Jonathan joined them as the meal was served, and he watched the women with a look of pride and pleasure on his face.
Charlie told a story that night about two men who had been friends but had served on opposite sides during the war. The Union soldier had been badly injured and left for dead on the battlefield. His friend found him, but rather than let him be taken prisoner, he took the chance of being shot as a traitor himself and spirited the wounded man to the home of another old friend, a Confederate who had already lost his only son in the war. A physician, he saved the life of the Union soldier and hid him until the war’s end. Charlie ended by telling the rapt audience where to look to find more information on the men and their lives.
As she finished, she looked over at Jonathan, since storytelling—especially historical storytelling—was his forte. He smiled broadly and nodded his approval, and Charlie smiled back. Ethan could tell how much it mattered to her that she had pleased her father.
Just as the performance was ending, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He excused himself and headed out on deck to answer. It was Randy Laurent.
“I’m getting nowhere here,” Randy said. “I hope you’re having better luck.”
“Nothing yet,” Ethan told him, which wasn’t really a lie, since he didn’t have anything solid. He told Randy he was planning to investigate the various groups Corley and Hickory had been involved with. “All quiet there? No other...”
“No other murders?” Randy asked him drily. “No, thank God.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Will do—and you do the same, please.”
“You got it.”
They rang off, and Ethan headed back toward the dining room. He arrived just in time for the final song, but as he entered, he felt something shift in the atmosphere.
A smoky mist seemed to sift into the Eagle View dining room.
The living diners were still there, but now they had been joined by the dead. Soldiers in tattered uniforms of blue and gray and butternut, identified by the insignias of the infantry, cavalry, artillery and the navy.
They were heedless then of the living, except for an occasional shiver as a server moved through one of them.
They were staring at the small raised stage, completely focused on Charlie, as she sang another mournful ballad.
He stayed where he was, standing in the doorway. He noticed one man in particular who had hunkered down right in front of Charlie. The ghost wore a shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a vest and an apron—an apron smeared with blood. He was, Ethan thought, a doctor—the doctor who had acknowledged Charlie before, the ghost she’d talked about.
Ethan’s heart felt heavy in his chest as he looked out over the room. On the one hand, he was sorry for the burden the men carried. On the other, he was touched to see that none of them seemed to be aware whether they were North or South, that they should be enemies. In this room they were just men, injured, ill, and possibly dying soon, aware only that they’d left families behind, loved ones they might never see again.
Charlie finished the song. Applause erupted. The mist faded away.
And with it went the dead who had filled the room only moments before.
Except for one.
The doctor.
Ethan wished that he could keep the living from moving, from talking. They’d already driven the other ghosts away, and he found himself striding forward, wondering if he couldn’t somehow reach the doctor, urge him to stay.
Too late.
The Belles were bowing, and the diners were rising, filing out. He couldn’t reach the doctor quickly enough.
But he could see Charlie.
She smiled and waved to the audience, then walked toward the doctor, her hand outstretched.
The doctor, too, reached out, touched her hand.
And then he was gone, and Charlie was reaching out to nothing more than air.
* * *
Charlie had to wonder if it was wrong of her to find moments of such deep pleasure and happiness when three people had been murdered, and their killer was still out there somewhere. But she couldn’t help herself.
Ethan was back.
And they were together, just as she’d hoped they would be all those years ago.
It was as if a decade had never separated them. Their connection was something deep and rich, something that had played in their minds throughout the years, something stronger than anything they’d actually shared all those years ago.
Of course, theirs had been a strange relationship back then. They had known one another, but they had been three years apart, a vast gulf at the time, because he’d been legal age, a college man, and she had still been in high school, nowhere near her eighteenth birthday. But after the events in the graveyard, there had been hours spent with the police, a lot of time when they’d waited, alone together, to give another statement to yet another officer or the prosecuting attorney. There had been another bond between them, too. They had both seen the ghost of the Confederate cavalry officer; they both saw the dead and sometimes even communicated with them.
There hadn’t been anything sexual between them—not that she hadn’t tried—and yet it still seemed to her she’d never shared a more intimate relationship with anyone than she’d shared with him that night.
And now...
It was heavenly to lie with him, sleep with him, touch him, tease, laugh. To be naked next to the heat of his body, slip a hand over his flesh and feel him grow instantly aroused as he turned to her. To make love as naturally as if they’d been together forever. There were things he did that shouldn’t have been so erotic, so suggestive. The way he kissed and teased her fingertips with his lips and tongue. The way he placed a kiss behind her ear, then trailed more kisses down her nape...
Then there were the other incredible things he did, things that were so extremely intimate she could hardly think of them without feeling herself flush with heat, so far beyond seductive that she could scarcely breathe as he did them....
And there was just lying there beside him, feeling him breathe, hearing the sound of his heartbeat.
But the murders continually hovered over them, and late that night, as they lay together, cooling and sated, he turned to her.
“You’re pretty close to Jimmy Smith, huh?” he said. There was nothing accusing in his question, no jealousy in his tone. Just curiosity.
“I am. He’s kind of like the brother I never had.”
“Never more than that?” Again, there was no jealousy or accusation in his tone. She had the sense he just felt he needed to know. Ten years had passed. Others had come and gone in their lives. This was almost like a fact-finding mission, but only the future truly mattered.
“No, it was never anything more. We were both only kids, so that drew us together. And he was a member of the Gargoyles, the boys’ organization that was like a brother club to that stupid Cherub thing I was going to join years ago, that I was pledging for that night,” she told him, turning to look into his eyes. “We went to Tulane together, too. Our last year of school, he was one of five roommates I lived with. We all pooled our resources to rent a big old place in the Garden District.” She frowned, suddenly worried about his question. “You don’t think that Jimmy Smith could be involved— Wait! You do. You’re convinced that the film crew had something to do with the murders.”
“I don’t particularly suspect Jimmy. But, yes. You know I’m investigating the film crew.”
“Shelley thinks it’s someone involved with one of the organizations Corley and Hickory were involved with. That’s what she seemed to be saying, anyway.”
“I know.”
“Trust me, Jimmy is innocent. He’s a great guy.” She hesitated. “He was with the group who tied me to the tombstone that night, but he kept trying to talk the others into lettin
g me go. And after everything, after the police, after the trial, after everything that went on, he spent years apologizing to me. He even quit the club he was in—he said they were nothing but a bunch of jerks.”
“People grow up. They see how tough life is. They change.”
“We all change, and, yes, most of us get tougher. But we don’t suddenly become homicidal. Certainly not Jimmy,” she said.
He was quiet. She could sense that he wasn’t convinced but simply didn’t want to argue with her, and that scared her.
Not that she could entirely blame him.
If someone didn’t know Jimmy the way she did, he might well look like a viable suspect.
“You don’t know Jimmy. He could never murder anyone,” she said with complete certainty.
He propped himself up on an elbow and looked at her seriously. “Okay, so it’s not your father—we agree on that, although he lied and there are factors that point in his direction, to the point that I’d guess the police probably still consider him a suspect. So...who? For the sake of argument, let’s say it is someone working on the film.” He put up a hand to stop her when she started to protest. “Though I can’t be absolutely positive, I tend to put Brad and Mike Thornton in the innocent pool. Certainly neither one of them threw a knife at you, because they were both with me, though, of course, either one of them could have conspired with someone else. We never found the knife, and no prop knives are missing, as far as we know. That would leave Jennie McPherson—”
“Jennie? You can’t be serious.”
“Unlikely, I agree. Then there are the tech guys—George, Luke, Barry—and then the actors and extras, Harry and Blane, Grant. So you tell me—which one of them do you think might be involved?”
“None of them!” Charlie protested. “It’s someone else. It’s got to be. You really do think it’s someone from the film, don’t you? Why? Why are you so sure?”
“No reason—other than proximity and logic,” he said in a flat tone. “Charlie, the bayonet that killed the men was most likely the one that disappeared from props. The same is probably true of the knife that was thrown at you,” he explained. “We know people from the film were closer to both Corley and Hickory than they wanted to admit. And we know people other than Hickory were in some kind of a confrontation with Albion Corley on the Journey before he was killed. And, yes, we know about Shelley now, too, and I’m not forgetting that both men were heavily involved in charities and environmental issues.”
“So that could point to someone else,” Charlie suggested. “You don’t understand what it’s like in the movie business. People are focused on their own careers, and that’s their only interest.”
“Charlie, I don’t care what anyone does for a living or even if being an actor becomes not just what someone does but who that someone is. There’s always another interest out there. And when someone isn’t bat-shit crazy—my own term, by the way, nothing official—the motive generally comes down to love, hate or money. Sure, there’s spur-of-the-moment murder, carried out in a fit of emotion. But these murders were planned carefully. We have to find out why, and I’m sorry, but what evidence we have so far points to it being someone you know.”
She nodded slowly and rose. “Natchez,” she said simply. “See what you find out in Natchez.” And then she headed into the bathroom to shower and get ready for the day. She felt awkward, as if they’d just had their first argument as a real couple.
He followed her. In a few minutes she felt the argument was over.
Yes, definitely.
They were very good at making up.
* * *
Ethan stood on the dock with Thor, listening as Jonathan talked about the excursion he would be leading later that day. There were numerous shore excursions on offer, but he would be taking a group to explore several of the various nearby Civil War sites, as well as the city of Natchez itself.
Once he had finished and the buses were loaded, Ethan and Jude would head into town and the offices of Doggone It.
“Natchez is the county seat of—and only major city in—Adams County, Mississippi,” Jonathan said, his deep, rich voice commanding attention without trying. “She sits nice and high on a bluff, as you can see. Natchez is ninety miles south of the Mississippi state capital of Jackson and eighty-five miles north of Baton Rouge. At one time Natchez was both the capital of Mississippi and one of the most important cities in the South. The local planters engineered new breeds of cotton, and at one point she had the highest per capita income of any city in the United States—pre–Civil War, of course. The French established Fort Rosalie in 1716, and the area became known as the Natchez colony, named for the Native American tribe that lived in the area. History is rarely peaceful, however, and many French colonists were slain by the Natchez tribe and vice versa. After the Seven Years War, the French ceded the colony to the British. Meanwhile, other local tribes took in the remnants of the Natchez, though today their descendants have reorganized under the Natchez name. So, French, British—and then Spanish/American. This is because a treaty gave it to America, but the Spanish had helped the Americans, and they had their fingers in the pie, trying to keep control as long as they could. Eventually the Americans gained the upper hand, but today visitors to the city are greeted by a uniquely charming combination of Spanish, French, British and American architecture and culture.
“But I’m skipping ahead. In the nineteenth century Natchez flourished, with her share of great plantations, just as there are throughout the South. But, as I explained yesterday, everyone knew control of the river was crucial once the Civil War began. New Orleans fell in 1862, and Natchez surrendered soon after, thus sparing herself the destruction of war and ensuring the safety of so much of what you’ll see today. I’ve just simplified about three hundred years of history, but I’ll go into more depth as the day goes on.”
Jonathan looked straight at Ethan as he directed his people to their buses. Ethan met his eyes in return, and Jonathan nodded, as if to say he felt free to do his job, knowing they were on the job, as well.
Thor had called ahead for a rental car, and it was waiting for them as they went ashore. “You drive,” he said, tossing Ethan the keys. “I’m from the land of ice and snow. Driving in all this heat might be the death of me.”
Ethan grinned as he caught the keys in midair. Thor was not only smart, he was the size of a Norse god. Definitely a good man to have at his back.
They heard their destination before they saw it; Doggone It was located on several acres just beyond the city limits.
The bays, howls, yips and barks of what Ethan estimated to be a couple hundred dogs filled the air as they neared the compound.
“I’ve got to commend the group’s dedication,” Thor said. “No animal will be destroyed. It’s a hell of a good goal.”
They entered a tiled and absolutely spotless reception area and were greeted by a young woman with the words Kathryn, Doggone It Dog-Loving Volunteer embroidered on the pocket of her shirt. She ushered them into an office for their scheduled meeting with William C. Hayworth, director of the charity.
Hayworth shook their hands and offered them seats in front of his desk. The man’s office was filled with pictures of dogs—all kinds of dogs—posing with the volunteers who had helped them back to health or into forever homes.
“This is a great cause,” Thor told Hayworth.
The man beamed. “Thank you. I understand this visit isn’t social, that it has something to do with Mr. Hickory and Mr. Corley, so how can I help you? They were wonderful men, a big part of the work we do here. I admit I’m more than a little curious as to why you’re enjoying a Mississippi cruise instead of scouring every street in St. Francisville for clues.”
“The parish has an excellent detective handling the investigation there,” Ethan said. “Detective Randall Laurent. He’s following every loca
l lead. But because we suspect that the men were killed because of something to do with the many interests and activities they shared, that means we need to look farther afield than St. Francisville.”
“You think their work saving dogs got them killed?” Hayworth asked incredulously.
“Not saving dogs per se, but maybe doing something in the course of that work that upset someone else deeply enough to kill them,” Thor said.
Hayworth shook his head. “I knew them both well, and I can’t think of any reason why someone would have held their work here against them. They were both comfortable financially but not rich. What made them invaluable to our mission was their energy. Albion Corley encouraged his students to volunteer here, and several have continued their efforts even after graduation. And Hickory...he took in older dogs with not much time left but who needed some love. They both donated money, of course, but it was their encouragement to others to give both money and effort that helped us the most.” He sighed. “I just don’t see how any of that could have gotten them killed.”
“We don’t know that it did. We’re still investigating all angles. Mr. Corley and Mr. Hickory were involved in a number of causes,” Ethan said. “Still, we have to ask. Did you ever see them argue with anyone around here? Do you have any neighbors who are against you having your facility here? Do you know if the victims ever fought with anyone on behalf of this place?”
Hayworth shook his head, clearly at a loss. “My neighbors are a dairy farm and a fellow who raises goats for cheese. Our dogs have never once gotten out or caused an incident with either one. We’re friends. We all belong to the Masonic lodge together.”
Ethan glanced at Thor.
“Are you aware if either Corley or Hickory had any difficulties with anyone at the lodge?” Thor asked.
Hayworth looked annoyed at that. “Oh, please! I’m so tired of seeing Masons portrayed as conspiracists and killers in the movies. Neither one was a member of my lodge here.” He hesitated, thoughtful. “Come to think of it, I did run into both men recently at one of our ‘Walk the dog for the dogs’ functions, and they were pretty upset about something that was going on.”