Krewe of Hunters 2 Heart of Evil (13 page)

But there was no one there.

He looked into her eyes questioningly, but she had her hands folded on the desk, and she maintained eye contact. He looked back to the list.

Griffin Grant, affable fellow, think you've met him, though his uncle used to do the reenactments. Adores the place and the playing—he's a CEO, VP (?) at a cable company out of New Orleans. Early thirties, good-looking, sharp and well-dressed, nice sense of humor, especially considering the fact that he's a total business geek.

Toby Keaton, owns Beaumont, but you know that. Medium height, medium weight, early forties, thinning hair. Our families have always gotten along
well—starting from the beginning of the “survival by tourism” days. We do Civil War and reenactments; he works on Creole history, the real day-to-day work involved in such a plantation. He's always been part of the reenactment.

John Ashton, nice guy, his father did the reenacting in the old days. He's in his late twenties, bookish, glasses, even has special wire frames just so that they work for the reenactments. He runs a tour company in New Orleans, and has long been a good friend of the plantation.

Jake looked up at Ashley again, seeing her and imagining the reenactments as he had seen them so many times before. He knew the positions the men would take—he could run it in his own mind easily. “So, Charles winds up playing Marshall Donegal. The rebel troops are complete with Cliff, Griffin, Hank, John and Toby. Ramsay goes off to be a Yankee.”

“Yes, Ramsay went off to join the Yankees, and that group included two locals, men you know as well—” Ashley reached over to tap the paper “—Michael Bonaventure, from New Orleans, bar owner, has a place off Royal Street, and Hadley Mason, an engineer from Lafayette. Justin Binder is from Philadelphia, and he was here with his mother-in-law and two children. He's a widower. The other two Yankees were Tom Dixon, from New York City, and Victor Quibbly, from Chicago, and they both left the morning after the reenactment.”

“They flew out from New Orleans?” Jake asked.

Ashley swung around in the chair, hitting the on button on the computer that sat on a stand next to the desk. She nodded. “We know when everyone is coming in and out from different cities, because we try to arrange rides. Yes, Tom left on American Airlines at noon the following day, and Victor was on Continental fifteen minutes later. Cliff drove them to the airport, I believe.”

“Can you think of anyone else who is closely involved with this property or with the reenactment?” he asked her.

“Dr. Ben Austin—he's a practicing M.D.—and John Martin, our biggest sutler, or vendor. He was here with his wife, and they were at the party—you know, the wind-down in the house. Every one of those folks was there—except for Charles, of course,” she said.

He nodded. “Change places?” he asked her.

“What?”

“May I get on the computer for a minute?”

She stood up, walking around the desk. As she did so, she looked at the door again, frowning. He followed her line of vision but saw nothing.

Jake sat at the computer and started punching in keys. He could access sites that the average person couldn't because he had the proper codes.

“What are you doing?” Ashley asked him. She hadn't taken his chair; she stood at the edge of the desk.

“Simple elimination,” he said. “Two Yankees in
the clear—they indeed flew away. Their names are on the manifests for the flights.”

“Wouldn't the police be checking on that kind of thing, too?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes, but in my mind, the more people I know to be eliminated entirely on my own, the easier it will be to home in on what really happened. And Jackson is a stickler. He's a team man—it's the way he's always worked. People make mistakes.
We
can make mistakes. Anyway, I know we're down to a few-score people.”

“A few score,” she repeated, wincing.

“Don't worry. That number will go down quickly,” he assured her.

Once again, she wasn't looking at him. She was looking behind him. He turned quickly, wondering if he didn't glimpse a shadow…something. Ashley was definitely acting strangely.

Donegal was known for being haunted. Maybe that was why she had fought all her life against the possibility that ghosts could be real.

And maybe, she was just beginning to feel or see something….

There was a tap at the door. Jake was surprised by the way Ashley seemed to all but jump out of her skin.

Frazier poked his head in. “Lunch is served. An excellent meal, it appears.”

 

Beth had cooked—and cooked, and cooked. She had gone for just about every staple known to
Southern Louisiana—corn bread, jambalaya, crawfish étouffée, gumbo, turnip greens, pecan pie, bread pudding, shrimp salad and more.

It astounded even Ashley that she could have prepared such a feast so quickly, but then, when the reenactment wasn't taking place and they weren't investigating a murder, Beth did run one of the finest restaurants in the area. There was still a crowd for lunch; Jackson, Ashley, Jake, Frazier, Cliff, Beth and herself.

She noted—as she was sure Cliff did—that their guest investigators did not treat him as a suspect; they treated him as one of the family, which, of course, he had always been. Growing up, he'd been the big brother Ashley had never had, even though he was about thirteen years older than her and had been actually managing much of the plantation while she'd still been playing with her dolls and video games.

At the luncheon table, she wasn't being haunted by an annoying Confederate in full dress uniform. He wasn't in the dining room. Not at the moment, and Ashley was grateful for that fact. He'd been in the office with her when she'd been giving Jake the list, and he'd been terribly annoying, wanting her to punctuate every detail regarding every man. She kept thinking that Jake would turn around and see him standing there, laugh and tell her that the fellow was an actor hired to torment her.

But Jake didn't see the man—so she was the scary one after all, suffering from strange delusions about
the dead. They were all probably brought on by the murder.

During the massive meal, they all spoke as casually as possible in the aftermath of a brutal, senseless killing. Jackson and Jake relayed the conversation they'd had down at the police station until Cliff had left them, saying that he had work at the stables.

Ashley pretended to listen attentively while wondering again if she had imagined that a ghost—looking as real as flesh and blood—had carried on a meeting with her. She looked here and there around the room, wondering if Marshall Donegal would appear in the flesh—or the appearance of flesh!—sweeping off his great plumed hat and setting a booted foot upon a chair, perhaps.

But though he had been a pest in the office, he didn't show. She was so busy worrying that he would, however, that she barely heard what was being said. She wondered if Frazier had ever seen the man—or even Cliff. After all, one way or another, they were all related.

Then one word that Jake uttered brought her to.

…diving…

“Diving?” she asked.

“I believe that the murderer might have thrown his weapon into the Mississippi,” Jake explained. “He's organized, and intelligent. Such a killer would know that the murder weapon would be searched for immediately, and that he couldn't be found with it on his person or his property. So if it were me, I'd throw it in
the river as quickly as possible. Actually, I think the killer had Charles with him, maybe drove him away after the reenactment and then brought him back here in some kind of a boat. That being the case, he'd have thrown the weapon into the river while he returned to wherever he had come from by boat.”

“Unless, of course,” Ashley said, staring back at Jake as if she dared him to agree, “the murderer held Charles drugged on the property. If that was the case, the killer could have taken him into the cemetery, where he bayoneted him to death, and went on to return to his room. The river has a terrific current, too.”

“That's possible, too,” Jake said evenly. “But I think he threw it in the river—the weight of a weapon could have easily caused it to sink.”

“I'm not a suspect, am I?” Beth asked.

Ashley straightened, looking around the table at the three investigators.

Jake smiled and answered. “No. It's highly unlikely that you have the strength needed to carry out what was done.”

“Thank the Lord!” Beth said.

“But
Cliff
could be guilty,” Frazier said.

“We certainly hope not,” Jackson said.

“Wait!” Ashley protested. She didn't believe that Cliff could be guilty, but she didn't believe that any of the men who had acted like children on the day of the reenactment could possibly be guilty of such
a heinous crime. “Who's going diving? Aren't they sending out police divers?”

“Yes,” Jake said, frowning slightly. “I'm assuming that at this point they'll be along really soon. But I want first crack, before the water is churned by a team of four or five.”

“But—are you authorized?”

“We are working co-jurisdiction,” Jackson said, glancing at Frazier. “Adam's your grandfather's friend, and Adam has the influence to make a great deal happen.”

“Ashley, you know that I know what I'm doing,” Jake told her. “I'm going to get started now.”

“I'll work with you,” she said.

“Ashley—” Jake began.

“No one should dive alone,” she reminded him primly. “The water is brown—even with lights, vision is limited,” she said. “You need a dive buddy. And it's my property.”

“Ashley,” Frazier said, “my dearest grandchild, my old heart is still ticking. It's still my property. You two children can fish through the regulators, tanks and masks we keep because of work that has to sometimes be done down by the bayou.”

Frazier had spoken lightly, wanting to ease the tension with smiles. He managed the feat.

“Grampa!” Ashley protested.

“Well, don't look at me!” Beth said. “Dive in that nasty old muddy water? No, no, dishes look much, much better than diving in the Mississippi!”

“I was planning on working with Jake, too,” Jackson said.

“That's fine. But I'm going,” Ashley said firmly.

“All right. Let's get on it,” Jake said.

Half an hour later, the divers were nearly ready. Ashley had opted for a dive suit—she didn't like everything in the Mississippi touching her bare skin. Jake and Jackson had eschewed the idea of suits and were just in swim trunks, booties, gloves and their masks and regulators.

Angela, Beth and Frazier had come down to the embankment near the cemetery while they checked and rechecked their equipment and the flashlights they'd be working with.

Angela had watched Jake walk over and over the embankment near the cemetery wall. He found a spot that seemed to satisfy him.

“Here,” he said, looking at them all.

Jackson, apparently, knew what he was talking about. He came over and hunkered down next to Jake, inspecting the ground. He stood after a moment. “Hard to tell, but possible. We'll go in here. Time for tanks, children,” he said.

The three assisted each other, buckling into the heavy dive tanks. “You're just walking in, right?” Angela asked. “Seriously, shouldn't we be waiting for the police? They'll have metal detectors—”

Jake lifted a rod he had on a cord at his wrist. “Jackson has one, too,” he told her.

“It is one big damned river,” Frazier said. “And then there's the bayou—”

“I don't think so, sir,” Jake said. “This is how he managed the movement of the body. This is where he'll have ditched the weapon.”

Frazier nodded. He gazed at Ashley, and she knew that he was worried about her. It was only fair; she was worried about him. She blew him a kiss.

“I'll follow the current and watch for you down by the public ramp,” Angela reminded them. “Don't try to get back—I'll be there.”

“Keep up with us,” Jake warned, catching Ashley's hand.

Pride dictated that she draw away, pride and maybe fear that it was too easy to depend on him so swiftly. But she didn't draw away; they were diving together, and she wasn't going to be uncooperative.

They eased into the water over the embankment, a difficult task as it was shallow next to the levee and they sank into the mud. She immediately felt the strength of the current, and she knew what Jake was thinking: if the killer had indeed followed this route, he had gone with the current in whatever little boat he had been maneuvering. He wouldn't have used a motor; a motor might have been heard.

The brown, muddy waters of the Mississippi covered their heads, and they went with the current themselves, using their flippers to thrust them downward. Ten feet, twenty feet, thirty feet…forty feet. She'd been in the water here before, but only ever
to clear growth from the seawall or work with their little strip of dock. The water was filled with silt, and everything before her eyes was curtained behind a brown haze. The sun didn't penetrate deeply.

A massive catfish glided by them, taking a look, moving off quickly. They passed over the ruins of a broken-up tugboat. Gar drifted by, and in the few feet she could see ahead, even with her diving light, Ashley saw that a blue suckerfish was watching them avidly. There seemed to be little else of interest. Diving in clear waters was beautiful, but the Mississippi wasn't clear. It seemed as if the light dimmed quickly, as if the riverbed sucked it up into the mottled brown darkness.

She heard the rhythmic sound of her regulator, air moving in and out of her own lungs. She usually loved that sound. She glanced over to see that Jake was still moving fluidly at her side, inspecting the river bottom as they drifted along, barely using their fins, the current was so strong.