“Not that kind of crew,” Meg said. “It’s Krewe with a K, like the Mardi Gras krewes in New Orleans.”
“I was in a Mardi Gras krewe once, back in college. My frat went down for it. One of the best times I ever had,” Daniel said.
“Our Krewe is a special FBI unit formed by a man named Adam Harrison, who brought together a group of agents who, like me, can see ghosts like you. He needed them to work a haunted-house case in New Orleans, and the Krewe name just seemed right,” Meg explained. “But much more important right now, Scarlet, what did you find?”
“Billie did die here about three weeks after he and the others arrived. They had a funeral and buried him in the cemetery up the mountain. There’s no marker for him now, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t one then. He probably had a cross that’s long gone now, and the historical society must not know about him, so they never put up a new one.”
“So that guy didn’t kill Nathan. And that’s important how?” Daniel asked.
“Process of elimination,” Meg said again. “So what did you do for a living, Daniel?”
He grinned. “Tour guide. I took people hiking up in the Blue Ridge. I was pretty damned good, too.” He paused. “Not good enough to hear a murderer sneak up behind me, though.”
Instinctively, Scarlet stood and walked over to him—and then awkwardly realized that she couldn’t put an arm around his shoulders.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
He nodded. “Yeah, so I am. I wish I’d met you while I was alive.” There was something wistful in his eyes.
She smiled and realized that she probably would have liked him. “We’ll find out what’s going on,” she promised.
“I read up on him, you know,” Daniel said.
“Pardon?” Scarlet asked.
He pointed to the statue of Nathan Kendall. “Our however-many greats grandfather. I know he became an outlaw after the war, but he had a moral compass and got out when he realized what was happening. And then he came out here and found a little piece of heaven. And love.” He shook his head sadly, looking so real and solid that Scarlet could have sworn she could reach out and touch him. “It must have killed his soul, seeing Jillian killed, too.”
“Yes, I’m sure it did,” Scarlet said.
Suddenly Meg’s phone rang. Scarlet almost jumped, then walked over to listen.
All she heard at first was “I see,” followed by “How sad.” A minute later Meg glanced at Scarlet with a grin. “Yes, we’re fine, and we’ve taken a few steps forward here, too. You’ll see when you get here.”
She hung up, and her expression grew somber again. “The dead woman was named Cassandra Wells. She moved to the area not long ago because—”
“Because she’s a descendant of Nathan Kendall,” Daniel interrupted.
“You knew her?” Meg asked him.
“I can’t say I knew her, really. But after I was killed, when I realized I wasn’t going anywhere, I’d walk around town at night, eavesdropping. I thought if I just listened long enough, maybe I’d find out who killed me. One night I went and hung out in the Moose Pot Pie. She seemed like a good kid, nice to everyone, and whenever she had a break, she had her head in a book. I used to go back there, and I got to know a lot about her. I knew she’d come here because of Nathan Kendall, too. I knew we were distantly related. I knew she was trying hard to make something of her life. She didn’t deserve to die that way.” He looked over at Meg then. “You’d better get this guy. This has to stop before someone else gets killed.”
“We will, Daniel. I swear it. My fellow Krewe members are out there now, interviewing everyone she worked with, her landlady, all her friends, to see if they saw anything suspicious or even just out-of-the-ordinary in some way. Her picture is going out over the media, and they’re asking for help from anyone who might have seen her. Killers make mistakes, Daniel. No matter how good they think they are, they make mistakes.”
“Scarlet,” Daniel said, “you’ve met her.”
“I have?” Scarlet asked.
He nodded gravely. “One night. I heard her talking to some guy about the great museum up at the Conway Ranch. She said one of the best things was the curator. Said you gave her a tour.”
“How recently was this?”
“Sometime in the last few weeks, I think,” he said.
She couldn’t believe she had met the dead woman. A wave of sadness rippled through her.
“They’ll catch him,” she said passionately.
“Some killers get away,” Daniel said.
“We won’t let that happen,” Meg vowed.
Daniel looked at Scarlet. She thought he seemed more upset about Cassandra’s death than his own. “Whoever did this is a monster, Daniel, and the Krewe won’t stop until they get him. They won’t give up.”
He studied her. “Your ex, you mean?”
“All of them,” she said firmly.
How the hell did he know about her situation?
He really did eavesdrop.
He suddenly stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders.
Just as she had that night in the bar, she felt his touch.
“You understand now, right? I was afraid it was going to be you. You were right here, working at the museum. I thought he’d go after you right away. You have to be so careful, really careful.”
And then he faded away.
Scarlet turned to look at Meg.
Meg shrugged. “You get used to it,” she said. “It takes tremendous energy for a ghost to make himself visible, not to mention to touch someone the way he touched you. He’s used up all his energy for now.”
“But he’ll be back?”
Meg nodded.
Scarlet walked back to her desk. Was it going to matter if they found out the truth about Nathan’s and Jillian’s murders? That was so long ago.
And the man who’d killed Daniel had stepped up his game. Three people in a week, dead.
She walked over to the statue of Nathan Kendall. He didn’t look anything like her or Daniel, yet she suddenly felt a fierce bond with the two of them.
Ghosts really did exist.
And mannequins didn’t move on their own.
She suddenly realized that it was almost certainly the killer who’d been in the museum while she slept.
The killer had moved the statue.
And yet, he had left her alive.
Why?
Suddenly she wondered if the killer was saving her up to be some kind of horrific finale, the last of the Kendall descendants to die.
* * *
Braxton Hall was young, barely twenty-one. He’d been quarterback for his high school football team and had hoped to parlay that into a college scholarship and career. But a broken kneecap—the result of a skateboarding accident—had ruined that dream. Now he was attending a local junior college and working at the Moose Pot Pie.
Stan White was thirty, liked his job at the Moose Pot Pie—he’d told Diego at the onset that he intended to stay at the restaurant forever—and liked living close to Rocky Mountain National Park. He was also a great fan of recreational marijuana—a hindrance at the moment, since he just kept saying, “Oh man, not cool, not cool. Oh man, not cool.”
Diego seldom interviewed suspects or witnesses together. But he didn’t suspect either man of being guilty, and he hoped that something one said might trigger something important in the memory of the other.
Stan was slouched back in his chair, legs extended beneath the table. Braxton was sitting right up, hands slack in his lap, eyes red-rimmed.
“Cassandra was the best,” Braxton said.
“The Moose Pot Pie seems like a pretty laid-back place, but isn’t it unusual for restaurant workers to be bonded?” Diego asked him. “Did anyone m
ind?”
“If they minded, they could get a job somewhere else,” Braxton said. “The owner is a great guy, but he was ripped off by a manager about five years ago, so he started insisting that his employees be bonded. But he’s one of the best bosses out there. He doesn’t breathe over your shoulder, and he left Cassandra in charge most of the time and didn’t even come in. The guy’s name is Vince Guttenberg, in case you want to talk to him.”
“I know,” Diego told him. “And one of my colleagues is talking to him now. So you two were both there with Cassandra ’til the end of shift last night, right?”
“Yup,” Stan said.
“No, you cut out about a half hour early—your foot was hurting you,” Braxton reminded him.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Fell down my stairs last week and broke a little tiny bone in my foot,” Stan said. “Hurts like a mother. That’s why I’ve taken something for, you know, the pain.”
“Stan, being stoned is legal here,” Diego assured him. “It’s okay. I just need your help trying to find out what happened to her. Was anyone hanging around in the street when you left, like maybe they were waiting for her to come out? Did either of you see anybody watching her last night? Did she talk to anyone in the past few days who seemed angry or upset?”
“I don’t think so,” Stan said, as Braxton shook his head.
“What happened when you closed up?” he asked, turning to Braxton.
“We locked the door at ten fifteen, when the last customers left. We don’t seat anyone after ten, but we don’t force ’em to leave if they’re already inside. So we got the last people out. I cleaned tables, while Cassandra balanced the day’s receipts and took the last charge card tips out of the register.”
“And then?”
“Then we left together.”
“And where did you go?” Diego asked.
“We started to walk to our cars together. But there was a band playing at the Twisted Antler that Cassandra liked—local guys—so she decided to stop in for a while before going home.”
“Did you see her go into the bar?” Diego asked.
“No, we were by the city parking lot. There were still people out—it’s really safe there. I headed to my car. She walked down the street.” He looked down and then at Diego. “I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t. I wonder if she’d be alive—or if I’d be dead, too.”
* * *
Scarlet was amazed to realize that she enjoyed Daniel’s company, even if he was a ghost.
She and Meg kept reading the journals, while Daniel, who had reappeared after about twenty minutes, actually became helpful, wandering through the museum and periodically commenting on one piece or another, which had the unexpected effect of making Scarlet remember some bit of information stored at the back of her mind, and that would lead her to explore some new angle, either in the journal or online. At one point Daniel read aloud from the century-old note that described a Civil War–era surgeon’s bag. “‘Last used by Dr. Avery Simpson, after a mining accident. Dr. Avery was called in to treat miner Brady Glee, possibly an alias of notorious outlaw Brian Gleason, but Glee unfortunately expired despite the surgeon’s efforts.’” He stopped reading. “Did you know about this?”
“Of course,” Scarlet said. “I know every artifact in here. But I’ve researched the possibility that the dead man might have been Brian Gleason and haven’t found any support for it. Of course, I also can’t find any reference to Gleason’s death anywhere.”
“Doesn’t that make it more likely that Glee was Gleason and did die in that mining accident?” Meg asked.
“Yes, I guess you’re right. It’s just that in academia we try to find supporting sources before considering information verified,” Scarlet said.
Daniel laughed softly. “This isn’t academia, Scarlet.”
Scarlet set down the journal she’d been reading, picked up her laptop and started keying in her notes.
“All right, let’s see how the dates connect. Nathan bought the property from Rollo Conway in late 1868. His old buddies arrived in 1869, soon after he’d married Jillian. Billie Merton died in November of 1869. The mine accident was in the fall of 1870.” She looked up. “And Nathan and Jillian were also killed in the fall of 1870.”
“Before or after the accident?” Daniel asked. “Because if the mine accident was before Nathan and Jillian were murdered, and if Brady Glee was Brian Gleason, then he was dead before the murders, too, so he couldn’t have been guilty, either.”
“I don’t have a date for the accident,” Scarlet said. “I’ll have to research that.”
“Does the mine still exist?” Meg asked.
“No, it was sealed up around 1910,” Scarlet said. “They mined for gold there, though not all that successfully. They panned in the streams around here, too. Rollo Conway tried that, but he never found much. That’s why he sold this property to Nathan Kendall—he wanted to try his luck south of Estes Park.”
“And yet he came back here and he’s buried up at the cemetery,” Daniel said.
“He was an interesting man,” Scarlet said. She searched through the stack of journals on her desk and found the one she was looking for. “Here’s Nathan’s description of him. ‘Rollo is what you expect to see, rugged and fit and old—yet how old, I really don’t know. He has dark eyes that contrast with his snow-white hair and long beard. He could easily be mistaken for a preacher of some kind. Rollo, though, he claims that the ladies love him. Maybe they do—he’s as fit as a fiddle, as mean as a boar when he chooses, and he talks the good talk. A rider coming through one day told me he knew old Rollo from back East. Supposedly he still sends money back to a woman and child there, though there was never any talk of him being married. He’s mad as a hornet about selling this property. He’d kick the whole damned mountain if he could, so he told me.’”
“Sounds like the epitome of the old frontier type,” Daniel said. “I guess you do get mean when you’re always fighting off Indians and bears and whatever.”
“I don’t think he fought any Indians,” Scarlet said.
“Still, can you imagine?” Daniel asked. “A lot of this area is so pristine and beautiful. But a moose—even a pissed-off elk—can kill a man. And don’t forget the bears. Not to mention there wasn’t any real law. Think how dark it is out here at night now, how the forest seems to stretch forever. Those guys had to be pretty hardy. There was no road out here or anything. Stanley was responsible for the first decent road to Estes Park.”
“Have you researched Rollo Conway?” Meg asked Scarlet.
“I have what information there is. He didn’t fight for the North or the South in the Civil War. He was already out here when the fighting began. He was originally from Massachusetts. There are records of him having property here and a bit south. I don’t believe he ever found the gold he was looking for.”
“What about the woman back East?” Daniel asked.
“I’ve never found any record of her. That doesn’t mean that she didn’t exist, of course. They didn’t keep great records back then to begin with, and lots of what they did have was lost over the years.”
“Back to the important stuff,” Daniel said. “If it wasn’t Billie Merton or Brian Gleason who killed Nathan and Jillian—and yes, I know we still can’t say for sure about Gleason—then if it wasn’t some stranger, that leaves the last of Nathan’s outlaw pals, Jeff Bay, or his father-in-law, cold as ice in any book.”
“Or Rollo Conway,” Scarlet mused. “But if it was Rollo, why? He needed money, so he wanted to sell the property and Nathan bought it. Nathan did him a favor.”
“Maybe he resented Nathan for having the money to buy it when he didn’t really want to sell it,” Daniel suggested.
“The way Nathan was killed, I can’t help but think that someone wanted something from him. But what???
? Scarlet asked.
“Scenario one, it was the father-in-law,” Daniel said. “He was torturing Nathan to get him to tell the truth about his past, so he could prove to his daughter that Nathan was worthless trash. Jillian comes running out of the house to see what’s going on, and he whirls around, startled, and—bang! She’s dead.”
“Scenario two,” Meg said. “Jeff Bay. Brian and Bill are dead. But back in the day they stole something valuable, and Jeff thinks Nathan still has it. He tortures Nathan, Jillian walks in on the scene—bang! She’s dead.”
“Scenario three,” Scarlet said. “Rollo Conway. But why? Killing Nathan won’t get his land back. If Rollo did it, there had to be a reason, but I have no idea what it could have been.”
“Are all the journals here?” Meg asked. “The man was certainly prolific.”
“There are a lot of them, but I’ve always thought we were missing one. There’s a gap between the last one and the one before it. He makes references in the last one to a disturbing visit, but he never says from who it was, and there’s nothing in the previous one that qualifies. Now, of course, I’m thinking it was the killer.”
They were all startled—even Daniel, who was dead!—by a sudden whoosh followed by a jolting thud.
Scarlet’s heart leaped to her throat. Meg was on her feet in a split second, her Glock out of its holster and trained across the room.
There was silence.
Then Scarlet realized what had happened.
It was the statue. The damned statue of Nathan Kendall.
It had fallen off its pedestal to the floor.
* * *
“To the best of my knowledge, everyone was accounted for after our trip to The Stanley. But I can’t swear to that,” Brett said.
Cassandra Wells’s picture was now all over the media, with the message that the police were seeking witnesses who might have seen her or anything suspicious the night before. Some broadcasters were suggesting that the Parkers’ murders had been perpetrated by the same killer, though the police themselves were keeping quiet on that score.