Krewe of Hunters, Volume 2: The Unseen ; The Unholy ; The Unspoken ; The Uninvited

by Heather Graham

  It was never that easy. But tonight wasn’t the time to tell Eddie that the Krewe worked like any other law enforcement agency, searching out clues, forensics and facts.

  “Eddie, you need rest,” Sean said. “I know it’s hard, but try to get some sleep.”

  “Yes. Yes, thank you,” Eddie murmured. “Oh, hey! It’s late. How about dinner? Would you like me to cook something?”

  Normally, Sean would’ve said yes. Cooking would have taken Eddie’s mind off his situation. But he still had things to do, things he wanted done that night.

  “We can stop at an In-N-Out Burger, if that works for you, Madison?”

  “Nothing like a burger,” she said.

  They moved to the door.

  “Thank you so much for coming.” Helena nodded her head regally.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Sean said.

  Madison waved to Pierce, who was hovering behind the group. He solemnly raised a hand in farewell.

  As they went out to the front, Eddie followed them, pointing to a new Prius in the driveway. “I’ll hit the key guard on the gate,” he said.

  “And get in, get in!” Helena called. “Eddie, that car over there—it’s paparazzi.”

  “So let them take a picture of a grieving father,” Eddie said. “I don’t give a damn.”

  Eddie really didn’t give a damn.

  Sean observed rather cynically that Helena joined him, and that she posed, her face arranged in a mask of deep concern, her hips jutting out and her breasts high, hands draped with loving tenderness over the arm of her famous husband.

  5

  They walked to the car, with Sean pausing to open the passenger-side door for Madison. She slid in silently. He came around to join her, and waved as Eddie opened the gate. Then he eased the car out into the cul-de-sac.

  “I’m sorry you have to drop me,” Madison said. “Do you need some directions? Oh—there is an In-N-Out Burger on the way.”

  “I was with Eddie today when we picked you up, remember?” He laughed. “And I know I can find a burger place.”

  “Yes, of course, but you don’t live here anymore. I wasn’t sure you’d remember how to get around.”

  “I lived here long enough,” he told her. “Although it’s a little much to get used to again, after living in San Antonio. But I do still know my way around. I’m about to prove it—In-N-Out Burger ahead on the left. Shall we get something to go, or eat in?”

  “I’m starving, so eat in, if you don’t mind,” she said.

  They ordered and brought their food to a table. For a moment, they ate in silence; he was hungry, too. He found himself liking the fact that his companion ate with enthusiasm. She didn’t play with her food or pretend she didn’t intend to down her entire burger and fries, but she was fastidiously neat as she did so. It seemed they’d tacitly agreed not to speak about the case during dinner. Instead, they casually discussed California weather and the differences between Texas and California. She thought that Texas created a breed all its own; he thought that was equally true of California, whether people were born there or became Californians by choice.

  Twenty minutes later, they were done and back in the car.

  “I’m not sure I’m much help to you,” she said as they entered freeway traffic. “I felt you knew the studio as well as I did.”

  “Not really. So much depends on the latest project. And that’s especially important with this case.”

  “How so?”

  “Whoever killed that girl knows the studio, beyond a doubt. Knows everything about it—as it is right now.”

  She shook her head. “There are dozens of people who work there—probably forty full-time staff, and another twenty brought in on special projects, some of whom end up staying. And there are the different actors and actresses, set designers, directors, cinematographers, prop masters and so on who come in.”

  “No, the killer is not going to be a producer who stopped by to check on props or the costumer who drops in once. Whoever did this knows the studio. Backward and forward.” He frowned. “This particular movie may well be a factor, too. Unless the connection—between The Unholy and the Sam Stone film—was intended to throw us off track.”

  “So, why didn’t you start with the studio workers?” she asked.

  “Everyone who’s worked at the studio in any capacity is being questioned, and alibis will be examined. I’m sure that Knox already has a list, and if there were any red flags, he would’ve told me. When my team gets here, we can divide and conquer. But I have a feeling it’s not going to be a regular employee or film person, unless it’s someone really close to Eddie. Whoever did this not only knows the studio, as I said—they know Eddie Archer. And Alistair…”

  “Someone like a stepmother? Because that little visit was…interesting,” Madison said. “I’m sorry, I guess interesting is the wrong description. Were we making a courtesy call, or were we trying to make sure she’s supporting Eddie?”

  He flashed a smile. “Interesting was exactly the right word. And we were doing both of those things. In this kind of situation, you do try to draw out everyone who’s close to the victims—and I’m considering Eddie and Alistair victims, too.”

  She looked down at her phone and then at him as he continued. “I haven’t been here in a while,” he said, “and it’s been several years since I worked for Eddie. I’ve met Helena before, but I can’t say I really know her. Still, they haven’t been married that long.”

  She looked away from him then, and Sean thought she’d pursed her lips, trying to keep certain opinions to herself.

  Then, apparently, she couldn’t. “But it doesn’t sound as if they’re sharing a room.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She grinned, lifting her phone. “Just got a text from Pierce. I quote, ‘Not trying to cause trouble, but FYI Helena and Eddie in different rooms. Eddie wouldn’t know if she was there or not.’”

  “Good old Pierce! Now, that doesn’t necessarily mean the marriage is rotten—some people snore, or toss and turn, and if you’re rich enough and have enough rooms, you can afford to sleep separately if you choose. But most people married a little more than a year are still enamored of being married and happy to sleep together regardless of the snoring, tossing, morning breath—whatever.”

  “I get the feeling that Helena likes her personal world to be ruled by her own desires,” Madison said.

  “Yes, and I’ll bet she has Eddie believing that they’re happiest having their own private domains. I think Eddie’s still committed to his marriage. And who am I to judge? Maybe they do love each other.”

  “She won’t treat us the way she’d like to in front of him, that’s for sure. Well, me especially. I’m definitely servant status. But she’s smart enough not to let Eddie know that,” Madison said.

  “Exactly.” Sean chuckled. “Ah, come on, spit it out. You don’t like her.”

  “And you do?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I never had much to do with her,” Madison explained. “I was at the wedding, and all she did was sweep by the tables as a beautiful bride on Eddie’s arm. They filmed the wedding and reception, so she was all smiles. She comes through the studio now and then, and never acknowledges any of us. I didn’t think anything of it—I was always working. Today is probably the most I’ve ever spoken with her,” Madison said. She was quiet for a minute. “No, I can’t say I like Helena.”

  “Good instincts,” he said.

  “Eddie loves her. He must love her, right? He married her.”

  “I imagine.”

  “She doesn’t love Alistair. It’s funny, I always thought she at least liked him and cared about him, but today I realized that her affection for Alistair is really just a show for Eddie.”

  “I agree, because I think Helena loves Helena too much to be interested in someone else’s child. But to be fair, she’s hearing what everyone’s heard so far—that Alistair was the only person w
ith a young woman when she was brutally murdered,” Sean said.

  Sean turned down her street, noting that Madison remained pensive. When he pulled into her driveway, she took a deep breath. “Mrs. Archer is superficial, she’s a caricature and she gives dozens of really great actresses a bad name. She’s indifferent to Alistair at best, and I’m not convinced she loves Eddie for anything other than what she figures he can do for her. But I don’t believe she murdered anyone.”

  “Oh?”

  “As far as I can tell, she’s not bright enough to have done it, and no person with the ability to pull off that kind of stunt would have her as a conspirator.”

  He had to grin at that.

  “And,” Madison continued, “why would she kill a budding actress who’d never be up for the same roles, not to mention the fact that Jenny was just breaking in, trying for bit parts?”

  “I don’t think it mattered that it was Jenny. I think the killer knew Alistair liked to go and watch movies alone on Sunday nights. And that Jenny planned to slip in and try to get Alistair to take her into the studio to learn what she could about The Unholy. That’s what I’m saying. It’s someone close to Eddie, someone who wants to hurt him.”

  “Alistair’s the one being accused.”

  “Alistair being accused is important. But Eddie’s had more time to make enemies.”

  “Everyone loves Eddie.”

  “Obviously, someone does not,” he said. He saw her lips tighten and discovered that he liked her more and more. She was a loyal friend—and, of course, he shared her admiration for and love of Eddie Archer.

  She stepped out of the car and peered at him through the window. “Thanks for the ride, Agent.” She gave him a smile. “And the burger.”

  “Thank you for the escort,” he told her.

  He watched her as she walked up the pathway to her house and he found himself noting the way that she moved—the lift of her head and the sway of dark hair down her back. She turned and waved. He raised a hand in return. He liked her, he recognized again.

  She was the real deal.

  Sometimes that was hard to find in Hollywood—or anywhere.

  She paused at the door, saw that he was still there and returned to the car, coming around to the driver’s side. He lowered the window.

  “Just curious—but are you this honest with everyone? I mean, should I be quiet about what you’ve told me?” she asked him worriedly.

  “In my book, practically everyone is a suspect, Madison,” he said. “But Eddie trusts you, and wants you to be my right hand. So, I may say things that really are just between us—or you, me and the team.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Thanks. I guess I’m not a suspect, then.”

  “Where were you last night?” he asked her.

  She laughed. “Here. Except that I’m not so sure I do have an alibi. I was with a friend at a coffee shop until about five, and that I can prove.”

  “You’re not a suspect.”

  “Oh?”

  “Gut instinct. It’s never failed me yet,” he said.

  “Glad to hear it, Agent. Well, good night.”

  “Good night.”

  “You’re not driving away,” she said, eyebrows raised.

  “I will when you’re inside.”

  “I’m fine here—”

  “It’s a Texas thing,” he told her, grinning.

  “All right. Good night again.”

  “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  “To see Alistair?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  He waited until she’d unlocked her door, pulling out his cell phone as he did, then watched her door close.

  He sat another minute, gazing thoughtfully at her house. The last half year had been hectic; he’d made an enormous change in his life. And before that…

  Before that, for a long time, he’d been going through the motions. He still loved film and effects—he always would—and in his new capacity on the team, film was his specialty. Work was the great panacea. It was odd to feel that he already knew Madison Darvil better than half the friends he had back in Texas, although the team had become his family. Of course, one member of the team actually was his family. Kelsey O’Brien was his cousin, and maybe it wasn’t so unusual that they’d come to the same place at the same time, since they shared their strange talent. But before they’d been brought together to solve the bizarre murders in San Antonio…

  He’d been going through the motions. Today…today had felt real. Something about Madison Darvil had gotten to him. She was smart, and she was beautiful in a completely natural way. But it was more than that.

  He hit the cell number for LAPD’s lead detective on the case. A weary-sounding Benny Knox answered and gave his grudging promise to meet Sean at the morgue in twenty minutes.

  * * *

  Bogie was watching reruns of I Love Lucy.

  When she walked in, however, he immediately turned his full attention to her. The way he looked at her, with such concern, was moving. She thought that his ability to focus totally must have been part of what had made him such a great actor—and screen icon.

  “You look worn-out,” he said.

  Madison shrugged. “I showed the FBI guy around the studio. We went down to the tunnel, and I saw all the blood, but that was nothing compared to seeing Mrs. Archer and then Eddie. My heart is breaking for him, Bogie.”

  “So, you still think the kid didn’t do it?”

  She nodded, crashing down on the sofa beside him. “This guy I took around today used to work at the studio before he moved back to Texas. How he went from film to the FBI, I don’t know. But he believes in Alistair and Eddie, and he must be with some really special unit because they’re being given the lead on the investigation. It probably helps that Eddie called the governor to get his way—the first time I’ve ever seen him throw his weight around. But I understand Eddie’s logic. You almost have to understand the business to really grasp that someone could have gotten away with doing this and leaving no trace.”

  “Isn’t there always a trace these days? At least, that’s what I see on the forensic shows.”

  Madison waved a hand. “So they say. You take something and you leave something behind—the law of science. But…it does look bad. Of course, I haven’t spoken with Alistair yet. And until I do tomorrow, I won’t know exactly what he saw and what he thought he saw. But I have to say, I have hope.”

  “Well, that’s good, kid, that’s good.”

  He leaned over and patted her on the knee. She didn’t feel his touch, but she felt something. Maybe it was movement in the air. Maybe it was some awareness deep inside her. “You’re going to do all right, kid. You’re going to do all right. Remember, if you need me—”

  “Just whistle.” She smiled at him and wondered if he knew that he’d been buried with a whistle. She decided not to bring up the subject of his funeral services.

  Instead, she got to her feet. “I’m going to bed,” she told Bogie. But before she could move, she heard a loud mewl of protest. The sound startled her so much that she jumped, and then realized she’d ignored poor Ichabod. “Correction! I’m going to feed Ichabod, and then go to bed!”

  The cat followed her into the kitchen, and she stroked his sleek fur as she gave him treats and filled his bowl. “Poor Ichabod! I forgot you. What is this world coming to?” she asked. The cat eyed her soulfully. “Finish up, use the litter box and come cuddle when you’re ready,” she told him.

  Back in the living room, she saw that Bogie was no longer watching the television, which was still on. He stood thoughtfully by the window, staring out into the darkness.

  “Good night,” she said softly.

  He glanced back at her. “Sleep tight, kid.”

  “Thanks. If you want to continue watching Lucy, please keep the volume low, okay?”

  He nodded, and gave her his rueful, self-mocking grin. “Want a good old quote? ‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’ And I
like what I see. Go on now, and get some sleep.” She saw a worried frown creasing his brow as she went to her room.

  Bogie had become a true legend, she reflected, and it wasn’t just the roles he played—the cynical tough guy with a heart of gold and courage to match. He was a brilliant actor, but she thought she was privy to something more. Bogie had been far more fascinating than even his greatest characters. More fascinating than any legend. Yes, he’d been flawed—who wasn’t?—but underneath it all, he was deeply moral and unfailingly kind.

  She paused at her bedroom door and turned back. “I’m okay, Bogie, honestly. I want to do whatever I can to help Alistair and Eddie.”

  “So you should. And all is well. I’m looking out for you, kid.”

  She wasn’t sure what he could do for her, but she smiled and said, “Thanks.”

  Thirty minutes later she’d had a bath and was ready for bed. The lights were out and she was curled comfortably under her sheets. But tired as she was, sleep eluded her.

  She found herself thinking about Alistair, and then Sean Cameron. Eddie had chosen her specifically, but it wasn’t because she knew special effects better than anyone else.

  It was because he’d been with her in the cemetery one day.

  She didn’t see ghosts every time she was in a cemetery. She’d come to understand that those not ready to move on usually didn’t inhabit places where they hadn’t been happy; it wasn’t that they were unhappy at a cemetery—they were just dead when they got there. The ghosts she’d seen and communicated with tended to frequent places they’d loved. For some, it was an old home, for others, maybe a bar or a dance hall. Once she’d even met a young boy, who’d died tragically in an auto accident, at a baseball field.

  She didn’t always know—unless she reached out to touch and she just didn’t touch that many strangers—whether the people she met were alive or dead. Such had been the case with Bogie. She’d been convinced that he was an actor. A damned good look-alike, but surely not the real thing.

  But, of course, he was. Like the man she’d talked to in Peace Cemetery, the graveyard that abutted the studio. It was one of the oldest in the city, only a few years behind Evergreen Cemetery, receiving its first burials in 1879. These included the faithful of St. Bartholomew’s, which was now just a chapel but had been a small, functioning church. St. Bartholomew’s and its parishioners had moved on to a new location in the 1920s and the cemetery had become the property of the county. It was a beautiful place, where late-Victorian funerary art mingled with modern black marble slabs and off-kilter art. The one-time owner of all the land in the area—including the studio and the Black Box Cinema—Lucas Claymore, was buried there, like the rest of his family. It was Lucas she met one day while walking with Eddie to sketch tombstones he liked. She had begun to chat with Lucas, and he’d told her about the property. She hadn’t understood that he wasn’t real until she saw the way Eddie was staring at her. She’d tried to explain it away, but obviously Eddie hadn’t forgotten. A few years later, when one of his old employees died—a master of masks—she had seen him at his funeral. He’d died at the age of ninety-something, and he was pleasantly surprised and gratified by all the people who’d attended. She’d thought she’d been unnoticed, assuring the old man that he’d been adored, but Eddie had slipped an arm around her shoulders and whispered, “Tell him goodbye for me.”