Randy grinned at him. “I had my men talk to each and every one of them.”
Ethan hesitated. “What about Todd and Nancy Camp?” he asked.
Randy sighed. “Them, too. But they were out of town when Corley’s murder took place, at a funeral in Gainesville, Florida. And, yes, I checked that out. Todd’s grandmother died. And since the one thing we do know is that we’re looking at a single killer, that rules them out. I can see how, given the past, you might want to look at the two of them. We’ve all been jerks at times. But being a jerk doesn’t make you a murderer.”
“No, being a jerk doesn’t make you a murderer. But it doesn’t make you innocent, either.”
“But an ironclad alibi does,” Randy said.
Ethan had to agree. “Okay, let’s check out the Hickory Plantation. Because something has to lead us somewhere.”
* * *
Before they headed to the set, Jude changed into something more casual. But when they went out to the car, Charlie had to wonder if—like dark suits—dark SUVs really were the FBI’s vehicles of choice. Jude’s rental was pretty much the twin of Ethan’s.
On set, Jude stayed close by the entire time she worked with Brad, Jimmy and Grant, taking some extra shots for the scene after the ghosts took care of the men who had been trying to silence her.
During a break, she walked with him to the church, and they wandered among the unhallowed graves.
“You won’t read about this in the guidebooks,” Charlie said. “These graves are unhallowed. You wound up here if you killed yourself or were especially bad. My dad knows all about this stuff.”
“I understand your dad’s quite the historian. What about you?”
“I love it, but I don’t know it like he does,” Charlie said, then fell silent as, between where they were standing and the church, she saw her Confederate cavalry commander slowly appear.
“He’s here,” she said quietly.
“Who?”
“The ghost of Anson McKee.”
Jude looked in the direction she indicated. Once again, the ghost was pointing to the river.
“I see,” Jude said softly.
Charlie looked at him and realized he not only saw Anson McKee, he saw what the ghost was trying to tell them, as well.
He wanted them to go to the river.
Charlie nodded. “We need to get to the Journey,” she said quietly.
McKee seemed pleased and slowly disappeared.
“Charlie! We’re ready for you!” Brad called, his voice reedy, as the breeze carried it away. “Let’s get going so we can get you out of here on time.”
“Coming!” she called back.
“Amazing,” Jude said.
“That you saw a ghost?” she asked. “I thought you were used to that.”
He looked at her and smiled. “No, not seeing a ghost,” he told her. “The resemblance. Throw a long-haired wig on Ethan, and that could be him.”
* * *
Farrell Hickory had done a good job with the plantation.
The private quarters upstairs were comfortable and well cared for, and the public sections had been perfectly preserved for those who wanted to visit a smaller plantation. Those who wanted grandeur usually started with Oak Alley, San Francisco or Rosedown, or, in this immediate area, the Myrtles. They were all interesting and historically accurate, and as different from each other as the planters who had owned them.
While visitors could rent rooms at the others, the Hickory Plantation had never operated as a B and B. Guests could come for the day and see the downstairs, which was the heart of the plantation—the master’s office, music room, grand parlor, dining room and ballroom. Outside, they could tour the smokehouse, the two remaining buildings from what had been slave quarters, and the stables. But there was also a private outside staircase, which led up to the balcony and an entrance to the second floor. There, Hickory had raised his son. His wife had passed when Jefferson, aka Jeff, Hickory was only a child, so Farrell had lived there with his son, and, according to Jefferson, it had been a happy life.
Ethan and Randy met with Jeff, who had come home from Harvard to arrange his father’s funeral, in the upstairs parlor, which in actuality was simply a wide hallway that ran through the middle of the upstairs. The living quarters consisted of four bedrooms, one of them turned into an entertainment center, an office, a living room and a small kitchen that opened on to a dining area.
“Dad was a good guy,” Jeff told them. He was earnest and direct and, at twenty-three, as clean-cut as a marine. “He was so proud of our family history. Naturally one of my great-greats was a Confederate officer in the Civil War. But Dad was proudest of the fact that his father marched for Civil Rights in the sixties. He was dedicated to keeping the house open to the public. Thought it was important for people to remember history so we wouldn’t repeat it. I think we probably came out about even, what with the costs of operating and what we brought in.” He let out a deep sigh. “I wish I could help you find out who killed him.” Suddenly his control slipped, and tears filled his eyes. “I loved my dad.”
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” Ethan said.
Jeff nodded. “Thanks. I know you’re doing everything you can, but why Dad and Uncle Albion? Why in God’s name would anyone want to hurt either one of them? They never did anything but good for anyone.”
“Uncle Albion?” Ethan asked. “You called him uncle?”
“Sure. They were best friends. Oh, my God, did those two like to argue. Albion didn’t have a family. I want to bury him near Dad, in the Grace Episcopal graveyard. When I can,” he added softly, glancing over at Randy.
Ethan knew that the bodies hadn’t been released yet. For this kid’s sake, he hoped they could take care of that soon.
“He was proud of me for getting into Harvard,” Jeff said.
“I’m sure he was,” Ethan said. “When was the last time you talked to him?”
“He called me every Sunday. We’d talk for about an hour,” Jeff said.
“What did you talk about?” Ethan asked. “The last time.”
“I told him about a girl I’ve been seeing and promised that it wasn’t interfering with my studying,” Jeff said, smiling. “Told him about one of my classes he would have loved—an elective, on the history of Boston and the Cambridge area. He told me they’d had a great time doing some special reenactment on the Journey, said he and Uncle Albion had gotten into a major-league shouting match over some historical point until their boss—a friend of theirs named Jonathan Moreau—stepped in and told them to cut it out.” Jeff shook his head. “Dad said they provided the best excitement of the day and gave people something to talk about. But he was glad that Jonathan stepped in.” He started to smile, and then his expression grew sad again. “God, I still don’t believe...”
“Jeff, could we see your father’s office?” Ethan asked him.
“Sure. Come on back.”
Jeff led them to a room with a handsome antique desk but no computer.
Ethan glanced questioningly at Randy.
“We’ve got his laptop down at the station,” Randy said. “I told you, we checked everything.”
Ethan sat down at the desk. He wished Farrell would materialize in front of him.
No such luck.
Ethan looked carefully through the drawers. He found one drawer filled with key chains and magnets. “What are these?” he asked Jeff.
“Souvenirs from Dad’s charities. They usually give some goodie or other to the sponsors. Dad gave to save abandoned animals, save the wetlands, all that kind of thing.”
“Okay if I take these?” Ethan asked. “I promise I’ll bring them back.”
“Sure. You can take anything you think will help. I guess I shouldn’t believe in the death penalty, and I’m
not sure I did before, but...some bastard stabbed my dad in the heart. I don’t know what will happen to that person, but I sure as hell don’t want him walking this earth free.”
They stayed a while longer, but Jeff had absolutely no idea who his father had gone to meet the night he’d been killed or why he’d worn his uniform.
“I’ll tell you what, though. I graduate at the end of the semester, and then I’m coming right back here. Dad’s death isn’t going to stop me from keeping his dream—and this plantation—alive. Dad left me this place and a hell of an insurance settlement, so I’ve changed things up a bit. I’ve hired security. And they’ll damned well know where I’m going whenever I go out.”
As they left, Ethan and Randy passed a tour group and overheard the guide mention the recent murder of the former owner.
Randy shook his head and then turned to Ethan. “What the hell do you think you’re going to learn from that collection of junk?”
“I don’t know yet. But if nothing else, it might give us a better idea of who he might have been seeing or what he might have been doing.”
* * *
Brad was true to his word; he quickly finished filming the scenes he wanted and told her he would let her know if he needed anything else.
“You know I’ll be on the Journey with Clara and Alexi for a week, right?” Charlie asked him.
“I do, and it’s no problem. I’ll find you if I need you. And anyway, you’re free for the day when the Journey is docked here,” he reminded her.
“Very true,” she agreed.
She said goodbye and left with Jude. Once they were in the car, he asked her, “How much do you know about Anson McKee?”
“I know that his life was cut short by the war. According to the records I’ve found, he was from this area, joined the cavalry, was voted a captain by his men. He was married and had one son. He wrote his wife a beautiful letter before he died, telling her how much he loved her. Why?”
“The resemblance to Ethan really is uncanny,” Jude said.
“You should have seen him in his wig,” Charlie said.
“His wig?” Jude was evidently amused.
“Brad had him do some extra work as one of the ghosts, and those boys did not have FBI haircuts,” Charlie said.
“Interesting.”
“I looked him up—the captain, I mean,” Charlie said. “The man helped save my life ten years ago. He led Ethan out to the unhallowed graveyard where my idiot high school friends had me tied to a headstone as a test because I was pledging their stupid club. Ethan freed me, then took down a killer when he came back looking for something he’d left behind earlier that night. If I’d still been tied to that headstone...” She shuddered.
“That’s a hell of a story. And I still can’t get over that resemblance.”
“Ethan’s got just about every nationality you can think of in his family tree, but he can’t be descended from Anson McKee. The son moved west after the war and had a family, but his descendants all live in Nevada. A few years back, one of them came to St. Francisville when they were reenacting The Day the War Stopped. Nice man. And you should read the letter McKee wrote to his wife. He really loved her, so...”
“So he wasn’t messing around elsewhere,” Jude said, then shrugged. “Still...”
“Maybe that’s why the captain comes back. Maybe he sees something of himself in Ethan. Luckily he seems to like me, too. And he’s still trying to help.” She glanced at him. “You saw the way he pointed to the river. The murders have something to do with the Journey. I’m sure of it.”
“Hopefully, we’ll find the answers—and soon.” He smiled at her. “I gather you and Alexi and Clara have a plan, but seriously, do you really know that many Civil War songs?”
Charlie groaned softly. “Oh, yeah. Trust me, I know recipes, songs...you name it. I am my father’s daughter.”
She knew then it wasn’t just her discovery of a dead man that had made her so determined to find the killer.
She was her father’s daughter. And she was going to see that he was proved innocent.
And yet...
He had lied to her. He’d told her he barely knew Farrell Hickory, but according to what she was hearing, he had known Hickory.
He had known him very well.
* * *
Ethan and Randy Laurent were sitting in a conference room, staring at a flat-screen TV hooked to a computer while a police tech ran through the shots Chance had taken the day of the Journey reenactment. They watched as picture after picture went by, shots of the boat or the river. Finally they came to the shots of the run-through, when the two victims had their argument, and the crowd had gathered to see.
As Ethan examined the faces in the crowd, he thought about the historical events that had been commemorated that day. From what he knew, the moment when the Journey had been handed from one side to the other had actually been a beautiful one. For those few minutes, in that one place, the war had stopped, the killing had stopped. An injured Union soldier had risen from his bed and hobbled over to embrace the Rebel orderly who had cared for him. There had been plenty of ceremony, but there had also been a human factor. After all, both the caregivers and the injured had probably found it impossible not to swap stories, memories, shared experiences of a better time.
Based on what Ethan could see in the photos, the reenactment had been especially well-done, with the injured Yankees in their hospital beds laid out on the deck. The riverboat had pulled up as close as possible right below Grace Church, and small Confederate boats had clustered nearby, ready to bring the Rebels home once the ship had been handed over.
As for the reenactors themselves, the only one missing, Ethan thought drily, was Charlie.
The rest of her friends all seemed to be there. He saw Brad and Mike Thornton—Brad an infantry sergeant, Mike a private—Grant Ferguson, Jimmy Smith, George Gonzales, Barry Seymour and Luke Mayfield, all of them in costume. Even Jennie McPherson was there, dressed in a white nurse’s apron, appropriately frayed from continual washing. Albion Corley and Farrell Hickory were front and center—especially once their argument had begun. There were dozens of consecutive shots of the two men fighting, and then showing Jonathan Moreau stepping in to intervene.
“See anything?” Randy asked, leaning closer toward the screen.
“Not yet. One more time,” Ethan told the tech.
As the pictures rolled by again, Ethan watched closely, then he asked the tech to pause on a shot of Jennie whispering something to Albion.
After a long moment he asked the tech to move on, but by the next shot she was back with Barry and Grant.
“What are you thinking?” Randy asked him.
Ethan let out a sigh. “I’m thinking I’d like to know what Jennie was saying to Corley.”
* * *
Charlie was grateful that Jude managed to come up with easy conversation as they made the drive to Baton Rouge. It wasn’t a long trip, but Ethan was quiet, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. She herself felt unnerved, certain that he was still angry with her and worried that an explosion was coming somewhere along the line.
She assumed they were heading for a police station, and she would need to wait somewhere while Ethan and Jude did their FBI thing.
Baton Rouge was a beautiful city. Built along the river, it had fantastic museums, a blossoming business district filled with high-rises, but it also offered the old, charmingly mixed in with the new. The old Governor’s Mansion, for example, which was now a museum, was an impressive building. She didn’t know what area of the city they would be in, but she figured she could probably just walk around a bit.
They didn’t head for a police station, but rather a quiet, lower middle income neighborhood. Kids were actually playing kick ball in the street. They stopped at a small house with a white p
icket fence, and Ethan, who had been driving, looked back at Jude, who nodded and said, “This is it.”
Ethan got out, then came around and opened the door for Charlie. “Are you coming?”
She didn’t ask him where they were or why he wanted her there; she just got out of the car.
They walked up the front steps, and Ethan knocked on the door, which was thrown open by a tall man with a thin, haggard face and a grim look. “Special Agents Delaney and McCoy?” he asked.
“Yes,” Jude said. “Julio Rodriguez.”
The man nodded and looked curiously at Charlie.
“This is Charlene Moreau,” Ethan said.
“Charlie,” she murmured, offering her hand.
“Mr. Rodriguez, we’re truly sorry to intrude, but we need a few minutes of your time,” Ethan said.
“I am happy to speak with you,” Rodriguez said. “Please, come in.”
Charlie lowered her head, wincing. She realized that they had come to the home of the murdered woman, Selma Rodriguez. A younger man, who seemed to be in his twenties, came forward as they entered, ready to rush to the defense of the older man—maybe his father, Charlie thought—if their presence was upsetting him.
“We’ve answered all the police questions,” the younger man said angrily. “We’re in mourning and need to be left alone.”
“It’s all right, Sean,” Julio said. “They’ve come to help.”
Sean nodded. “Tio, the family will be here soon.” He glared at Ethan. “They questioned us, us! As if we would do this to Tia Selma.”
“We only need a few minutes,” Ethan said soothingly.
“Come, sit in the parlor. May I get you something? Selma would be very upset if I did not offer refreshment to guests,” Julio said.
“We’re fine, but thank you,” Ethan said. “I promise we’ll be quick.”
“You’d better be,” Sean said, giving Ethan a lethal glare.
Ethan ignored him and addressed Julio Rodriguez. “I know your wife worked at the college, Mr. Rodriguez. Did she ever mention a Professor Corley, Albion Corley?”