Krewe of Hunters 2 Heart of Evil (14 page)

She tried to give her concentration over to the task at hand.

She felt a jerk on her hand; she turned and saw Jake's blue-green eyes through his mask. He motioned that they needed to go down. His metal detector had come upon something.

Fighting the current, they shot downward, only to discover car parts that had been in the river long enough to acquire massive growth. She and Jake,
with Jackson close behind, started to move onward again.

She wasn't at all sure how she saw it, but suddenly it seemed that something bright flickered in the glow of her beam.

She started toward it.

A jerk on her ankle made her panic for a moment; alligators didn't usually travel out into the depths of the river—they preferred the bayou and the shallows. But it would be quite ridiculous if she were to be consumed by a natural predator she knew and respected in the hunt for a human monster.

It wasn't an alligator; it was Jake. He frowned at her, indicating that she wasn't to take off without him.

She nodded and pointed. Then, of course, her beam picked up nothing, but he nodded and followed her downward.

They were in an area of soft packed mud and underwater growth. At first Ashley thought she had imagined the glitter in the water. It was dark, and with the current, once the muck was disturbed, it spread out, creating an even darker brown haze.

Then she felt Jake squeeze her hand, and he indicated the metal detector.

There was definitely something there.

They had to move quickly, because the water around them was becoming browner by the second. There was nothing easy about maintaining their position in the water; they fought the current
hard. But Jake was digging in the mud, and she did the same.

There, beneath one of the plumes Jake had just started.

She saw it.

It was still in excellent shape; it looked as if it had just been set down on the river bottom. The 1853 Enfield rifle that shot a Burton-Minie ball still had its bayonet, which had surely glittered in the glow of her flashlight, soundly attached.

It was the weapon that had been carried not just by the defenders, but by all of the federals on the day of the skirmish that had taken place in 1861. It would have a thirty-nine-inch barrel with three grooves, and the stock had three metal bands, so that it was sometimes called the popular “three-banded” rifle. Reproductions of the rifle were carried by all the reenactors. At the beginning of the war, it had been quite typical, appreciated on both sides of the great conflict.

She pointed; Jake reached down a hand and collected the weapon by the stock. He nodded to Ashley and indicated that they head toward the riverbank.

They emerged about a hundred feet shy of the boat ramp. Sludging up the muddy bank, Ashley saw that Angela had been true to her word and was there leaning against Jake's car down by the public ramp.

She saw them right away and came hurrying toward them, heedless of the marshy terrain. She had something in her hand, which turned out to be a
large plastic bag of some kind—an evidence bag for the weapon retrieved. Angela, apparently, had had faith in their findings, while Ashley had to admit she hadn't expected that the four of them would find anything in the Mississippi. Of course, this team had probably been trained, but then again…

She had been the one to spot the weapon.

“You found it!” Angela cried, wrinkling her nose as she stepped into a deep pit and struggled to free her foot.

“Ashley actually made the discovery—without a metal detector,” Jake said. He held the weapon out while Angela opened the bag.

“Wait!” Ashley said.

They both paused, staring at her.

She studied the weapon.

The manufacturers of historical weaponry were good—really good. They could replicate weapons to a T.

But there was something about this one.

She didn't touch it, but she moved closer. Mud encrusted the weapon, and there was no choice. She delicately took a finger protected by her diver glove and dusted aside a speck of the mud.

And it was there. Deeply, roughly gouged into the stock near the barrel, there were initials.

She looked up at Jake and Angela, chilled to the bone.

“This weapon is real. I mean, authentic to the period—and our house. It belonged to Marshall
Donegal. You can see his initials right there, MPD. He carved them by hand himself with his knife. Marshall Patrick Donegal.”

Interlude

T
he Enfield and bayonet had been turned over to the forensics lab, and there was nothing to do on that angle but wait—and, determine, of course, how the priceless family heirloom had gone from its glass-encased place of honor in a small attic museum that guarded such precious pieces into the hands of a murderer, and then into the river.

Frazier was horrified. Of course, it had never been locked up. They didn't lock up their artifacts at Donegal Plantation. Marshall Donegal had been buried with his dress sword, but not the Enfield rifle he would have carried into the war. At his death, Emma had kept the weapon above the fireplace in the rear parlor, should they come under attack again at any time. It was most likely that she kept it there until her death in 1890. One of her children had probably moved the rifle and other artifacts from the mid-1860s to the attic. Frazier knew that his father had been the one to purchase the box it had been displayed in now. No one had even known it was missing; when
they all returned to the house, he asked Ashley a dozen times at least if she was sure that the weapon they had found had been Marshall Donegal's, and he had gone upstairs himself to assure himself that the box was empty.

It was.

The reality of the Mississippi River was that it was not the nicest place in the world to dive; returning to the house—once the initial questions were asked and answered—Jake hurried up to his room and straight into the shower. He was sure the others were doing the same. But he had barely stripped out of his swim trunks when there was a knock at the door. He frowned, wrapped a towel around his waist and went to it. He opened it a crack.

Ashley was out there. She had stripped off her dive suit and wore a terry robe over her bathing suit. Her hair was still damp and tangled from the water, but she looked restless and uneasy.

He opened the door fully without moving aside.

“What? Is anything wrong?” he asked.

She looked at him with her huge sapphire eyes. It was suddenly impossible—despite the five years that had passed since they'd been together—not to feel an uncomfortable rise of his libido.

God, he'd loved her, always.
Not true,
he tried to correct himself. Once, she had been a bright, entertaining, but annoying little precocious kid. But not long; she'd caught up so quickly. And when he had realized that he'd teased her the same way boys had
teased girls they had secretly coveted since the be ginning of time, he had just fallen head over heels. It was the sapphire of her eyes, maybe. The perfection of her skin, the softness and the glitter in the color of her hair. Ah, but that was just lust. He'd loved her tomboy antics, the way she could ride, race, challenge, laugh, and argue her side of any matter. It was the sound of her voice….

“Well, a man is dead,” she said flatly. “Killed—with a family heirloom!”

He started, his reverie fading. “Yes, we all know that. Is something wrong? I need to take a shower.”

He was a fool, of course. She was standing there; he was standing there. He was naked beneath the towel; she wore flimsy pieces of a bikini beneath a terry robe. He had never really fallen out of love, and he'd have to be a hell of a lot older or infirm to fall out of lust.

But that wasn't the point here.

What was the point?

He didn't know why she was here. He didn't want to be used because he was convenient and her world was going to hell.

Yes, I do want to be used!
his mind raged.

No.

“Ashley, let me jump in the shower, and I'll be right with you,” he said. “I suggest you do the same. You wear even river mud well, but I think you'll be more comfortable without it.”

He stepped back and forced himself to close the door.

His shower was pure torment.

 

Marty Dean sat at her office desk, studying her phone, and wondering what she could say once she'd reached Jake Mallory. She'd had such a crush on him in high school. His guitar had gained him quite a reputation, and he'd played with some pretty extraordinary bands. Everybody had a crush on Jake! And he'd just gotten better, really. Some of those boys—the big football-hero types—were just downright pudgy now. And Jake? He still had those probing eyes, that sculpted face, those shoulders…. It had been something to see him again. And he had looked right at her—and not given her a thing.

Well, she thought, pouting, he'd come around. He was a man, and she knew how to make a man come around.

Her pout became a frown. But, of course, he was at Donegal Plantation, and he and Ashley Donegal had been quite a
thing.
If he was sleeping with her again…

Hmm. The promise of an affair might not do it.

Maybe she had to promise that she would promote Donegal Plantation, though she would love it if there were a mystical ghost story involved.

She was still pondering the mode by which she would get him to agree to an interview when the switchboard signaled a call for her.

“Line four,” the operator told her.

“Who is it?”

“Some man who insists you're going to want what he has to give you,” the operator told her, bored. “Look, I'm not the FBI. I don't know who he is. You said to send through anything promising—”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, thanks.”

She picked up the phone.

“Marty?”

The voice was deep, quiet and husky.

“Yes?” she said. “Who is—”

“You want an interview. You want to know what's really going on. You want to break it free. Well, I'll do it for you.”

Jake! It had to be Jake. Oh, and he was FBI now, or something governmental, and he was one of the big shots on the case. But he did remember high school, did remember that they'd flirted and teased and that she'd been the hottest thing in his class.

“Oh, you sweetie!” she said. “Thank you, thank you! Can you come in—”

“No, but you can come out,” he said. “I'll tell you where to leave your car so that it's not seen. And I'll tell you the easiest way to get to me. No cameras. This is between you and me. But it will help you get to the truth. I can't say more—you have to really solve this on your own after what I tell you. But I won't speak if there's anyone else there, so come alone. I mean it. Don't tell anyone where you're going. I can't be involved in this when the news gets out.”

“All right, all right. Where should I be? When?”

She listened. She hung up, delighted.

Her secretary stopped her as she headed out for her car. “You have the newscast at eleven, remember?”

“I'll be back. I've got a lead. I've got plenty of time. I just need to meet with an informant—a local informant. It pays to be me!”

Marty tore out of her office, mentally planning her speed. How fast could she go without being in danger of the cops stopping her?

Pretty damned fast,
she told herself.

Oh, this was it! This was it! The case of a lifetime.

 

By the time Jake came downstairs, he found that he was the last to do so. The others were arrayed in the roadside parlor, seated in the big wingback chairs by the fire and the massive Duncan Phyfe sofa. Jackson's hair was still wet, so he had obviously just arrived. Ashley had showered and changed into jeans and a tailored blouse; her damp hair was tied in a queue at her nape.

“The house itself is seldom locked,” Frazier said as Jake entered the room. “We're a bed-and-breakfast. We have a restaurant, and we're open to the public. God knows when the rifle was taken. I haven't been up to that little attic museum space in years.” Frazier glanced over at Ashley. “Have you been up there?”

She shook her head. “Sally Mayfield, one of our housekeepers, last did a dusting up there three or
four weeks ago, I think. Sally would have noticed if something had been gone, and she would have told me. So I'd say that it had to have been taken within the last three weeks.”

“When were most of the reenactors here last? They still meet ahead of time, right? And what about Civil War roundtables? Frazier, you used to have them here now and then,” Jake said. He heard the front door open as he was speaking; Cliff had arrived to join them. He glanced over at Jackson for a silent communication.

Cliff remained a prime suspect. They needed to keep a close eye on him.

Ashley didn't want to believe it. He didn't, either. Cliff had always been around when he'd been younger; he'd always been strong and steady and decent, and he loved Donegal Plantation, just as he'd always loved the family.

Frazier was thoughtful. “Yes, of course. I'm not sure of the date of the most recent.”

“We had a meeting out in the barn about two and half weeks ago. The out-of-towners weren't here, but the rest of us were,” Cliff volunteered.

“Everyone?” Jackson asked.

“Every one of the locals except for John Ashton,” Cliff said. “He had a tour group in the city that he had to take out himself. Some bigwigs from the tourist board. And obviously, out of our group, I have continual access to the house. And I suppose I have the physical ability to have done all of it, while, no
offense, Frazier, I don't see you committing this crime at your age, and I sure as hell don't begin to see Ashley or Beth committing it. I wish I knew how to clear myself, because no matter what you all say or how you act, I know damned well I have to remain a prime suspect.”

“You even have motive,” Jackson said pleasantly.

“Yes, I should own the house. But…”

“But?” Angela asked gently.

“Whoever did this might want the whole place to fall apart. Let's face it, if the place is tainted by a recent murder and a killer who isn't caught, people could be afraid to come. I'd never want to do that,” Cliff said.

“We all survive because of Donegal Plantation—well, except for Beth, who could get a great job anywhere,” Ashley said. “But Cliff is right. There's no reason for him to want to lower the value on this place. Besides, Cliff doesn't even have to wait for Frazier and me to die—he owns a piece of the land, and he has a lifetime lease on his apartment in the stables.”

“Bitterness,” Jake said. “I mean, if we're looking for motive. Let's face it, this whole thing is sick. Cliff, you're the outsider. You were the product of an illicit affair, historically speaking.”

“Two illicit affairs, really,” Cliff said. He never took a seat; he stood there and shrugged sheepishly. “I can't prove anything, but I'll answer any question
you may have. Obviously, I didn't stash a body in the stables—they were searched. Of course, I could have stashed the drugged body of our friend in my apartment and joined the group. I would have had to have been terribly crafty, though, since the place was teeming with people, and the entrance to my apartment is easily visible from the grounds.”

“And how did you return the body, then—by the river?” Jake asked him.

“You might have done that to throw off suspicion,” Angela told him.

“I might have,” Cliff agreed. “Except that I didn't. I'm going to feed the horses,” he said, then, “But I'm available to you anytime—I won't be leaving the property.” He smiled. “See you all at dinner?”

“We're having crab cakes. My best!” Beth assured him.

When Cliff left, there was an uncomfortable moment of silence in the room.

“I don't think—” Ashley began.

“None of us wants to think, but we have to weigh all the factors, eliminate the impossible and start looking at the possible,” Jackson said to her gently. “Sometimes a killer wants to inject himself into the investigation.”

“Cliff isn't—”

“It's not impossible, Ashley,” Jackson said.

“It is impossible,” she said stubbornly. “Cliff is part of the family.”

“In the old days, brothers would kill brothers to be king,” Jackson said.

“Look, Ashley,” Jake said, leaning toward her. “Hopefully we'll be able to clear Cliff soon.”

“So, we're all careful. We all stick together, and we keep doors locked. Agreed?” Jackson asked. “I've got Will and Whitney on their way out here now with some new equipment, and Jenna is interviewing Justin Binder and his family in the city. I'm going to pay a call on Ramsay Clayton—I believe he's still in residence at his old family home down the road—and have a talk with him. There are still a couple of uniformed officers outside, but I think part of the team should always be at the house. Jake and Angela?”

“I'm here,” Jake assured him. “I'll get on the computer.”

Jackson nodded. He looked down at Angela and squeezed her hand, and Jake knew that her assignment was to discover what she
felt
about the house.

Frazier walked over to Ashley. She stood quickly, hugging him. He hugged her silently in return. “I'm for a nap,” he said. “At my age…” He apologized to the others.

“I'll be in my room, too,” Ashley told him.

“A nap sounds good to me,” Beth said, yawning. “And then dinner.”

Angela laughed. “Oh, my God, after that delicious lunch you prepared! I'm not sure I'll be able to eat dinner. I'm going to…search the house. Combine a little work with exercise.”

“Search for what?” Ashley asked her.

“Evidence,” she said softly.

Ashley shook her head. “But that won't help us. Every man had access to the house at some point. What evidence could we possibly find that would be evidence? And the cops have been here, too.”

“I never really know what I'm looking for,” Angela said. She glanced at Jake. “But it's good to walk around and think and look, and then you sometimes find what you didn't know you were looking for. If that makes sense.”

“I'll be in the study,” he assured her. “If you need me.”

Beth and Frazier headed for the stairway, arm in arm as they walked up the stairs.