Ghost Walk

by Laurel Pace

  When Dani pushed open the kitchen door, she was startled to find a costumed man seated at the marble-topped island, chatting with one of the maids. To judge from the man's frock coat and fake, mutton-chop whiskers, he was one of the players, but his heavy makeup, under the bright kitchen light, gave him a garish, almost sinister look. As Dani hurried around the kitchen, assembling warming trays and leftover supplies, she caught snatches of his conversation.

  "So they found the old boy stretched out upstairs?" The actor lowered his voice, but not enough to escape Dani's attention.

  The maid nodded. "In his study. Someone shot him." Her clenched hand flew up to the starched white bib of her apron. "Right through the heart."

  The actor whistled under his breath. "No kidding. What a way to go! Any idea who did him in?"

  Dani felt herself bristling at the actor's flippant tone. Distressed as she was from the whole dreadful ordeal, she had to bite her tongue to keep from ordering him out of the kitchen. She was relieved when a policeman wandered into the kitchen, putting an abrupt end to the gossip session.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but we'll have to ask you to leave everything here, just as it is, until the investigation is completed," the policeman informed her.

  Dani glanced around the kitchen and then nodded. Feeling heavy, as if she had been drugged, she gathered up her jacket and handbag and then followed the policeman out the back door. A row of police cars lined East Battery, forming a barrier of revolving red lights between the house and the park. The grounds had been staked off from the rest of the world with yellow plastic ribbon. As she skirted the ribbon and made her way to the van, the fragmented static of radio messages followed her on the damp night air.

  "Going home now?"

  Dani lurched and then pivoted around on the brick walk. Her heart was racing so furiously, she waited a few minutes before trusting herself to speak.

  "I didn't mean to frighten you," Ken McCabe apologized as he stepped into the yellow funnel of streetlight. "I guess they made you leave the catering stuff for now."

  Dani nodded, but as McCabe took another step closer to her, her heart rate stubbornly refused to subside. He had abandoned the starched white bartender's apron and black tie for a light wool turtleneck and jeans. If anything, the formfitting casual clothes delineated his lithe frame even more frankly. Although he must have been as exhausted as she, his strongly-defined features gave his face a look of constant awareness. There was not much that escaped Ken McCabe's blue-black eyes, Dani guessed. She could almost feel their path as they moved from her face down her body and back again, taking her in, reading her mood.

  "C'mon. I'll drive you home," he announced. The firm hand she remembered from an earlier encounter settled on her shoulder, albeit more lightly.

  "I have my van." Dani pointed toward the metallic blue Aerostar pulled up at the curb, but she made no effort to shake herself free from his hold. Although she knew little more about Ken McCabe than his name and his questionable bartending skills, she welcomed the warm, reliable feel of his touch.

  "If you give me the keys, I bet I can drive it." McCabe smiled, and for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Dani felt her own drawn lips quiver in response. Then his face sobered again and he tugged her gently toward the van. "You've been through one hell of an ordeal. I don't think anyone in your position would want to go home to an empty house alone. And I can just walk to my apartment from your condo. It isn't very far."

  "How do you know where my house is? Or that I live alone?" Dani ventured, handing him the keys.

  McCabe fiddled with the lock and then held the passenger door open for her. "Mr. Whyte told me," he said simply, and then hurried around to the driver's side.

  As she adjusted the shoulder harness, Dani wondered what else Richardson might have told McCabe about her. Right now, however, fatigue took priority over curiosity. Taking a deliberately deep breath, she forced herself to settle back against the seat, trying to ease some of the stiffness from her neck. From the corner of her eye, she watched McCabe maneuver the van through the narrow streets and then turn onto the waterfront drive.

  "I'm sorry you ended up in the middle of this," Ken said after they had ridden for several minutes in silence. The keen blue eyes did not stray from the curving thoroughfare, but he lean jaw twitched slightly, suggesting that his own emotions had not gone unscathed. "You and Richardson were pretty close, weren't you?"

  Dani stared at the windshield, watching a frown furrow her own shady reflection. "It's hard to describe our friendship. He and my dad were pals. After Dad's death, Richardson sort of took it upon himself to watch over Mother and me. He had a business in Brazil and spent most of his time down there, so we never actually saw him much. In fact, I suppose I could count the times in my life when I've talked with him personally. But he always remembered us, on holidays, when something important happened, like graduation. I'll always be grateful to him for flying back to South Carolina for Mother's funeral." Dani broke off abruptly.

  She felt Ken's hand pat her knee, tentatively, as if the experience of showing tenderness were a new one for him. Then he quickly recovered his tight grip on the wheel. "Where should I park?" he asked, his voice once more crisp and matter-of-fact.

  Dani directed Ken into the single-lane drive bordered by thick, dormant azalea bushes. Flipping down the visor, she pressed the button on the remote control for the automatic garage-door opener. As soon as he had turned off the engine, she unsnapped the shoulder harness.

  "I appreciate your driving me home, but you really don't have to..." He was already out of the van and on his way to the basement door. Ken McCabe was obviously not going to be satisfied with anything less than personally escorting her into her home.

  Inside the hall, he flicked on the light and led the way upstairs. Then he turned, took her jacket and draped it on the coat rack. "You need to get rid of this thing, too," he said quietly. Following his gaze, Dani glanced down at the bloodstained apron she still wore. A shudder quavered through her.

  "Try not to think about it," Ken admonished her in a voice as soft as the diffused overhead light. With a touch surprisingly delicate for a man of his strength, he turned her around by the shoulders and loosened the apron strings. She stood still, unresisting, as he slipped the apron over her head and then wadded it into a tight bundle.

  Dani had lived alone ever since she had graduated from college, and she was accustomed to doing things for herself. Even as a child, she had developed a strong independent streak, had learned early to be a person others could depend on. The experience of having someone minister to her—especially a man as magnetically attractive as Ken McCabe—was a novel experience, and one that made her feel a little awkward.

  If Ken noticed any self-consciousness on her part, he did not show it. He seemed at ease with his surroundings when he guided her to the couch, almost as if he were as familiar with the neat, simply furnished condo as she. Crisp October moonlight flooded through the large windows. From her seat, Dani watched him adjust the drapes without bothering to turn on a lamp.

  "Have you got any tranquilizers?" Ken asked.

  Shaking her head, Dani looked up at him, suddenly aware of his height, his tangible, masculine warmth as he leaned over the back of the couch. "I've never taken anything stronger than aspirin."

  "Well, you need something stronger tonight. Surely you have something to drink."

  "There's some Courvoisier cognac in the kitchen."

  Dani pointed toward the bifold door, but Ken was already on his way. Apparently, his uncanny ability to familiarize himself with a new environment extended to her wellstocked kitchen cabinets, for within minutes, he returned with a generously filled glass.

  "This'll help you relax." His big hands felt warm as they curved over hers, cupping them around the glass.

  Dani took a sip of the fragrant brandy and swallowed slowly. "You seem to know what to do in a crisis." Her eyes followed Ken's well-proportioned form as it moved among
the shadows.

  He hesitated, bent over the overstuffed chair facing the windows. "Bartenders see everything. You learn to think on your feet and keep a cool head." When he turned, she noticed he was carrying her hand-crocheted afghan.

  "I appreciate your speaking up when that detective put me on the spot."

  Ken stooped and slid an arm under Dani's legs. Before she could protest, he lifted her feet onto the sofa. Then he shook out the afghan and gently tucked it over her. "Those guys give everyone a hard time. I wouldn't worry too much about what Butler thinks of you."

  Dani stiffened, in part at the unexpected sensations Ken's touch had awakened, in part at his ambiguous comment. "You can't mean that he considers me a suspect? Richardson Whyte was my friend! If you could only have seen the look on his face when he gave me that pin! I feel certain he was trying to tell me something with the pin because he trusted me."

  Ken straightened himself slowly, taking care to smooth a wrinkle from the afghan's border. "I believe you, Dani." It was the first time he had called her by name. In the shadowy darkness, it sounded oddly intimate. "Don't think about any of this right now. Just try to get some sleep." His hand covered hers again, but only for a moment. Then he took the glass and placed it on the cocktail table. "I'll leave my number by the phone in the kitchen. You can call me if you need anything. Okay?"

  That she would call someone who was practically a rank stranger would have seemed ridiculous under ordinary circumstances. But tonight had been anything but ordinary. Not lifting her head from the couch cushion, Dani nodded. "Okay."

  Ken lingered for a moment, looking down at her, a puzzling expression hovering on his face. She was grateful for the darkness, glad for the privacy it afforded her own suddenly warm face. When he turned toward the kitchen, she closed her eyes, letting her ears follow his movements. She heard the hall lightswitch's faint snap, followed by Ken's muted footsteps on the carpeted stairs. When the door closed, she knew he was gone.

  But as Dani drifted off into a fitful sleep, her mind was filled with a violent montage of images: scenes from the party intercut with Richardson's horror-struck face; Detective Butler's drawling voice bombarding her with accusations; Ken McCabe's hands pulling her back from a gaping abyss; and above it all, the tiny pin, a phantom ship drifting through her dream, piloted by ghosts.

  "DID YOU GET ANY SLEEP last night?" The dark circles under Derek Cannaday's eyes suggested that he had not.

  Ken frowned as he closed the door to Cannaday's office behind him. "Not much. When I got back to my place, I was too keyed up to even think about sleep. I was an idiot to have used that bartender cover! If I'd been more mobile, I could have kept better tabs on Whyte."

  Derek rounded his desk to tap Ken lightly on the shoulder. "Don't start blaming yourself. The bartender thing was Richardson's idea, remember? And we both did all we could to keep an eye on him. You've been in the security business long enough to know that the best plans sometimes fail."

  "A man is dead because this one didn't work," Ken said grimly. Derek fixed him with bloodshot eyes. "A man who was my good friend, Ken. Believe me, I know what you're feeling. Richardson Whyte was your client, but he was my friend and business partner for almost thirty years."

  Ken shook his head apologetically. "I'm sorry, Derek. It's just that when I took this assignment, I fully expected to blow the whistle on whoever was trying to blackmail Richardson Whyte. Now, it looks as if the blackmailer has carried out his threat, and we haven't a clue as to who he might be."

  Derek heaved a sigh laden with fatigue. "I had to give Butler the blackmail note, but I kept a copy for us." He slid open one of the desk drawers, pulled out a photocopy and handed it to Ken.

  Ken frowned over the copy. It looked so crude, so childish, the clumsy letters cut from magazine ads and pasted to a single sheet of lined notebook paper. When his boss in Washington had told him that Derek Cannaday, an old client from Brazil, had a friend in Charleston who was being blackmailed, Ken had fully expected a sophisticated extortion plot. The first time he had seen the note Richardson had received, it had reminded him of a B-film gimmick, the sort of hoax that even a gullible movie audience wouldn't swallow.

  I want $500,000 in unmarked bills. Put the money in a Piggly-Wiggly shopping bag and leave it under the second pew on the right in St. Michael's Cathedral at 10:00 a.m. on October 16. You are a rich man and I know you have the money. Do not be foolish. What is money compared to your life? I mean business.

  He had almost laughed at the note's melodramatic tenor, but not now. On his and Derek Cannaday's advice, Richardson Whyte had not paid, and now he was dead.

  "What do the police make of it?" Ken handed the photocopy back to Derek.

  "They wanted to know everything about everyone present at the party. Butler kept asking me about greedy relatives and resentful servants. He was especially interested in that caterer who discovered Richardson."

  Ken's throat tightened involuntarily. "Dani Blake? Surely they don't suspect her!" His voice rose, and he hastily dampened his outraged tone. He needed to maintain credibility with Derek Cannaday, something that a too-vigorous defense of a beautiful woman might damage at this point. "I mean, anyone could see that she was really torn up over what had happened. Richardson was an old friend of her family's."

  "As far as the police are concerned, Richardson didn't invite any known enemies into his home. Miss Blake was the last person to see Richardson alive. Her fingerprints were all over his office. I'll agree with you that she seems an unlikely candidate, but..." Derek shrugged. "Where money is concerned, people will do almost anything."

  Ken swallowed hard, choking down the same angry reaction he had felt when the detective had badgered Dani Blake the previous evening. "So Butler thinks this is going to be a sordid wolf-in-sheep's-clothing case?"

  A jaded smile, devoid of amusement, drifted across Derek's lips. "Whatever Butler really thinks, you can be sure he's not going to share it with us."

  "What did you tell him about our operation anyway?"

  "Enough to keep us clear of any 'withholding evidence' charges." Derek retreated behind his desk and dejectedly tossed the photocopy back into the drawer. "Basically, Butler got the whole story. Associated Security used to provide bodyguards for my company in Brazil. When Richardson received the blackmail note, I contacted the Associated Security office in Washington, and they put you on the case. I hope you were honest with Butler."

  The headache that Ken had been battling all night released a sudden freshet of pain through his skull. "When he questioned me last night, I gave him the basic name-rank-and-serial-number business, told him I was working for Richardson, but I hated blowing my cover. You never know whose hands those police reports pass through."

  "Your cover doesn't matter anymore. The case is now officially in the hands of the police."

  Ken kneaded the back of his neck with one hand. "Are you comfortable with that arrangement?"

  Derek looked surprised. "Why do you ask?"

  "Because I'm not." Planting both hands on Derek's desk, Ken leaned toward him. "Derek, I want to keep this operation open."

  Shaking his head, Cannaday stared emptily at the leather desk blotter. "There is no operation now. Richardson is dead."

  Ken jabbed his fist against the desk's polished surface. "Precisely why I want to continue my investigation. If you don't want to keep me on the job, that's fine. I can't remember the last time I've taken a vacation—the company must owe me months, and I'll do this on my own time. But I'd like your cooperation."

  Derek slowly looked up at Ken. "It's that important to you?"

  Ken nodded and then drew a deep breath. "I've never had this happen to me before, have someone I was supposed to protect murdered right under my nose. I can't bring Richardson Whyte back, but maybe I can find his murderer. I owe him that much at least."

  "You sound as if you're taking this personally, Ken." Derek regarded him with an appraising eye, his voice suddenly cool. "I can u
nderstand your motivation. You're a professional—you've lost a hand, and you want to set the record straight."

  Ken straightened himself. If Derek Cannaday thought him an unfeeling automaton driven only by the desire to checkmate his murderous opponent, so be it. "Will you work with me?"

  "I'm in this with you, Ken," Derek said after a long second. "But I'm going to warn you. Keep a clear head. Don't let your need for revenge get in the way." His eyes drifted to the closed desk drawer. When they settled on Ken again, their unblinking focus was startling. "This murderer is a lot smarter than that note led us to believe. Be careful."

  Chapter Three

  The chapel was filled to capacity. As Dani followed the usher to one of the few available seats, she recognized a number of the solemn faces in the crowd. That many of Richardson's party guests were now his mourners seemed a cruel irony.

  At the front of the chapel, the Whyte family was clustered to the left of the bier. Leaning to one side, Dani could see the dark outlines of two heavy, old-fashioned veils, rising just above the backs of the maroon velvet chairs. That would be Sapphira and Adele Whyte, no doubt, dressed in the black crepe of a bygone era. Dani knew from her mother that the two spinsters had raised Richardson and his sister after the children's parents were killed in a plane crash. The Whyte sisters were legendary in Charleston not only for their considerable wealth, but also for their eccentricity, and Dani's mother had often speculated on the trials young Richardson and his sister must have endured in their aunts' Meeting Street mansion.

  Next to Sapphira and Adele was seated a woman who so strongly resembled Rebecca Pope, she could only be her mother. When Dani spotted Rebecca leaning on the arm of her fiance, she rose. Dropping her gloves onto her seat to reserve it, she began her way down the aisle to pay her respects.

  As Dani joined the line of people offering their condolences, she glanced over her shoulder and caught sight of a pudgy pink face. Detective Butler had stationed himself near the chapel door and was surveying the assembly with undisguised interest. When the beadlike eyes met hers across the distance, Dani's irritation flared. She stared at him, unflinching, for a long second before looking away. The man seemed to thrive on trying to intimidate people, just as he had relished badgering her during his interrogation. Butler had been more interested in tripping up her testimony than in rooting out worthwhile clues. Every time she thought about the high-handed way he had dismissed her feelings about the pin, she felt a fresh wave of resentment. And then he had had the gall to confiscate the pin!