Heather Graham Krewe of Hunters Series, Volume 4

by Heather Graham

  “Hey!” Grace had parked near her. “We going in or what?”

  “Yep. If we can get in. Look how busy it is! And it’s only a little after nine. Early for the bar to be hopping like this.”

  “Go figure!” Grace said. “Gruesome murder draws a crowd!”

  “Hey, people love haunted houses,” Mo reminded her. “You should know that.”

  “Yeah,” Grace admitted. “True enough.”

  “I like old mysteries,” Mo said thoughtfully. “I don’t like to think about the families left behind when something terrible happens, though. If it’s far in the past, everyone’s at rest and there’s no one still alive to be hurt by this kind of fascination with blood and guts.”

  “Yes, well...heads showing up in headless horseman territory...that is, I don’t know, scary, so we need to band together.”

  While the streets had been quiet, it seemed that everyone in the village of Sleepy Hollow as well as Tarrytown and Irving had descended on the Headless Horseman Hideaway Restaurant and Bar.

  “Nice! I love it. All these people! Tonight it feels good,” Grace said.

  Mo looked back at the Old Dutch Church. White wraiths seemed to slip between the graves and mausoleums up on the hill. It was just the moon playing tricks, she knew. Because tonight an autumn mist was actually forming.

  When they walked in, the crowd at the bar was three-deep; all the tables were taken. But Tommy, working behind the bar, saw them arrive.

  “I saved a table for you!” he called to them.

  Hurrying out, he caught hold of Mo’s arm and smiled over at Grace. He was beaming. “I should feel bad, right? I do feel bad. I feel terrible. But...I didn’t know Richard Highsmith. And the crowds at Halloween and during the fall and at Christmas keep us going through the rest of the year.”

  “It’s okay, Tommy,” Mo said. She was glad they’d come, and he was obviously pleased that she and Grace were there.

  As they moved through the crowd, people kept turning to look at Rollo. Some patted him; some asked first. Luckily, Rollo would never hurt anyone. Mo caught bits and pieces of conversation as they walked. Most people were talking about what had happened. Speculation ran high as to whether it was a political assassination or a maniac on the loose.

  “But then, why the murdered woman?” someone asked. “Was she killed just for effect? Or maybe she walked in on the first murder!”

  “Your table’s back here,” Tommy said, escorting them through the restaurant, apparently oblivious to the stream of words around them.

  “Hey, don’t worry about us. Take care of your customers,” Mo said.

  “No, I’m good. You’re the first friends who promised to show up and actually have!” Tommy said happily. He led them to a booth near the back, one Mo particularly loved because it was private.

  The whole restaurant had been designed to resemble a wooden cottage deep in the woods. The walls were decorated with framed pages from Washington Irving’s work and various prints of the illustrations done for his stories throughout the years. Fabricated trees and vines separated booths and areas of the bar, and the overall impression was decidedly charming. But Tommy had also seen to it that from every section of the bar you could see one of the large-screen TVs he had high on the walls.

  The menu was attuned to the story, as well. Brom Bones was a rib dish. Ye Olde Dutch Churchyard was a house specialty—a stew with carrots, potatoes, onions and roast beef so tender it melted in the mouth.

  “I’m having the Katrina Van Tassel!” Grace announced. She was ordering the chicken potpie, each one baked with a picture of the lovely fictional lass impressed into the crust.

  “I’ll put your order in myself,” Tommy told them. “Mo?”

  “Uh, the same. Great.”

  “And I’ll have a chardonnay,” Grace said. “What about you, Mo?”

  “Going to stick with water tonight,” she replied.

  “Suit yourself. I’d be downing a bottle of Jack if I dared!” Tommy said with a laugh.

  Grace’s eyes were on one of the television screens. She looked over at Mo. “I can hardly hear, but we’re major national news,” she said.

  “Highsmith might have been mayor, then governor or senator—and possibly a presidential candidate. Not to mention the state of the bodies when they were found,” Mo said. “It’s big news, yes.”

  Mo stared at the closest screen as Rollo settled beneath the table at her feet.

  She could see two of the screens. On the second one she saw quick images of Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown. The numerous headless horsemen set up for the Halloween season were spotlighted. Fortunately, no one had caught the murder scene on a cell phone. Although she couldn’t hear well, she was pretty sure a reporter was saying that nothing had shown up on YouTube, and that his station would never sensationalize such a tragic situation.

  Abby Cole, a tall, attractive redhead and Tommy’s lead bartender, came sweeping by their table with their drinks. Both Mo and Grace greeted her warmly.

  “You doing okay?” Mo asked her.

  “I’m going to make a fortune—if I survive to spend it,” Abby said. “We have two new girls on the floor. That’s why I ran over with your drinks. You should have food in a few minutes. If you get bored, you can always hop behind the bar!” This was something Mo had done on a few occasions, as a favor to Tommy—her part-time college job as a bartender coming in handy.

  In a whirl Abby was gone. Five minutes later, a smiling young girl hurried over with their food. “One Cemetery Salad and one Brom Bones!” She set the plates down, then dashed off.

  Mo and Grace looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “The salad or the ribs?” Mo asked Grace.

  “Ah, the ribs. Okay?”

  “Absolutely. I think when we’re finished, I may go help at the bar. Can you watch Rollo?”

  “You bet. And I’ll watch for anything good-looking and unattached that walks in. Okay, forget good-looking. I’ll keep an eye out for semi-reputable and bathed.”

  Mo smiled at that and ate the salad, which was really very good. It had strips of tuna, fruit, nuts and all kinds of great flavors. It wasn’t, however, a chicken potpie.

  “Okay, I’m heading to the bar,” Mo said.

  “Is it all right if I give Rollo a piece of meat?” Grace asked.

  “No, he has his own treats.”

  Grace just smiled at her; she was already passing Rollo a tidbit of her food.

  Mo slipped behind the bar, and Abby cast her a look of gratitude. They weren’t alone. Josh Whitby was there, too, but the place was so busy, she figured she could be helpful by making drinks at the service station for the floor servers.

  She was creating a house specialty—a Head of the Horseman, a strange concoction of beer, liquor and a touch of soda—when she saw that Grace wasn’t alone.

  Mo almost dropped the glass.

  The tall, dark and handsome FBI agent was at the table with her. He was still wearing his suit—but his tie was gone and his top shirt buttons were loosened. He was patting Rollo and smiling at something Grace was saying.

  “Mo?”

  She caught herself just in time to keep from spilling the specialty brew and turned to Abby.

  “Thanks, Mo. You were a lifesaver tonight. It’s wound down now. I’ll cut you in when I divvy up—”

  “Abby, don’t be ridiculous. I don’t want anyone’s tips.” Mo shook her head, distracted.

  “Grace got herself a hot one, huh?” Abby said. “Nice! But right now, she shouldn’t be going home with strange men. I don’t think I’ve seen him before.”

  “He’s FBI,” Mo told her. “I met him this morning.”

  “Oh. Ohhh! Cool. I imagine an FBI man would be safe—and good to have around.”

 
“Yeah, one would imagine.”

  “Seems Rollo likes him, so he must be okay.”

  Rollo did choose his people, and Rollo liked the agent. He was greeting him with tail thumps and licks that should have gone to a long-lost relative.

  Mo returned to the table, watching the man. She was disturbed to realize that she felt as if she needed to be there. She found the man fascinating. She’d met him under the most disturbing circumstances possible, and yet...

  She’d simply stared at him when they’d met. When she’d pitched right into him. He had the kind of physique that made a suit look good. He wasn’t overly muscular, yet he was obviously strong and solidly built. Then there were his eyes. Blue. Intensely blue. In a ruggedly handsome face.

  Great. In the middle of a dreadful situation, she was falling into...a crush? Infatuation, maybe. Or maybe he’d mesmerized her. But then...

  She hadn’t dated in a long time. Not quite true—she’d had one dinner with a friend of a friend. Nothing had sparked. She’d claimed a headache while he was droning on about his brilliance at the stock market. The guy had driven her home, and thanks to Rollo she’d been able to escape inside before the good-night kiss. Rollo had barked on cue; he was very good at getting rid of anyone she didn’t want to ask in.

  Before that, there’d been Kyle.

  She still went to see him sometimes when he and his group were playing in Albany. They were friends—they just weren’t meant to be the great loves in each other’s lives.

  “Ah, here she is!” Grace said, as Mo reached the table.

  Agent Aidan Mahoney stood and smiled at her.

  “Hello.” She smiled back.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt. I saw the dog and I guess he just drew me over.”

  “I told him he wasn’t interrupting,” Grace said, looking a little starry-eyed.

  “Not at all,” Mo agreed politely.

  “Then, please, sit,” Agent Mahoney insisted. “Let me get out of your way. I should—”

  “Don’t leave!” Grace broke in.

  “I’m just surprised to see you. How did you end up here tonight?” Mo asked him. “Have you learned anything? Did you get the guy? Sorry, I’m bombarding you with questions.”

  “I’m here for a few reasons. This is one of the few places in the area where you can still get food at—” he glanced at his watch “—almost eleven. It’s also where we found Richard’s head and I thought I should get the lay of the land and figure out how and when someone might have come here to, uh, place the head on the effigy.” He spoke easily and his manner was relaxed. He was a man who exuded confidence. Why wouldn’t he be? Yet, oddly, she recognized a tension in him. Maybe that made him even more attractive; he seemed aware of everything around him, even as he paid attention to the two of them. She thought that if danger did arrive, he’d be up and prepared to confront it in a flash.

  “So, nothing new?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “What we do is very methodical. Very routine. Check and recheck stories and find the discrepancies, follow every little thing.”

  “He was telling me how good you and Rollo are,” Grace said, sipping a cup of coffee now. “I told him you two are like a wonder team, finding people all the time. Luckily, most of them alive. She used to find lots of dead people in the city—that’s why she moved here. Fortunately, our murder rate is extremely low. We like to be spooky, not lethal.”

  “This crime is unusual,” Aidan Mahoney said. But he was staring at Mo. And she suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if he’d seen something in her. Something she kept hidden. Secret.

  Did he somehow sense her ability to see the dead? How could he? How could he even suspect such a thing?

  And if he had guessed, he didn’t like it. He seemed to wince and turned away from her.

  Mo was surprised. She almost felt as if he’d slapped her. Up until now, he’d been courteous, and he and Rollo still seemed to be on extremely friendly terms.

  His food arrived. Apparently, he’d ordered the chicken potpie and actually gotten it.

  The noise level in the place had gone down—to a dull roar, as Tommy said when he came by their table. He shook Mahoney’s hand and thanked him for allowing the bar to open.

  “I wish I could take credit,” the agent said. “That call was made by the local police.”

  “I haven’t heard yet if they’re opening any of the attractions tomorrow,” Grace said.

  “The sheriff’s office will be handling that decision,” Mahoney said. “This is like having a suspect list of thousands. And, of course, it’s a delicate balance. You have two people who’ve been decapitated. And you’re in an area where tourism thrives because of a great American author’s tale about a headless man. I’m glad I’m not making the decisions.”

  “I thought the FBI always took over when they came in,” Tommy said.

  “We come in to work together, to pool resources. When you have an area that seldom deals with murder, it’s good to bring in the teams that are most experienced.” Mahoney stood up, evidently preparing to leave.

  “I’ll go settle up at the bar,” he said.

  “The house will be happy to comp your meal,” Tommy told him.

  “Thank you, but I can’t accept. Besides, it’s slowed down, so I can ask Abby a few questions.” Mahoney turned to Grace. “Ms. Van Mullen, a pleasure.” He turned to look at Mo again. She thought he was going to speak, but he just nodded. He still had that strange look about him. As if he was afraid to get too close.

  “Good night,” Mo said.

  Rollo woofed.

  Mahoney paused to pet the dog. There was a different expression on his face; he obviously liked Rollo.

  Then he was gone, a tall, solid figure heading toward the bar—and drawing every eye in the place, male and female.

  “Whoa!” Grace let out a long breath. For a moment, the three of them watched as he spoke with Abby. Abby seemed enchanted as she stared at him, answering questions when he prompted her—and just staring when he didn’t.

  Eventually, he left.

  “Wish he would have stayed around awhile longer,” Tommy said. “A guy like that makes you feel safe.”

  “You don’t feel safe?” Mo asked him.

  “Mo, there was a head. In my parking lot. So, no, I don’t. And how can you not want to feel safe? You and Rollo found the head—and then the body. Bodies. And another head!”

  She swallowed uncomfortably. “I have Rollo,” she said.

  “Wish I did,” Grace murmured.

  “Rollo and I will follow you home.”

  “But then you have to go home alone,” Grace said. “Rollo isn’t a person.”

  Mo smiled. “He’s better than a person. He has the best instincts and nose in the world. If anyone threatens me in any way—or if there’s something that even hints at danger—Rollo lets me know.”

  “I wish he had a brother!” Grace said, and laughed. “That’s what I’d say if you had a hot guy. In fact, I wonder if your hot FBI guy has a brother.”

  “He’s definitely not my FBI guy,” Mo said.

  Grace seemed surprised by her response. “He spoke very highly of you when he came to the table. And Rollo knew him right away. I kind of had the impression you two had bonded.”

  “I don’t think so,” Mo said. Both Tommy and Grace gaped at her. She made a point of yawning. “I’ve got to call it a night. Ready?” she asked Grace. “Tommy, may we have the check?”

  “Uh, no. You rescued Abby at the bar. I should have been paying you. And, Grace, if you can hang around a little longer, I’ll follow you home, since your house is just down the street from mine,” Tommy said. “That way, Mo, you and Rollo can head straight home.”

  “Okay.” She looked at Grace uncertainly. “Are you sure?
”

  “I’m not tired yet. I’m wired. Remember, I’ve been working nights,” Grace said.

  Mo wished them both good-night and picked up Rollo’s leash. She wondered if Grace was staying behind in hopes that the FBI man would return.

  But he’d already left the bar.

  Mo went out to the parking lot and started across the pavement to the street. The Old Dutch Church sat high on its little hill in the moonlight and shadows seemed to dance around the gravestones.

  Rollo suddenly stopped and sniffed the air. He turned, wagging his tail.

  Mo felt unease creeping along her spine.

  She didn’t know what she expected to see. Irving’s horseman, thundering silently toward her on a giant black steed?

  No. Rollo would be barking, she was sure of that!

  It wasn’t the horseman.

  It was Aidan Mahoney. He was leaning against one of the pillars by the entry, watching her.

  Waiting? Watching?

  Rollo barked and, before she was prepared, hopped into a running start to reach the man. He nearly pulled her off her feet.

  “Rollo!” she said in dismay.

  But he’d already hurried over to his new friend. Mahoney hunched down to pat the dog as Rollo rushed toward him.

  She followed. Rollo rarely disobeyed but she didn’t want to reprimand him. Not in front of Mahoney.

  Mahoney stood up. “Pretty impressive dog,” he said.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “How long have you had him?”

  “He’s six. I’ve had him since he was a puppy.”

  He nodded, looking down at the dog then back at her. “And how long have you been out there searching for corpses?”

  “I don’t usually search for corpses. I search for the living.”

  “You’re not originally from here. Your friend said so.”

  She shrugged. “I’m from the city. But I came here for years with my parents. Every year.”

  “Why did you leave New York?” he asked. “What Grace told me—is that right?” These weren’t casual questions. It was as if he was daring her to say something.