Darkest Journey (15 page)

Ethan finished the last of his coffee and rose. He had an eight o'clock meeting with Randy, and, with Jude here, he could leave without worrying about Charlie's safety. It bothered him that—just like Albion Corley and Farrell Hickory—she was in the killer's sights and he had no idea why.

And despite the lack of any real connection, his gut told him that the cleaning woman who had been killed in Baton Rouge had run afoul of that same killer, too.

“I've got to get to my meeting with Randy. I doubt he has anything new, unfortunately. He's a good cop, but there hasn't been a damned thing to go on with this case.”

“I'll be here. The
Journey
arrives in New Orleans on Tuesday night and leaves again Wednesday, so we've got time before we need to board.”

“Good.” Ethan hesitated. “I'd like to stop in Baton Rouge on our way to New Orleans.”

“Something going on there I should know about?”

“I know the police are on it, but a cleaning woman was killed right outside the college where she worked.”

“The connection?” Jude asked.

“Same college where Albion Corley taught,” Ethan said.

“I see. It's a thread—a slim thread.”

“I know, but the way I see it, we've got no choice but to grasp at threads.”

“You'd better wake Ms. Moreau first and let her know I'm here. I understand she's a crack shot, and I'd really hate for her to think I was an intruder and plant a bullet in me.”

Ethan agreed. He headed upstairs and knocked on Charlie's door. She threw the door open a second later, easing any fear he'd had that he would have to wake her. She had showered and dressed for the day in jeans and a tank top—both blue, enhancing the sky blue of her eyes.

“I'm heading into town,” he said, “and I didn't want you to freak out when you went down and found Jude at your dining room table. Your plan is certainly coming together.”

“Hey!” she protested. “I wasn't sitting around cackling and plotting. I just wanted to help catch a killer.”

He didn't reply, only turned to head down the stairs. She followed.

Jude stood to greet her, and she smiled and reached out a hand to him.

“Ms. Moreau, Charlie, I've heard all about you and seen your face often enough in Alexi's pictures and on screen. It's a pleasure,” Jude told her.

“And I'm delighted to meet you, since Alexi is alive and well—not to mention happy—because of you,” Charlie said.

Ethan watched the exchange between them. They were going to be just fine. “I imagine I'll be an hour or so.”

“We'll be here,” Jude said. “And if Charlie needs to go anywhere, I'll be happy to accompany her.”

“Let me know if you head out,” Ethan said, and caught Jude's eye. The reassurance he saw there confirmed what he'd already learned in the Krewe. They were a tight-knit group and always had each other's backs. “You'll want to get packed,” he told Charlie.

“Oh?”

“We're leaving this afternoon.”

She had the grace to look away, uncomfortable.

“For New Orleans?” she asked.

“For New Orleans,” he said. “The
Journey
was in Baton Rouge yesterday, she'll be down by Houmas today, and tomorrow she'll return to New Orleans. She'll head out again the next morning. As you wished, you'll be on it. And so will we.”

8

C
harlie had a guard—or a babysitter. Whichever way she chose to look at it, Jude McCoy was here and not with Ethan or anywhere else because he was watching over her.

And she was grateful for that.

He was friendly and charming as he told her about the theater Alexi and Clara were renovating. It was an entirely new experience for both of them, though Clara had at least been a stage manager and worked as an assistant casting director several times, but neither of them had actually managed a theater. The building itself was historic, and they had plans to bring in both professional shows and to offer the space for community outreach, bringing in free children's theater to benefit the area.

“I'm sure they're going to do well,” Charlie said. “They're both so talented, and I would know, because I've worked with both of them.”

“I know. I've seen the pictures,” Jude reminded her.

Charlie grinned. “It was great when we were all based in NOLA. It's a great place for performers of any kind. You can hear better music on the streets of the French Quarter than you can for big bucks in any city in this country.”

“So how's the movie going?” he asked her. “It's good to know the film industry is busy here at home.”

She smiled. Jude didn't much look as though he was “home.” Of course, he was from New Orleans, but they were both from Louisiana. He was very formal in his dark suit. She'd always envisioned FBI agents wearing dark suits, and he was exactly what she'd imagined. Tall, dark, striking, assured—which made her very happy for her friend Alexi, since Jude and Alexi were definitely a couple.

“What are you grinning at?” he asked her.

“Are all FBI agents tall and fit and forced to wear suits?”

“Of course not,” he protested.

“So you don't always wear suits?”

“No, we're not all tall,” he told her. “So tell me about your movie.”

“It's really good. It's not a horror flick, even though there
are
ghosts. It's social commentary wrapped up in a great suspense story. It should do a lot of good for the area. Of course, it was already doing a lot of good, providing jobs, getting some nice PR—until I found a dead man on our set,” she added softly.

“What about your role? With you leaving for a week, will you mess up the filming schedule?”

She shook her head. “A lot of my scenes are already in the can, filmed before all the ‘ghost' stuff happened. You know movies are seldom shot in order, right? We filmed some of the ghost scenes the first day I arrived. They shot some of the other characters' scenes before I even got here. I was finishing up a webisode.”

“I've seen your webisodes. Alexi watches them religiously.”

“She's a good friend.”

“She says the same of you,” he told her. Then his cell rang, and he excused himself and walked away to take the call.

When he returned, he told her, “Ethan's spoken with Brad Thornton and cleared you for the week. He had you penciled in for tomorrow, but he rescheduled you for this afternoon. Can you pack up and be ready to go in about thirty minutes? Brad needs you for about two hours, and then he'll do pickup shots when you're back.”

“Um, sure,” Charlie said. She leaped up, feeling guilty. She'd made a point of telling her dad she couldn't leave Brad and his movie, but when the ghost had pointed to the Mississippi, she'd known she had to get aboard the
Journey
somehow. Clara and Alexi had made it easy for her.

“Good. We'll probably get in fairly late. Ethan wants to stop in Baton Rouge on the way, so we'll probably hit NOLA around eleven or so.”

“Okay,” Charlie said. “I'll be ready to go ASAP.” She hurried up the stairs.

As she prepared, she thought about Ethan's strange behavior the night before—not when he'd knocked angrily at her door, but before that, at the café, when he'd been riveted to the story of the cleaning woman who'd been killed in Baton Rouge.

That had to be the explanation for why he wanted to stop there on the way to New Orleans, but why did it matter so much to him when they had two murders to solve right here in St. Francisville?

Baton Rouge was a major city, the capital of Louisiana. It had more crime, and certainly more murders, than tiny St. Francisville.

But Ethan wanted to know more about this particular murder, and she didn't need Jude to tell her so.

But why?

And then she realized that the
Journey
had been in Baton Rouge yesterday. With her father aboard.

And no matter what Ethan said, she knew that her father was a suspect.

Ridiculous.

Ethan had said he didn't believe her father was the killer, and she was certain he wasn't lying. She didn't need to feel fear for her father—no matter what Detective Laurent might think.

But even though Ethan didn't suspect her father, for some reason he did think the murders of Albion Corley, Farrell Hickory and the woman in Baton Rouge were connected.

But how?

And more important, who was the killer and how could he be stopped?

* * *

Randy Laurent still had nothing. They'd spent time doing background checks. They'd sent officers to Baton Rouge to question anyone involved with Albion Corley. No one knew anything useful.

“I'm planning on a trip to Baton Rouge myself,” Ethan told him.

“Don't trust us locals anymore, huh?” Randy asked him.

Ethan shook his head. “You know it's not that. I just need to get the feel of the place again, ask around myself.”

Randy nodded. “Just remember those are my friends over there, okay?”

“I will. So on another note, what's going on with the Hickory Plantation?”

“Farrell's son is there now, and he's not a suspect. We have a dozen sworn witnesses who say he was in school when his dad was killed. And by school I mean Harvard, so, no, he didn't slip back here from Boston to kill his dad, then take off again.”

“Was anyone besides his dad living at the place when he left for the semester?”

“No, there's a staff there during the day, but that's it. Hickory Plantation isn't that big, remember. They do tours, but they don't take overnight guests. The family keeps the upstairs for themselves. People come to do Rosedown Plantation and the Myrtles, then find Hickory once they're here. It hasn't been featured on every ghost show on TV, for one thing. Not that I don't think it's as historically interesting. It just doesn't have the same hype. In any case, they've always closed up at five o'clock sharp. The day Hickory was murdered, the cleaning staff and the last guide went home shortly after they saw him leave, wearing his uniform. No one there knows anything about where he went.”

“I'd like to take a drive out anyway,” Ethan said, then heard his phone beep and glanced down at it. Chance had texted earlier to say he was finally in the process of emailing the photos after a computer crash had caused an unexpected delay. “Chance Morgan is sending me some photos, but the files are pretty large. Can I bring them up on one of the computers here?”

“Of course.”

“So we'll take half an hour or so, drive out to the Hickory Plantation, then come back and look at photos.”

Randy shrugged. “Sure. Whatever you want. You know, we're not totally incompetent. I did talk to the plantation staff, and I didn't just take Farrell's son at his word. I went through the kid's phone and his iPad.”

“I'm sure you did. But—”

“But we're all grasping at whatever we can,” Randy said. “I know. I'm doing it, too. But what do you think you're going to find?”

“I have no idea,” Ethan told him. “But I'm willing to try anything. I'm also working the cruise angle, looking at the reenactment on the
Journey
. I need to talk to the locals who were working as extras that day.”

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.