“She’s annoying,” Ryder said. “And he’s a bit on the chubby side, with a goofy smile.”
“She sells cosmetics—he owns a fishing charter company.”
“With a boat,” Ryder noted.
“Several boats, according to the info I got from my people,” Fin said.
“There you go.”
“That he owns a boat doesn’t mean he’s guilty of murder. Boris has rented a boat. Think of where we are—people own boats.”
“Yes, but I’m looking at suspects who own boats.”
“Which is important, of course, but we can’t arrest people for owning boats.”
“No. So then there’s the other cousins. The one looks like a leading man. The other...doesn’t. Unless it’s as a leading man for a movie about not-so-good-looking people!”
Fin shook his head with a rueful smile. Ryder didn’t pull punches. He was careful and respectful in public, but here, after a long night...
“Ugly doesn’t make you a murderer, either,” Fin reminded Ryder. But it was true—Julian Bennett was a tall man with dark hair and amber eyes who evidently worked out in a gym and cared about his appearance. He sold medical supplies for a living. In contrast, Kenneth Richard had a bit of a crook in his back, as if he was experiencing early problems with osteoporosis. He was balding, with tufts of hair growing randomly from wherever they chose rather than in a pattern. He seemed cursed with several knobby warts on his face, as well.
He had been earnest during the questioning; yes, he’d met Cindy West. She’d been lovely to them all, a beautiful, sweet girl. He’d even mentioned that Cindy had been just as nice to him as she had been to all the others.
Just as Julian knew he was endowed with assets, Kenneth knew he was not.
“Kenneth works for an oil company,” Fin said. “Looks like he has a company boat issued to him. His work has to do with discovery and environmental dangers—he’s often out in the Gulf.”
“Another boat.” Ryder sighed. “Back to the cast—I interviewed the ‘detective.’” He paused to look at his notes again. “Leo Gonzales. He’s one of the ‘in’ crowd. They all know each other from an arts college in Central Florida.” He looked up at Fin. “He’s a mime. He taught mime, and that’s how he met these other guys. Boris was a visiting lecturer at the school, too.” He sighed. “So they know each other. Not much to go on. And they’re all convinced that Cindy West ran into someone on Bourbon Street who did this to her.”
“But who on Bourbon Street knew what was being filmed the following day?” Fin said.
“Exactly. Let’s pray the medical examiner or the forensic investigators come up with something. As it is, we have nothing.”
“Well, we have an island. And there’s a crew behind you, and a ‘Krewe’ behind me who will rip into the backgrounds of everyone involved here.”
“Do you want me to take the autopsy? Should we both go?”
Fin didn’t hesitate. “I’ll have you go in, if you don’t mind. I’m going to walk around the island and maybe look further into the mansion.”
“All right. I’ll call you as soon as the doc is finished. I don’t know how much more we’re going to get from him. Precise instruments were used to make those puncture holes—holes that would allow for a woman to be practically bled out. That does make it look as if our medical-equipment rep might have something to do with this.”
“It does,” Fin said. “But we have no idea why any of these people might want to kill Cindy West.”
Ryder shook his head. “Motives for murder—greed, jealousy, hatred, advancement, unrequited love.”
“And obsession,” Fin said. “Someone is relishing the fact that two agencies—and every law-enforcement officer in the south of the state—will be on this. They’re savoring the media attention it will get. For this type, the kill is the best moment, but it’s also something to be enjoyed in all that follows.”
“Killers like that might return to the scene of the crime,” Ryder said.
“Not today and not now,” Fin said. “But we should watch in the days to come.”
Ryder rose, stretching. “Usually, in my world, John shoots Bill over a woman. Or a drug deal gone wrong. Or some drunk idiot takes a gun out on Bourbon Street. This kind of thing...well, I’m glad Adam Harrison sent you in on this.”
“Teamwork,” Fin said lightly. He wished that Adam was still in the city. It would be good to work with someone like him. The Krewe was a large agency now; Adam had a way of finding the right people. But those right people tended to be busy, off around the country, and only Finley had been here in New Orleans. He was from the area, which Adam thought to be a tremendous boon.
Yes, that had been it. He was already here, and no one else familiar with the territory was available.
He knew he should have confidence in himself; he did have confidence in himself. And there was a massive tech-and-research unit behind him.
Ryder was nodding at him. “Yeah, still...you guys are better at finding the freaks, you know?”
Fin shrugged and stood.
“I’m going to go around Bourbon Street after I’ve taken another look at the island,” Fin told him. “I’ll show Cindy West’s picture around and see if anyone saw anything.”
Ryder gave him a wave, and he was gone.
Fin walked to the center of the room. He acknowledged that he hated this case—because he hated being here. He remembered being a kid out with his dad when he’d first seen the decaying old mansion rising out of the foliage, trees and tombs on the island.
There were several hundred people interred in the cemetery. Mr. Christy had lived alone, with dozens of ancestors, friends of ancestors and even strangers—friends of the friends of his ancestors.
Fin stood in the house and closed his eyes, feeling the room. There was a miasma about the place. Too much had gone on for too long. He knew a few of the stories; he had met a few of the dead.
Now he was hoping one among them might help him.
But all he felt standing in the great room was that atmosphere of darkness, depression and oppression. If Christy’s spirit had remained, that remnant of the man was not in his old house.
Fin headed out, walking down the long tile path and beneath the stone archway that led from the house to the cemetery.
As with most old properties, Christy Island had been owned by good people...and by cruel people.
He headed toward the back of the sprawling cemetery, to the place where Cindy West had been found. There were still forensic workers out, gathering every bit of evidence they could.
The dead woman was gone, and was now being prepared for her autopsy.
He paused by the statue of the two Civil War soldiers, standing by their dog.
Fin knew the story of the brothers, but as he stood there, he heard a soft voice. He turned subtly, aware of his visitor...and equally aware the cemetery was still filled with those who wouldn’t see his old friend.
“You’re all right, you’re a distance from all of them, sugar,” a soft, feminine voice assured him.
He smiled. “Vanessa...” he said softly.
She came and leaned against the base of the statue, smiling at him—a beautiful smile.
Vanessa’s last name had been Christy. She’d never known if that had been because she actually was a Christy, since slave owners were known to father children among their household, or if it was simply the name of the man who owned her. Her mother had died when she’d been a child and no one else seemed to know the truth.
But it didn’t matter to her. She’d been here when the Civil War had torn all asunder. She’d been born a slave but lived to be a free woman who had chosen not to leave Christy Island after the war—she had stayed on as a housekeeper, earning enough to see a grandson graduate from college. She had died at the age of fifty, but having lived during a rough
period, she had maintained her beauty in death and she appeared to him as a slim woman, with skin a stunning golden color and eyes dark and soulful...and still filled with a strange light.
“It’s good to see you,” he told her.
She grinned. “I haven’t seen you out here in years and years! So, what—you decided that you would be a lawman? Thought you weren’t going to do that after you got in trouble when you were a kid.”
Fin grimaced at the memory. “Big kids” had hidden a stash of drugs by a nearby bayou one day; an old pirate who still loved to go from NOLA to the smaller cities and out to Barataria Island over and over again had talked to Fin about it, disgusted because the “big” kid had been giving drugs to “wee ones.” When the cops had come, Fin had been able to show them where to find the drugs, but not tell them how he knew. The authorities were careful because no one wanted anyone else to know he was the informant, but they had remained suspicious of him, and he’d made up a story about following the boys one day.
“Spirits making you look crazy stopped getting to you, eh, sweetie?” she asked him,
“I figured I’d use what I have,” he said. “And, in fact, I was hoping—”
“You were hoping to find me and that I might be able to help you with this frightful business, right, my boy?” she asked.
“Did you see anything?”
She shook her head. “I was watching the filming—like the living!” she told him.
“But she was brought here sometime before all that began,” he said.
“We don’t just hang around our tombs, you know. Why stay where it’s bleak and the memories are those of the tears shed over our deaths? We—Henri and me—slipped onto a boat with the director fellow, Boris. We were out, they were out—everyone was out.”
“And when you came back?”
“I believe Boris went right to his room in the mansion and stayed there. I couldn’t swear to it, but I believe that’s what he did. Henri and I talked about changes in the world—things that do change and things that don’t—until...well, almost until they started filming again in the morning. Honey, I wish to heaven that I could help, that I did know something! But you know as well as I do that little boats—especially little rowboats—can come right up just about any place on the island. Whoever brought in that dead girl did so from the rear of the cemetery. Maybe they were smart enough to stay away from the mansion, or the part where all the filming seems to take place. I don’t know. I do know that I’ll be on watch now. Though the place is teeming with police and the like.”
Fin nodded, hoping not to show his disappointment.
“Where’s Henri now?” he asked. He was referring to Henri Christy, a young man who had died in his early twenties from yellow fever in the early 1800s.
The two were fast friends; Vanessa had told him once that Henri had helped her when she’d first discovered she was not among the living...and yet still a bit of the earth.
“He’s up at the mansion. He’s fascinated with Boris—he wanted to be an actor when he was young, but apparently, that wasn’t proper work for a man of his lineage back then. Anyway, honey, I promise you—I’ll be watching now.”
She turned to leave, and he quickly asked, “Vanessa, the whole cast and crew—or main cast and crew—were out on Bourbon Street last night, right?”
“Along with the ‘family,’” she said, sounding a little bit disgusted. “You know, I realize I started life as a slave, and maybe that’s why I have a greater appreciation for...a home. A real home. They treat this place as if it was garbage! A lark—money, and nothing more.”
“Well, I didn’t know Mr. Christy, but he was a hermit, and I guess he just didn’t encourage people to care for him or his property. But the family was out with the cast and crew?”
“I don’t know if you’d say ‘with’ the cast and crew. That foursome was out together, following them around. Oh, not that they’re not nice. Crew members, cast...they’re all very sweet. I’ve watched them working. But... I guess sometimes we just like our own friends, hmm?”
“Sometimes, maybe.”
“Did you speak with the actress—the one the murder victim was laid out to resemble?”
“Avalon Morgan?”
“Yes,” Vanessa said, rolling her eyes dramatically. “The raven-haired beauty. The bride of the beast!”
“Yes, of course, I interviewed her. Why?”
“She senses us,” Vanessa said. “She looked right at me one day, right in the eye, and she smiled. She can’t really just start a conversation in front of others. And I wasn’t sure she even wanted to. But I know she saw me. She could be interesting. The girl is—”
“Don’t say ‘gifted!’” Fin moaned.
“Fine. Let’s see... Cursed? How cruel a thing to say about those who can speak with us and help us.”
“I didn’t say ‘cursed,’ either,” Fin assured her.
She grinned. “It is a gift, my friend. As is this time we remain here, seeking an answer, satisfaction, or just a way to give back to the living. None of us really knows why a few remain here on earth in whatever form this may be. There are those who feel us and know nothing more. Give her a try—I’d swear she also has the...talent! That’s what I’ll call it. I believe that’s what your Krewe of Hunters refers to this sense as being. A talent.”
“I did interview her. She cares deeply about all the people here. I don’t believe she’s a murderer, or that she’d abet a murderer in any way.” Fin sighed.
“Then I’d get to know her better,” Vanessa said.
“You think she knows who the murderer is?”
“No. But I think knowing someone else who has your talent might be a nice thing for you.”
She offered him a weak smile and turned to leave.
He watched her go, fading into the shadows around the tombstones.
Three
Tuesday afternoon
“I think I can do it. I have to keep going, and then I have to hope...well, I have to hope that the police can solve this, or that people...” Boris broke off, wincing.
“Yeah, it’s okay,” Terry Jenson, his production designer, said wearily. “We have to hope people are such sensationalists they’ll want to see a movie where a real murder took place during the making of it.”
“Exactly,” Leo Gonzales said. As one of the three main roles in the movie, Leo was going to be fine, and he knew it. And he could make more in a day doing some of his mime act out on the square than many did as extras on the film. But he was part of their group, and he cared about his friends.
“I can help edit. With the budget, you were pretty much going to be your own editor, anyway,” Brad Fallon, the director of photography reminded him. “I have a pretty good eye for editing. No matter what happens, we can wrap the movie.”
Avalon sat and listened as they discussed the events and what they were going to do next—and how to go about doing it.
They’d spent the night in numb misery and the morning moving; the hotel—in Kenner, much closer to the dock for the boat out to the island—was now too expensive.
The police had said they were fine to move into New Orleans for the next few days—they just couldn’t go too far.
Thanks to a friend of Lauren’s, they had moved into a house that was usually for short-term rentals. It had a beautiful courtyard, which was where they sat as they spoke. The house was right off the juncture of Dauphine Street and Bienville Street, easy walking distance to dozens of eateries and sites. Boris thought that might be important for them. While they were waiting to find out what was going to happen, they might get a little stir-crazy and need some distraction.
They were dealing with the loss of a friend.
And it was still difficult to take in. They couldn’t go back to the island until the police and agents gave an all-clear. They didn’t know when that woul
d be.
And so, they were just...here. Discussing their futures.
“I can help edit, too,” Kevin said.
“We’re all thinking about the movie,” Lauren said. “And Cindy is...being cut up. Dead. Given an autopsy. Are you all forgetting? We were just together!”
“None of us is forgetting,” Boris said. “Not for a minute.”
“We’re distracting ourselves,” Kevin said.
Silence fell around the table where they were sitting.
“Where is Cindy’s family?” Terry asked. He had soft brown eyes and fluffy wild hair, causing his nickname to be “Shaggy.” But he was a people person who tended to care deeply for others. While they hadn’t all known Cindy well, they had all laughed and joked together during the filming.
“Luckily, they’re dead,” Boris said, and then he grimaced. “Wow, that didn’t come out right. But at least they don’t have to outlive their daughter. I’ve been told that a distant cousin is coming. I have the feeling we’re going to be the people who care the most. She’s been traveling a lot with work—she was lead makeup artist on a limited series that ended just before she started with me, and she was on a movie before that... I think we are her family.”
“Then, if the cousin doesn’t do right by her, we will,” Avalon said, resolved. They were all silent for a minute. “But we don’t...we don’t know what we should do. And this cousin may know.”
Kevin took Avalon’s hand. “We’ll wait and see. But if no one is going to care for her properly, we will.”
Everyone was silent again. The doorbell chimed distantly.
They were the only residents at the time. The house had been broken up into seven units with a communal kitchen and entry.
They all looked at one another.
“Cops. Who else?” Boris asked.
Instead of walking to the front, he headed for the gate to the courtyard, opened it and stepped back.
“Officer Stirling,” he said.
“Special Agent Stirling,” their visitor said with a grimace, “but that’s a lot of title. You’re welcome to call me Fin.”
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