,” she murmured. But she looked up again, frowning. “Are you leaving?”
“For a few hours—just down to the station. Angela will be here. And there are still two patrol officers getting your guests out and stopping others from coming in.”
“Jake, I really can’t believe that one of our reenactors could have done this. I’ve known most of these guys since I was a kid.”
“Then you need to think hard about anyone who might have had a grudge against Charles—or Ramsay Clayton.”
“No one had a grudge against Charles. They felt sorry for him all the time, if anything. And I really can’t imagine anyone having a grudge against Ramsay. He’s a pleasant person, not much of a temper—actually, a nice man. He had no problem with letting Charles take his place.”
“He wouldn’t—if he knew something was going to happen to the actor playing Marshall Donegal,” Jake said.
She stiffened at that. “It was a last-minute change,” she told him. “Why couldn’t this have been a random killing?”
He paused, thinking that was obvious—except that Ashley very stubbornly didn’t want to believe that anyone with whom she’d been friends could possibly have plotted out the brutal killing.
“First, Ashley, simple logic,” he said. “You have to know this area to have kidnapped a man and kept him hostage—even drugged—for that long a time. You’d have to know Donegal Plantation well to know the cemetery, how to reach the Donegal vault easily and to escape unseen.”
“We’re open to the public—we’re a bed-and-breakfast. And the history of the place is written up in a number of books.”
“Ashley,” he said seriously, “a murder like that isn�
�t a sudden act. It was preplanned, and preplanned carefully. Is it possible that a stranger came on a tour and devised a way to find notoriety? Yes. But it’s most likely, considering human nature and behavior, that someone close to Donegal Plantation committed this crime. I’m sure that law enforcement will look at all angles, but we—the team—specialize in behavior—” he broke off; he didn’t want to tell Ashley bluntly that they would also be seeking those who weren’t still living for help “—and even the events that occurred in the past that cause someone to act a particular way in the present, and so, we’ll put our focus on those who are close to the family and Donegal Plantation. I’m sorry, but I honestly believe you’re going to have to accept the fact that someone you know is a murderer.”
“You could be wrong,” she said.
He had to grin ruefully at that. “Damn, you’re still stubborn as hell. Think about it again, about everything I said. A random act of violence wouldn’t explain someone holding a man drugged and hostage and then killing him with a bayonet—as your ancestor was killed.”
“But you could be wrong,” she insisted.
He didn’t answer. “I’ll be back soon,” he told her.
Jackson was waiting for him in the hall. He drove, and as he headed out, he looked back in the rearview mirror as Donegal Plantation became smaller and smaller, and disappeared in the trees.
He didn’t want to leave. Not while someone was still out there.
* * *
“This,” Beth commented, “is sad!”
She and Ashley were at the dining-room table. All of the guests were now gone, including Justin, who had taken his family into New Orleans. At this point, it was definitely going to be better to think about his children enjoying the zoo and the aquarium than hanging around Donegal Plantation.
Ashley looked at Beth, frowning, “Well, of course, it’s sad. A man is dead.”
Beth shook her head. “No, this—the two of us sitting here, drooping on our elbows, getting nothing done. That’s sad!”
Ashley sat back. “They asked me for a list—I’ve done the list. I’ve checked on my grandfather—he’s actually sleeping. There are two guys in uniform hanging around outside, and I’m not sure what else to do.”
Krewe of Hunters, Volume 1: Phantom Evil ; Heart of Evil ; Sacred Evil ; The Evil Inside Page 41