She fled. Up the stairs, into her room. She closed the door and put on a nightshirt. Got in bed.
And remembered...
She remembered the unhallowed ground where she’d sat as they’d waited for the police to arrive, then the man—the killer—suddenly emerging from the trees and racing straight at her, intent on murder.
She’d been so young, so terrified, but Ethan had been there, like a bolt of lightning, the wind of a hurricane, slamming into her would-be killer and taking him down.
She forced herself to consider the possibility that she had fallen victim to some kind of survivor’s hero worship for the man who had saved her life. Maybe Ethan and her feelings for him weren’t what she’d thought they were for so long. Certainly she could live without him, as witnessed by the last ten years.
No. He’d always been there, lurking in the far reaches of her mind, her heart.
And she knew.
This wasn’t hero worship. Something inside her was captivated by the man. And she felt as strongly now as she had when she’d been raw and young and scared. From the moment he had come to her rescue that night, freeing her from “pledging” at the gravestone, she’d been connected to him. And she was forced to admit that it had been more than her knowledge that he could see the dead that had led her to ask to have him assigned to the case.
It had been the best excuse in the world, though, since it was real.
She realized she should head downstairs while he was still awake and at least tell him about her conversations with Alexi and Clara. It would be the right thing to do.
She started to rise. Just as she sat up, there was a knock at her door. She froze, afraid.
She suddenly wished she hadn’t changed into one of the ragged football jerseys she used as nightgowns.
“Yes?” she asked.
The door opened. Ethan was there, silhouetted in the light from the hall.
There was something between them. They both felt it and always had, even though he’d fought so hard against it ten years ago. And now, at last, he had come to her. She’d felt his instant, sharp response when she’d touched him. He knew, knew that no one in her life had ever lived up to just the dream of him.
“Okay, so when the hell were you going to tell me?”
“Pardon?” she said, genuinely confused.
“About the Journey, Charlie. About the plans you and your friends made—and neglected to tell me about.”
“Oh.”
She plumped up her pillow and clutched it on her lap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t exactly make any plans. I can’t make plans. Neither can they. All we could do was imagine what might be possible, and then they were going to follow up with—”
“Oh, cut the bull, Charlie!” He walked over to the bed. He was like a tower of searing anger, completely restrained, of course, and possibly more shocking—or awesome—because of it.
“I know what you’re doing, and I understand why you want to do it, but what I can’t understand is why you made the effort to get me down here specifically, but then you didn’t trust me enough to keep me in the loop. If you want me here, don’t lie to me.”
“I didn’t lie!”
“Not telling me was lying. Don’t do it again.”
He turned and left her room.
So much for thinking they both knew they were meant for each other.
She lay back down, shaking and completely clueless as to what the morning would bring.
* * *
“A lot of times, when I’m working on a tough case, I think about Jack the Ripper,” Jude told Ethan.
“Didn’t know the Krewe worked that one,” Ethan said with a smile.
“We’ve all studied the case, and drawn our own conclusions. And, actually, years ago, the Krewe did work a copycat case back in New York City. The thing is, there were all these conspiracy theories. The royal family was even implicated at one point. But I think, if the authorities had the forensic abilities we have now, they would have discovered that the killer wasn’t a lofty prince but a poor butcher or some whacked-out laborer who hated prostitutes.”
“And this is relevant how?” Ethan asked skeptically.
“I think sometimes we look for a complicated solution when there’s a more obvious answer that turns out to be the right one.”
“I’m not sure that applies to this case,” Ethan said. “The killer is organized, and both murders were carried out in the same way. He—or she—made sure the bodies would be discovered soon, but not immediately. Both men were lured to their deaths, I’m certain of it. What we’re still looking for is the reason for them to have been wearing their uniforms. I think we’re on the right trail, but I agree to a point. I don’t think the murders are part of a big conspiracy to start a race riot, or anything like that. I know there’s a reason behind all this. We’re just not seeing what it is yet.”
They were seated at the table in the Moreau dining room, and it was seven in the morning. Jude and Alexi had flown into Baton Rouge late the night before. Alexi was on her way to New Orleans to make the final arrangements for the “Belle Sisters” to perform on the next voyage of the Journey. Clara, the third member of the trio, would arrive in New Orleans the following day, along with Thor Erikson, another recent addition to the Krewe. Thor hailed from Alaska, so the Southern heat was going to be a real shock to his system.
The more agents around, the better, Ethan thought, though he still wasn’t so sure about the plan for the women to work aboard the Journey. Having to spend time worrying about their safety didn’t seem like a plus in any way. A number of the agents in the Krewe were partners, in every sense of the word, from Jackson Crow and Angela Hawkins on down. But Angela and many of the others had gone through the academy and joined the Bureau; they had training in both investigation and firearms. But in this case, all three women were performers, for heaven’s sake.
It was good to have Jude there. They’d become friends quickly when they’d met up after joining the Krewe. They were both from Louisiana, which created an immediate bond, though unlike Ethan, Jude had been in the New Orleans field office before becoming Krewe.
Jude also knew Charlie’s friends Alexi and Clara. Both women had been contract performers on the Celtic American Line’s Destiny when a serial killer had been aboard. Jackson Crow himself had been involved in both Celtic American cases, and Ethan was certain Crow was poring over everything to do with this case, as well. Not only was another Celtic American ship potentially involved, incidents that had occurred on that same ship over a hundred and fifty years ago might also play a role in the current murders.
Ethan finished the last of his coffee and rose. He had an eight o’clock meeting with Randy, and, with Jude here, he could leave without worrying about Charlie’s safety. It bothered him that—just like Albion Corley and Farrell Hickory—she was in the killer’s sights and he had no idea why.
And despite the lack of any real connection, his gut told him that the cleaning woman who had been killed in Baton Rouge had run afoul of that same killer, too.
“I’ve got to get to my meeting with Randy. I doubt he has anything new, unfortunately. He’s a good cop, but there hasn’t been a damned thing to go on with this case.”
“I’ll be here. The Journey arrives in New Orleans on Tuesday night and leaves again Wednesday, so we’ve got time before we need to board.”
“Good.” Ethan hesitated. “I’d like to stop in Baton Rouge on our way to New Orleans.”
“Something going on there I should know about?”
“I know the police are on it, but a cleaning woman was killed right outside the college where she worked.”
“The connection?” Jude asked.
“Same college where Albion Corley taught,” Ethan said.
“I see. It’s a thread—a slim thread.”
“I know, but the way I see it, we’ve got no choice but to grasp at threads.”
“You’d better wake Ms. Moreau first and let her know I’m here. I understand she’s a crack shot, and I’d really hate for her to think I was an intruder and plant a bullet in me.”
Ethan agreed. He headed upstairs and knocked on Charlie’s door. She threw the door open a second later, easing any fear he’d had that he would have to wake her. She had showered and dressed for the day in jeans and a tank top—both blue, enhancing the sky blue of her eyes.
“I’m heading into town,” he said, “and I didn’t want you to freak out when you went down and found Jude at your dining room table. Your plan is certainly coming together.”
“Hey!” she protested. “I wasn’t sitting around cackling and plotting. I just wanted to help catch a killer.”
He didn’t reply, only turned to head down the stairs. She followed.
Jude stood to greet her, and she smiled and reached out a hand to him.
“Ms. Moreau, Charlie, I’ve heard all about you and seen your face often enough in Alexi’s pictures and on screen. It’s a pleasure,” Jude told her.
“And I’m delighted to meet you, since Alexi is alive and well—not to mention happy—because of you,” Charlie said.
Ethan watched the exchange between them. They were going to be just fine. “I imagine I’ll be an hour or so.”
“We’ll be here,” Jude said. “And if Charlie needs to go anywhere, I’ll be happy to accompany her.”
“Let me know if you head out,” Ethan said, and caught Jude’s eye. The reassurance he saw there confirmed what he’d already learned in the Krewe. They were a tight-knit group and always had each other’s backs. “You’ll want to get packed,” he told Charlie.
“Oh?”
“We’re leaving this afternoon.”
She had the grace to look away, uncomfortable.
“For New Orleans?” she asked.
“For New Orleans,” he said. “The Journey was in Baton Rouge yesterday, she’ll be down by Houmas today, and tomorrow she’ll return to New Orleans. She’ll head out again the next morning. As you wished, you’ll be on it. And so will we.”
8
Charlie had a guard—or a babysitter. Whichever way she chose to look at it, Jude McCoy was here and not with Ethan or anywhere else because he was watching over her.
And she was grateful for that.
He was friendly and charming as he told her about the theater Alexi and Clara were renovating. It was an entirely new experience for both of them, though Clara had at least been a stage manager and worked as an assistant casting director several times, but neither of them had actually managed a theater. The building itself was historic, and they had plans to bring in both professional shows and to offer the space for community outreach, bringing in free children’s theater to benefit the area.
“I’m sure they’re going to do well,” Charlie said. “They’re both so talented, and I would know, because I’ve worked with both of them.”
“I know. I’ve seen the pictures,” Jude reminded her.
Charlie grinned. “It was great when we were all based in NOLA. It’s a great place for performers of any kind. You can hear better music on the streets of the French Quarter than you can for big bucks in any city in this country.”
“So how’s the movie going?” he asked her. “It’s good to know the film industry is busy here at home.”
She smiled. Jude didn’t much look as though he was “home.” Of course, he was from New Orleans, but they were both from Louisiana. He was very formal in his dark suit. She’d always envisioned FBI agents wearing dark suits, and he was exactly what she’d imagined. Tall, dark, striking, assured—which made her very happy for her friend Alexi, since Jude and Alexi were definitely a couple.
“What are you grinning at?” he asked her.
“Are all FBI agents tall and fit and forced to wear suits?”
“Of course not,” he protested.
“So you don’t always wear suits?”
“No, we’re not all tall,” he told her. “So tell me about your movie.”
“It’s really good. It’s not a horror flick, even though there are ghosts. It’s social commentary wrapped up in a great suspense story. It should do a lot of good for the area. Of course, it was already doing a lot of good, providing jobs, getting some nice PR—until I found a dead man on our set,” she added softly.
“What about your role? With you leaving for a week, will you mess up the filming schedule?”
She shook her head. “A lot of my scenes are already in the can, filmed before all the ‘ghost’ stuff happened. You know movies are seldom shot in order, right? We filmed some of the ghost scenes the first day I arrived. They shot some of the other characters’ scenes before I even got here. I was finishing up a webisode.”
“I’ve seen your webisodes. Alexi watches them religiously.”
“She’s a good friend.”
“She says the same of you,” he told her. Then his cell rang, and he excused himself and walked away to take the call.
When he returned, he told her, “Ethan’s spoken with Brad Thornton and cleared you for the week. He had you penciled in for tomorrow, but he rescheduled you for this afternoon. Can you pack up and be ready to go in about thirty minutes? Brad needs you for about two hours, and then he’ll do pickup shots when you’re back.”
“Um, sure,” Charlie said. She leaped up, feeling guilty. She’d made a point of telling her dad she couldn’t leave Brad and his movie, but when the ghost had pointed to the Mississippi, she’d known she had to get aboard the Journey somehow. Clara and Alexi had made it easy for her.
“Good. We’ll probably get in fairly late. Ethan wants to stop in Baton Rouge on the way, so we’ll probably hit NOLA around eleven or so.”
“Okay,” Charlie said. “I’ll be ready to go ASAP.” She hurried up the stairs.
As she prepared, she thought about Ethan’s strange behavior the night before—not when he’d knocked angrily at her door, but before that, at the café, when he’d been riveted to the story of the cleaning woman who’d been killed in Baton Rouge.
That had to be the explanation for why he wanted to stop there on the way to New Orleans, but why did it matter so much to him when they had two murders to solve right here in St. Francisville?
Baton Rouge was a major city, the capital of Louisiana. It had more crime, and certainly more murders, than tiny St. Francisville.
But Ethan wanted to know more about this particular murder, and she didn’t need Jude to tell her so.
But why?
And then she realized that the Journey had been in Baton Rouge yesterday. With her father aboard.
And no matter what Ethan said, she knew that her father was a suspect.
Ridiculous.
Ethan had said he didn’t believe her father was the killer, and she was certain he wasn’t lying. She didn’t need to feel fear for her father—no matter what Detective Laurent might think.
But even though Ethan didn’t suspect her father, for some reason he did think the murders of Albion Corley, Farrell Hickory and the woman in Baton Rouge were connected.
But how?
And more important, who was the killer and how could he be stopped?
* * *
Randy Laurent still had nothing. They’d spent time doing background checks. They’d sent officers to Baton Rouge to question anyone involved with Albion Corley. No one knew anything useful.
“I’m planning on a trip to Baton Rouge myself,” Ethan told him.
“Don’t trust us locals anymore, huh?” Randy asked him.
Ethan shook his head. “You know it’s not that. I just need to get the feel of the place again, ask a
round myself.”
Randy nodded. “Just remember those are my friends over there, okay?”
“I will. So on another note, what’s going on with the Hickory Plantation?”
“Farrell’s son is there now, and he’s not a suspect. We have a dozen sworn witnesses who say he was in school when his dad was killed. And by school I mean Harvard, so, no, he didn’t slip back here from Boston to kill his dad, then take off again.”
“Was anyone besides his dad living at the place when he left for the semester?”
“No, there’s a staff there during the day, but that’s it. Hickory Plantation isn’t that big, remember. They do tours, but they don’t take overnight guests. The family keeps the upstairs for themselves. People come to do Rosedown Plantation and the Myrtles, then find Hickory once they’re here. It hasn’t been featured on every ghost show on TV, for one thing. Not that I don’t think it’s as historically interesting. It just doesn’t have the same hype. In any case, they’ve always closed up at five o’clock sharp. The day Hickory was murdered, the cleaning staff and the last guide went home shortly after they saw him leave, wearing his uniform. No one there knows anything about where he went.”
“I’d like to take a drive out anyway,” Ethan said, then heard his phone beep and glanced down at it. Chance had texted earlier to say he was finally in the process of emailing the photos after a computer crash had caused an unexpected delay. “Chance Morgan is sending me some photos, but the files are pretty large. Can I bring them up on one of the computers here?”
“Of course.”
“So we’ll take half an hour or so, drive out to the Hickory Plantation, then come back and look at photos.”
Randy shrugged. “Sure. Whatever you want. You know, we’re not totally incompetent. I did talk to the plantation staff, and I didn’t just take Farrell’s son at his word. I went through the kid’s phone and his iPad.”
“I’m sure you did. But—”
“But we’re all grasping at whatever we can,” Randy said. “I know. I’m doing it, too. But what do you think you’re going to find?”
“I have no idea,” Ethan told him. “But I’m willing to try anything. I’m also working the cruise angle, looking at the reenactment on the Journey. I need to talk to the locals who were working as extras that day.”
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