The Forbidden

by Heather Graham

  “For the guy—or gal—who is in to pretend,” their hostess explained.

  “I see.”

  “The ‘theater’ room is mine. It’s our largest and we have some decent shows—some I just twisted after a playwriting class in college. Fantasies. Anne of Boleyn is about to go get her head chopped off, but rather than lament her fate, she beats down a guard and gets Henry the Eighth on a leash. It’s an alternate view on history I would love to have seen.”

  Lauren laughed and Avalon realized her friend was having fun.

  “Okay, I have a concern,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Does the same person deliver the food...and a spanking on a bare butt?”

  Samara laughed. “Come see the answer to the question. My mama ‘beat’ a few things into me herself before she passed. We’re... I’d say we’re one of the cleanest places in town!”

  There were two food-prep workers in the kitchen, one a middle-aged woman with a quick smile, the other an older man, equally quick to smile; both were wearing gloves and apologized for not shaking hands. They were working on prep for lunch, which started around eleven thirty.

  “My aunt and uncle,” Samara explained. “Sophie and Taylor. And as far as serving goes...”

  She brought them into a dressing room where several young women were getting ready for the day. One was dressed as Alice in Wonderland, another looked as if she was ready to take on the world like Wonder Woman...except in scanty leather biker attire.

  “I serve food,” Alice said, displaying disposable little white gloves.

  “No spankings,” Samara assured her.

  “All right,” Avalon said, surprised she was almost excited to come up with a website that would extol the food, along with all the aspects of the venue. “What we need to do is bring in the average person. For instance, honestly, Lauren and I wouldn’t have wandered in. We need a menu that shows this as theatrical for those who just want fun, food, some drinks...and just a small step into the wild side. Then, of course, we need to show there are other delights to be had, too.”

  Avalon got to work. She took pictures of the kitchen and beautifully plated food, and poses of the girls in their very different apparel. Lauren helped, holding and angling the small light Avalon had brought, making sure the leather gleamed and the girls’ eyes popped in their photos.

  Then she, Samara and Lauren sat down and talked about the site.

  It seemed that one o’clock rolled around too swiftly. Avalon was still speaking about the site when her phone rang.

  Fin Stirling had arrived, and was standing outside.

  “I’ll get your guest,” Samara said.

  “Oh, I think he just needs us to come out—”

  But Samara was gone. A minute later, she returned to her office with Fin. He was casual, in a soft charcoal jacket over jeans and a white tailored shirt unbuttoned at the neck.

  “A two-minute eye-opener,” he said to Samara as they entered. “I am anxious to see the site that Avalon creates.”

  “My aunt was preparing especially for you,” Samara said, looking a little distraught at Avalon and Lauren and then Fin. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Well, we are on the clock, but I don’t think another twenty minutes will hurt if you won’t mind if we eat and run,” Fin said, smiling and polite.

  Samara beamed, hit a call button on her phone and a minute later her aunt and uncle arrived, bearing trays of food.

  The jambalaya was some of the best Avalon had ever eaten. They all raved over it, and Samara told them about a few of her other twisted history skits. When they had eaten, Fin apologized, saying they did have to run. They all bid each other goodbye, Avalon promising she’d send Samara a mock-up of what she intended.

  Outside they headed to Fin’s car with Lauren still exclaiming in wonder. “She’s not what I expected at all! I mean, she may wield one mean whip, but...she’s cool. She’s still selling sex, sort of, but not what I expected. I—I had fun!”

  “It was interesting, beyond a doubt,” Avalon agreed. “And I think we need to emphasize the entertainment side and the food. And what’s there for those who are a little more serious, though, honestly, from what I’ve heard...”

  Fin glanced her way, grinning slightly, arching an eyebrow.

  “From what you’ve heard?”

  “Samara’s pretty mild, just playing at what she does. Which is fine—I mean, oh... I don’t know what I mean. She advertises as a dominatrix, but I think it’s really for tourists. It’s not serious kink. Wow. Hmm. Okay, so... Lauren, what’s your plan for today?” Avalon asked.

  “Sleep!” Lauren told her. She sighed. “I’ve received several offers, projects needing more help in the makeup departments. There’s so much going on in New Orleans right now. I guess I need to make sure it’s okay to accept something, find out if Boris is going to need anything else...hey!” she said, turning to Fin. “Do I ask you?”

  Fin nodded. “We just need people to stay in the area. I’d also ask you to be especially careful—whoever did this has something, a quality of friendship, that put Cindy West at ease. She was probably trusting and laughing until—until she died. Lauren, you need to make sure you’re in public, and with people you trust.”

  He’d driven to the house where they were all staying; he pulled in front.

  “We’ll watch until you’re through that gate,” he assured Lauren.

  Lauren smiled. “Thank you!”

  She got out of the car and used her key to open the gate, stepping through it. When the gate closed and locked, Fin drove back out onto the street.

  “I-10,” he said. “And Mississippi.”

  They drove for a while in silence. Avalon stared out the window as the city turned to suburbs.

  Then Avalon asked, “Are you hoping that maybe Ellen Frampton is...still there?”

  He shook his head and glanced her way. “Would you hang around a place in the middle of nowhere where your body was discovered after you were murdered?”

  “No, but ghosts do sometimes hang around cemeteries. Sometimes, the cemetery is like...hmm. A social club?”

  “It’s my belief—and I could be wrong—that those who stay do so to right a wrong, fix something with their family or loved ones, guard a place...and those I’ve known tend to enjoy life. They head for music, activity...and, yes, sometimes head back to the cemetery because it becomes a meeting place. I am hoping that we may see...someone. Or maybe you’ll see what I don’t see.”

  “Because you still don’t trust my friends.”

  He glanced her way. “I mainly trust your friends, otherwise one of them would already be under arrest, and I’d make damned sure the rest of you weren’t staying in the same house.”

  “Oh!”

  “But we do have experts tracking the movements of everyone who might be involved over the last several years.”

  “Ah. Nothing on the website yet, right?”

  He shook his head. “Cherry bomb.”

  “Cherry bomb?”

  “I wasn’t familiar with the term. Jodi used it—the site more or less exploded. You can’t trace anything on it. You weren’t deep into the dark web. Jodi is determined now to get in and find anything that resembles the site you described. And Jodi is good.”

  “I wish I’d thought to snap a picture of the page. But I’ve never seen anything explode in a...cherry bomb before.”

  “Because you don’t play around on the dark web most of the time,” he reminded her. “And don’t start—Jodi is in tech, but she’s a trained cop, too.”

  “I wasn’t really planning a lifetime of exploring the dark web,” Avalon said dryly. Then she forgot the bit of resentment she had felt. “The way he wrote...it was chilling. I can’t imagine thinking that way. Fleeting, and yet so chilling.”

  “We will find t
his man,” he said quietly. “This killer.”

  She nodded, not replying, and looked out the window as they traveled I-10.

  “So. Where are you from?” he asked her.

  “Florida,” she said. “I was born in St. Augustine. We moved to Gainesville when my mom took a job down there as a professor. Then I went to school in Orlando because they have a wonderful program for artists, actors, musicians, dancers and more there. And since school...um, at the moment, I’m in transit. Lauren wants me to move in with her. And it’s true that there is so much going on in New Orleans. She has had to turn down work. Lauren is really good at what she does.”

  “I imagine you’re really good, too.”

  “Well, I hope so. I prefer theater.”

  “You’d love it up by me.”

  “Oh?”

  “The founder of my unit is a man named Adam Harrison. He’s filthy rich, by his own genius. But he’s one of those people who spreads that wealth all over. He purchased an old crumbling theater and several of my coworkers have spouses and friends associated with it. There’s a children’s theater, too. It’s great. I go whenever I can.”

  “Nice,” Avalon said genuinely. It pleased her that he enjoyed the theater.

  “Adam does a lot more, too. He gives money to more charities than I can count.” He glanced her way with an awkward grin. “It helps us, as well. When a case calls for more than Uncle Sam can afford, he’s there. He’s generous with his own money and very thrifty with Uncle Sam’s.”

  “He sounds great.”

  “He is. It’s kind of strange—the first Krewe case was here. As in New Orleans.”

  “Not so strange. They claim to be the most haunted city in the United States.”

  He laughed. “I believe that Savannah, Salem and maybe St. Augustine also make that claim. But, places with history...yes, well, a tumultuous history would provide more in the way of those who linger behind. Emotions that linger behind, horrors that linger...and good things, too.”

  “Does Adam Harrison see the dead?”

  He smiled. “Only one, and his son was dead several years before Adam could see him. He’d always known Josh was special. When Josh was killed in an accident, he was with his best friend and something seemed to transfer to her... From then on, Adam had a talent for finding people with the talent. Anyway, he didn’t establish the Krewe as a place for agents who saw ghosts—he’d have been laughed out of Washington. He established it as a unit to deal with the bizarre, like these murders.”

  “I see,” she said. “I guess I can understand that.”

  “We’ve caught some flak over being labeled the ‘ghost busters’ unit,” Fin said, shrugging as he stared straight ahead at the road. “But we have one of the highest solve rates to be found in law enforcement anywhere.”

  She grinned. “Well, you do have help sometimes, right?”

  He returned her grin quickly. “Hell, yeah. And if we can put murderers away, I’m not at all adverse to any help we get.”

  “You’re from here, you said?” she asked him. “As in New Orleans?”

  “Kenner—close enough.”

  “And close enough to Christy Island.”

  He nodded, and then sighed. “Which means I’m aware of how easy it is for someone to slip on or off the island. You can drag just about any small boat up on shore several places. When I was a kid, it was reputed to be haunted and most people stayed away. Kids will be kids. Teenagers from my high school went there fooling around, and Mr. Christy threw the book at them. People tended to give it a wide berth then—why would you want to get in trouble for stepping foot on such a godforsaken place, anyway? Haunted. Mosquito-ridden, often enough. And there were absolutely no reports of buried pirate treasure there, so why bother? Trespass where there are rumors of one or the other Lafitte brothers burying some gold or jewels.”

  “So...you’ve always lived here?”

  He shook his head. “New York City for college, the academy and Virginia. I just came back here recently—and we’re based in DC, or, technically, Northern Virginia.”

  “Ah. So. You’ll go back there.”

  “For a base, yes. I’ll always come back here,” he said. “You?”

  “I love everywhere I’ve lived. They’re all home.”

  They drove in silence again for a while. She was surprised that it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence.

  Eventually he glanced her way and asked, “How did your picture-taking for your website planning go this morning?”

  “Good. It wasn’t what I expected.”

  “What were you expecting? A den of total debauchery?”

  She laughed. “Well, Samara Stella does advertise as a dominatrix and I have friends who think that all of New Orleans is a den of debauchery.”

  He laughed softly. “I know. I have friends with kids who are afraid to visit. I sometimes need to remind friends that people procreate in New Orleans and there’s all kinds of activities for children. Oh, there’s a sign—we’re coming up to the turnoff.”

  They’d exited the highway before reaching the exits for Biloxi. They were on a two-lane road that had been paved, but not recently.

  “Where are we?”

  “Not far from Biloxi.”

  “I’ve been to Biloxi! It’s big, and busy.”

  “I said we’re not far from Biloxi.”

  “Far enough.”

  “Exactly,” he said softly.

  They turned off the poorly paved road onto a road that wasn’t paved at all. A road sign advertised the General Amos Grimsby Historic Site.

  The dirt road led to an arch with two stone towers on either side of an iron gate. However, there was no fencing or wall around the property, just the gate that closed off the property from cars.

  The gate opened as they approached it. Another vehicle was already there, a sturdy, no-nonsense truck.

  Two older men stood by the truck, talking.

  Fin eased up next to the truck and parked the car.

  “They’re waiting for us,” Avalon noted. “Or waiting for you. Are we late?”

  “Precisely on time,” Fin said.

  Avalon exited the car and joined Fin as he approached the two men. He introduced her to the younger of the two men. “Avalon Morgan, retired Detective Tom Drayton. And, sir, I believe you must be Robert Fryer?”

  “I am, sir.” He shook hands with Fin and Avalon and told them, “I read about that murder in New Orleans. Not much in the papers or on the news in the way of detail, but something about the reporting made me think that some things were being held back on purpose. I would have called Detective Tom here myself if he hadn’t called me. I tell you, I didn’t know the lass, but finding her...”

  His voice trailed as he choked up.

  “I understand,” Fin said.

  Robert Fryer looked at Avalon. “Are you a police officer, young lady?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I recognize you.”

  “Avalon is an actress,” Fin said.

  “Oh. Right—I know where I saw you. You’re dancing in one of those music-video things.”

  “Yes, for a group called Frankie and the Phish,” Avalon said. She’d been one of several dancers; she was surprised the man had seen the video, much less recognized her from it.

  She gave him a weak smile.

  He was frowning. “Are you an actress and a psychic then?”

  “No, no,” Fin said quickly, and added, “Avalon was with a friend when they came upon the body of the woman killed on Christy Island. We’re looking for similarities.”

  “Ah, of course,” Fryer said, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry,” he told Avalon.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “We believe, from what Tom has shown me, that we are looking for the same killer,” Fin said. “I know it’
s painful, but if you’d walk us through the day you found her?”

  Robert Fryer nodded. He pointed to one of the little gatehouse structures. “That’s my place. I came out, ready to open the house for the day. People don’t come but maybe a few a month, and still, we are on the register, and I’m always ready to give a tour. I started up the walk there and looked at the porch.” He paused to point again, indicating the cameras that looked out from the second-story balcony. “Those’re fake, just for show. We don’t get trouble out here. We probably should have an alarm system, but we had Waldorf until just before it all happened. Waldorf...well, he was a good-size shepherd and barked loud enough to be heard all the way to Biloxi if someone came at night. It was the strangest thing—the dog didn’t bark by day, but he knew no one was supposed to be around at night. He made it to almost the ripe old dog age of sixteen and passed a few months before this happened. Anyway, I was walking toward the porch and... I just stone-cold stopped. She looked beautiful, young lady in a lovely Civil War dress, just sitting there, hat dipped low over her face, her hands just resting all pretty on the wicker chair. At first, I thought someone was going to take pictures and was just waiting for me to wake up, but the gates were closed. That meant that no cars came in close to the house, and I turned and didn’t see one down the path. ‘Miss!’ I called out and got no answer. And I walked on up the path wondering then if she was passed out drunk, if some idiots had come in the night drinking down the road somewhere and forgotten she was with them. I walked up to her and touched her, and it was then that I realized she was dead. I almost fell off the porch. I didn’t touch her again, or anything else near her, and I called the police. Officers came out and Tom arrived right after they got here. He had the medical examiner right behind him. Even then, it was bizarre. She was just pale and beautiful—I didn’t know at first that she’d been stabbed through the heart, bled out and cleaned and then dressed up as someone might dress up a doll. Still get sick thinking about it—someone taking that poor girl’s life like that and then—then...”

  He stopped; Robert Fryer wasn’t going to say more.