Darkest Journey. Heather Graham
and find out everything he knew about the victims and whatever they’d pieced together about the killer.
Charlie just might be investigating on her own, relying on that special talent of hers.
And that could prove very dangerous.
* * *
Charlie paced the old house her dad owned just on the outskirts of St. Francisville. It was a wonderful old place, built sometime right before the start of the Civil War. It wasn’t a plantation house and had never been a working farm. It had been built by a man who had worked the riverboats, which made it a perfect fit for her father, with his passion for history and his current position on a riverboat himself. It wasn’t a large place, but there had always been enough room for their family, with three bedrooms upstairs plus a living room, dining room, office and library/family room—and modern kitchen—downstairs. Each bedroom had a fireplace, as did the living room. It was furnished with a mishmash of antiques that somehow worked, and her dad knew the origin of each piece of furniture. Only the big-screen television and entertainment center were new.
She loved her home....
Loved to remember her mom working in the kitchen or the seasonal flower beds she was so proud of. The sense of loss remained, of course, but Charlie thought both she and her dad had adjusted well, loving the memories and embracing them, but also finding satisfaction, even joy, in the lives they led now.
Right now, though, she didn’t want to be home. She didn’t want to care for her mother’s flowers, look through scrapbooks or even learn lines for her upcoming scenes. She didn’t want to read or catch a movie on Netflix, not when two people had been murdered and either a newly dead man or a long-ago ghost had called out to her by name. She felt connected to this case, compelled to do something to help solve it, but Ethan had sent her home instead, leading to her current restless frustration.
Ethan.
She really didn’t want to think about Ethan, which was pretty much impossible, seeing as she was the one who had asked him to come back and look into this case. Because while she wasn’t afraid of graveyards—or even the dead, when it came to that—she was afraid. Something very bad was on the horizon.
No, very bad things had already happened!
And she knew he would help with the situation, because she could tell him things, like the fact that she’d heard a dead man call her name, things she couldn’t possibly tell the police.
She just wished he’d turned stodgy and perhaps developed a giant beer belly.
No, she didn’t wish that, she just wished...
Wished she didn’t still find him so incredibly compelling.
She told herself to forget about Ethan for now.
Which was next to impossible when the rest of the day seemed to stretch out boringly forever, even if it was actually more than half over and so far talking to him had been the best thing in it.
She couldn’t help marveling at the speed with which he’d arrived; she’d talked to Clara last night, telling her what had happened, but she hadn’t reached Krewe headquarters until this morning.
She would definitely go crazy if she kept thinking about Ethan—and the dead.
She had to get out.
She hadn’t lied; she’d come home just as she’d promised. Ethan couldn’t possibly object if she hung out with other people and made sure she was never alone, could he? She quickly texted Brad.
Going crazy. Need any help on set? she wrote.
A few minutes later, he texted her back.
Always. Left the field to the cops. Filming at Dad’s office downtown—he donated the space. Come on in. Help with mikes and lighting.
She quickly responded On my way, then grabbed her bag and keys, and headed out. It didn’t take her more than a few minutes to reach the downtown office building Brad’s father owned. The security guard downstairs, whom she’d known since she was a child, greeted her by name. He immediately directed her to the second floor, where Brad was filming in the back conference room.
She waited outside in the quiet hallway before she heard Brad call “Cut!” Then she knocked and went in. There was no crowd of extras on hand for this scene, just Jennie with her makeup box, Mike Thornton with his camera, Luke Mayfield handling sound, Barry Seymour for lighting and George Gonzales keeping an eye on continuity. The only two actors in the room were those playing the oil-company exec and the senator, Harry Grayson and Blane Pica. And Jimmy Smith was standing on the sidelines, observing.
Despite the unexpected interruption in his planned shooting schedule, Brad was going with the flow. He beckoned her over as she entered. She waved to the others and walked toward him. Brad immediately invited her to watch the footage he’d just shot.
She looked into the camera as he replayed the latest scene. Afterward she looked over at Harry and Blane, and smiled. “Great stuff. Do you two sound scuzzy or what?”
“Thanks,” Blane said, accepting the compliment with a pleased nod. He was from New York, and had been a couple of years ahead of Charlie and Brad at Tulane. He was heavyset, though a lot of his weight was muscle, and he was slightly balding, making him a perfect movie villain. Harry, on the other hand, was older, a seasoned actor Brad had met when working on a music video in New Orleans for a major producer. He was thin and wiry, with a sharp face that usually wore a pleasant smile unless the part called for something else. When he chose to, he could do grim and threatening very well.
The scene Brad had just shot came before the one he’d finished the other night, when the two men had been chasing her, ready to kill her because she’d discovered their plans.
“They only look good because of the great lighting,” Barry said teasingly. The actors only rolled their eyes.
“Yeah, right. Everyone goes to see a movie for the great lighting,” Jennie said drily.
“Actually, sometimes they do. They just don’t know it,” Barry said. “Lighting can be everything.”
Brad cleared his throat. “Movies really belong to the director. All film buffs know that.”
“Go ahead and delude yourself,” Mike teased. “Real aficionados know the cameraman is everything.”
“Think what you want. I know what really matters,” Luke said, waving one hand dismissively. “Ever since the ‘talkies,’ sound has been the heart and soul of a film.”
“I don’t even pretend people come to see who the makeup artist was,” Jennie said.
“Or the prop master,” George put in. “But if you want my opinion, I say we stop this ridiculous conversation and head out for something to eat—and a beer.”
“But I just got here to help,” Charlie said.
“Too late. You can help us choose a restaurant,” George said. “What’s the cool place to see and be seen in St. Francisville these days? Or, even better, relax and have a great, hassle-free meal?”
Charlie thought of Mrs. Mama’s, a local café tucked away on a side street, where they could order some of the best shrimp and grits she’d had anywhere. “I know just the place,” she said.
Twenty minutes later they were seated, and a waitress was hurrying over to them. Charlie was looking at her menu when she realized the waitress was standing behind her, waiting for her drink order.
“What will you have, honey? Beer? Iced tea?”
Charlie turned and started to speak, and then she gasped softly and said, “Nancy? Nancy Deauville?”
It was the same woman who, ten years ago, had directed the action on the night Charlie was tied to a tombstone.
Like everyone involved with that horror show, Nancy had apologized. She and Charlie had even managed to act cordial for the rest