“I’m so sorry,” Bryan said softly, and he was. Seeing her sitting forlornly in his room, her grand diva presence dropped for the moment, he was truly sorry.
“Another possible theory—a random killing,” Bryan continued. “Maybe whoever this was just wanted to kill someone and make a massive statement. Perhaps an unhappy actor, one of those people who do need to see their names up in bright lights.”
“They wanted me dead, they wanted Marnie dead, or it was random,” Cara murmured. “It wasn’t a sudden murder—not a killing out of passion or anger. Whoever did this—for whatever reason they did it—they thought it out. Blood-bone is one of the hottest comic characters at the moment, even if he is a villain. Bad guys can be very popular, though, the best, I think, is a character like Marvel’s Deadpool—a good guy who can act badly when he needs to! Oh, I’m digressing... It has to be Marnie. Someone tried to break into her house tonight, and on her side of the duplex. I mean, who would want to kill the writer? Wait—let me go back on that. There have been dozens of times when I thought the writer ought to be smacked in the head if not shot! But once again...”
“The break-in could have been random,” Bryan said.
“But you don’t believe that for a minute, do you?”
“No.”
“But you’ve left her there alone.”
“I’ve left her alone with a very capable police officer.”
“You don’t even know her.”
“She’s capable and trustworthy.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know! Damn it, Cara—”
“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed suddenly, and he realized she was fading. He sank down at the foot of his bed and watched her; he’d seen the phenomenon before—it wasn’t always easy for spirits, especially new ones, to stay in the world.
In all, he’d had a fair amount of exposure to the souls of the departed. However they did it—be it through the power of the mind and the vast portion of the human brain never normally used, or by some other method, scientific or spiritual, yet to be discovered—learning to maintain a physical image was not something that just came with the territory of being dead; making themselves known to the living took practice.
As to his parents, Bryan figured they felt they needed to stick around and look after their boys.
Once Maeve and Hamish had realized the determination in their sons, and it became clear the boys all had the bizarre talent of seeing the dead, they hadn’t hesitated to use those talents to help their friends.
There was usually a strong reason for a soul to stick around. Often, there was some little thing, and then the dead moved on. Sometimes it was just confusion.
One time, it had been an elderly friend who had been helped to death by a nephew. Bryan, with Bruce as backup, had convinced the nephew to confess.
“But I’m really good at this!” Cara protested as she faded. “I can knock on doors!”
With that protest, she was gone.
Bryan got ready for bed and lay down to sleep. The next days would be long ones.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about the theories. Yes, you had to look for motive, or even lack of a particular motive, such as in a random killing, to find a killer.
Everyone apparently loved Marnie Davante.
Everyone apparently did not love Marnie Davante.
The comic con had offered an amazing stage for a dramatic murder.
Facts and images filtered through Bryan’s mind. He didn’t fight it; sleeping on a problem often helped.
In the realm of sleep somewhere, something else in his mind kicked in.
He was walking through a graveyard. With Marnie. It was Hollywood Forever, where so many of the beloved stars lay. The owners tried to make the beautiful cemetery relevant to the living as well, showing movies on the mausoleum walls, hosting music events and more.
There was a band playing in the cemetery in his dream. As he looked at Marnie, he felt a sharp stab in his heart as he feared she might be dead.
But she wasn’t. She was flesh and blood, alive, beautiful, looking up at him with amazing trust in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry—fear does it, you know.”
“Fear of the dead?” he asked her softly. “They will not hurt you.”
She smiled ruefully. “Fear of you.”
“Of me?”
She didn’t answer him; she looked ahead and told him, “There. One of my favorite graves here. The statuary really means something—it’s Johnny Ramone and his guitar.” Then she paused and looked at him. “But we’re really here for Cara!” she said.
“Cara,” he agreed.
“It was supposed to be me,” she whispered.
He woke up; his alarm was going off, and a brilliant sun was shining through a slit in the drapes.
It was time to find the truth behind the theory.
5
Marnie was not sure if she had drifted off for a while or if she had actually slept. She must have done so; she had a dull, throbbing headache, but the night had been all but torture.
She threw off the covers of the guest room bed and slid her legs out, yawning as she came to a sitting position, her feet on the floor.
It was good that her feet were on the ground.
Cara was back.
She was seated in a wingback chair beside the dresser.
“I thought you were going to sleep all day,” Cara told her.
Marnie covered her face with her hands.
She almost screamed aloud. She held it in.
It wouldn’t help, she knew.
Instead, she spoke softly. “You’re not here. Oh, dear God. You are not here. You are not here!”
“Marnie. Please, I’m so sorry. I am here, but you mustn’t be upset. I don’t want to hurt you. You are probably the best person I ever knew. I mean, actually, really kind. Some people are fair-weather friends. Not you. Some people only want to use you—and they’re terrified of being used by you. But, Marnie, you’re just the best. I don’t want to torture you. Though, in truth, this ghost business is not so bad. I do intend to become very, very good at it. It’s not so easy. If you can just accept that this is really a cool thing, all will be well.”
Marnie swallowed. She could hear Cara as clearly as if she were there—in the flesh. Her voice was just a little bit raspy; a little bit like the wind.
“I need a therapist,” she murmured.
“You don’t already see a therapist? This is Hollywood—everyone in Hollywood sees a therapist.”
“Technically, this is just Los Angeles,” Marnie said.
What an idiotic argument. Almost everyone out here did see a therapist, that was true. And she clearly needed to talk to someone about what was happening to her. What would she tell them? That she spoke with a dead friend?
“The thing is, Marnie, you are in danger!” Cara said.
There was a knock at the door. Bridget’s concerned voice came through. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, thank you.”
Marnie stood and walked over to the bedroom door. Her cousin stood there looking at her, anxiety clear in her eyes. Detective Manning stood just behind Bridget.
True to her word, she had stood guard through the night.
“Hey, I really didn’t want to disturb you, but it is getting late. And there’s a guy here. He said that you had an appointment. Don’t worry—I didn’t go talk to him, Sophie did. I’m still a wee bit shaky after last night.”
“It’s David Neal,” Sophie said. “I know him because Detective Vining interviewed him the day of Cara’s murder at the comic con. He said he was coming to see you about a stage manager’s job. I told him it had turned out to be a very tough set of days for you, and he was immediately apologetic. But none of us know your schedule, if you do need to see him.”
r /> Marnie had to lock down her rental space before she could make any promises, but getting a good stage manager had been at the top of her list.
“Oh, see the poor boy,” Cara said.
“When I’m ready!” she snapped.
Both Bridget and Detective Manning looked shocked by her sudden rudeness.
She pursed her lips, looking downward.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Tell him two minutes for me, if you will please. Again, forgive me. I’ll just shower quickly—I can do that, you know I can, Bridget—and I’ll be right out.”
“I’ll let him in and chat with him in the living room. He was there, after all—almost within touching distance—when Cara was killed,” Sophie said. “That’s what he said, and what I learned from other eyewitnesses.”
Marnie frowned. “Which means he couldn’t have killed her.”
“Physically, no,” Sophie said, turning away.
“There’s coffee on, when you’re ready,” Bridget told her.
The door closed. Marnie turned to stare at Cara.
“Oh, dear!” Cara said before Marnie could berate her.
And then she was gone.
Marnie sank back to the bed, shaking. She inhaled deeply. Had she just imagined Cara Barton?
But Bryan McFadden had seen her, too. He had taken it in stride that Cara Barton had attended her own funeral.
Here was the thing: it was traumatic, but her friend was dead. Gone. And she did have to move on. Before the comic con, she’d been so excited that she’d actually saved up the money to open her own theater, to become a producer of children’s theater.
So she would do the Hollywood thing.
She would get a therapist and deal with whatever was happening to her.
With that in mind, she marched into the shower. She made the water hot, washed quickly, emerged and vigorously dried off.
And then she remembered that she wasn’t really in her own home—her property, but Bridget’s half of the duplex—and she was standing there in a towel.
But she needn’t have worried. Bridget had apparently run over to Marnie’s side of the duplex, grabbed some clothes and had laid out jeans and a tailored cotton shirt along with clean underthings and socks—though, she realized, they had both forgotten about shoes.
That was fine.
She dressed hurriedly and headed out to the living room. Bridget, Sophie and David Neal were sipping coffee and, to her surprise, talking about local plays rather than the murder.
Seeing her enter the living room, David Neal leaped to his feet. He smiled at her uncertainly. She liked his manner. He was here—that meant he was determined. He was uncomfortable, which meant he had feelings for the fact that she had just buried a friend.
“Miss Davante,” he said. “Forgive me. I didn’t know if you remembered you were going to meet with me.”
“To be honest, and forgive me, I knew we were meeting, but I had forgotten when. I still have to find out about my venue, so all is really moot until that is sorted, but...assuming all goes well, I’m glad to meet with you face-to-face.”
He was a good-looking young man, somewhat thin—or maybe just not old enough yet to be really filled out. Dirty blond hair a little long but neatly brushed off his forehead. He might be just what she was looking for—someone with enough experience to corral children, but not so much that he wanted to tell her what to do in her own theater.
“I sent in my résumé—”
“Of course. I have it. I’ve read it. Please, sit down again,” she said.
“Thank you,” David Neal said and sat.
Bridget leaped up. “I’ll get you coffee,” she told Marnie.
“I’ll just sit here and listen,” Sophie Manning said. “If that’s all right.”
“Of course,” Marnie assured her, casting her what she hoped was a grateful glance.
She forced herself to remember the résumé David Neal had sent her. It wasn’t that hard; she hadn’t received many applications from people who had much more experience than from a theater magnet school or university of the arts. That was fine. She wanted to give young people a break—and she would eventually hire an assistant for her head stage manager.
Bridget brought coffee.
She listened as David described some of his work; he was most effusive when talking about the work he’d done with the Gallaudet Theatre for the deaf. She glanced at Bridget and Sophie as he spoke; they both seemed to like him. She thought she did, too.
She was sipping her coffee when Cara suddenly made an appearance again—or at least spoke up again.
Her voice came from right behind Marnie, almost at her ear, causing her to jump, dribble coffee and nearly pitch her mug.
“Oh, please. Ad nauseam!” Cara said. “Gag, gag. Too good to be true.”
Marnie couldn’t help but look around at the others in the room—surely they saw Cara or heard her.
They did not.
Marnie stood, smiling stiffly, trying not to show the way her coffee was swishing about in her cup as her hand shook.
“David, it’s been a pleasure. I have a ways to go, as you’re aware. I have an appointment about the space this afternoon, and after that... Well, give me a few weeks.”
“Of course, of course, and I’m sorry for... I’m so sorry. And thank you,” he said, standing, as well. He thanked Bridget for the coffee and Sophie for her help, and then he thanked Marnie again and left, heading out of the duplex. Bridget was on his tail to see him out and lock the door once he was gone.
Sophie looked at Marnie curiously. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
Marnie gave her a weak smile. “No, nothing.”
“A patrol car went by as I saw David out,” Bridget said, joining them again. “The officer waved at me. They’re watching over us.”
“We’re true to our word,” Sophie said. She glanced at her watch. “I have several hours left. It’s just nine, and Grant doesn’t want to see me until noon. They are investigating what happened last night. But...frankly, you need an alarm. Or a dog, at the least. A big one.”
“An alarm, cool,” Bridget said. “A big dog—cooler! What do you say? A big, big dog?” she asked Marnie hopefully. “The property is really Marnie’s. Writers do okay—Marnie does better, even after all these years with Dark Harbor just in syndication.”
Marnie flushed. She was grateful to Dark Harbor. She just hoped that the role wasn’t going to prove to be the entire essence of her existence.
“I always thought it would be cruel of me to have a dog,” she said. “I’m gone too often.”
“But I’m not! A dog—we’ll get a dog! I will hug it and pet it and squeeze it!” Bridget said, grinning.
“And walk it and feed it?” Marnie asked her.
“Yes, duh, of course. But mainly pet and hug. A dog—perfect!” she said.
“Really?” Sophie asked, looking over at Marnie.
“We both love dogs. I just know I travel too much to be a good pet parent,” she said.
Sophie produced a card. “This is my friend Jack. He works with police dogs who were injured or retired. He’s got some great guys you might want to take a look at.”
“Awesome,” Bridget said, taking the card. “You go get a theater today. I’ll go get a dog!”
“Okay,” Marnie said. “We need to get someone in here, too. The glass in the back, in my room, is shattered all over the place.”
“I’m on it,” Bridget told her. “I’ve already called a window installer. They’ll be here before Sophie has to leave.”
“Sophie has a life, you know,” Marnie said to Bridget.
“Not much of one, I’m afraid,” Sophie said. “I’m happy to be here this morning. But you’re right. My gun and I can’t be here at all times. Get the glass fixed. Get the dog. And find out ab
out an alarm system. You need the works. It might even be a good idea—if you can—to stay somewhere else for a while.”
“But we’ll have a dog,” Bridget said happily.
“We can’t run forever, and we can’t be afraid forever,” Marnie said.
“You need to be afraid right now!” Cara’s ghost snapped suddenly.
She startled Marnie, who swung around at the sound of her voice.
Cara was now seated in the chair David Neal had recently vacated.
“Marnie, are you sure you’re okay?” Bridget asked her anxiously.
“I’m fine, just fine,” Marnie said. “A dog will be great. I can’t wait!”
* * *
Bryan looked at the blood on the convention hall floor.
He had seen the recordings. He’d seen everything that the police had managed to get from a public that went a little crazy over cell phone videos and photos.
The problem was it was impossible to tell where the Blood-bone character had come from. Had the killer walked the floor all day long? And how the hell had he—or she—gotten out with a sword that was dripping blood? As of yet, they hadn’t found the murder weapon.
The crime scene tape was going to be coming down soon; the techs had been over the place. The management of the convention hall had been completely helpful, according to Detective Grant Vining, but it was time for life to move on. They could only put things on hold for so long when money was involved.
Setup for the next convention wouldn’t be until the end of the week, so it was easy enough for Vining to take Bryan to the hall and show him exactly where the murder had taken place.
“It’s just about impossible to place the killer,” Vining told him. “You can see the size of the hall. It was brimming with people. And these shows...they’re bigger than some of the events that offer A-list actors. People love to dress up and cosplay comic and graphic characters. The Blood-bone character is relatively new. He was created first, as you can imagine, as a comic character. Now there’s a TV series with him in it. Go figure. Wolfson. It’s always hard to figure what will become the rage. Blood-bone is the villain. A character named Lars Wolfson is the hero—yeah, you got it, something genetic turns him into a superhero wolf. Kids love Lars Wolfson, too—he wears a really great costume when he’s a wolf. Anyway, it’s all set in a futuristic world—supposedly a realistic future world, just one that suggests what we might become in another few hundred years. Genetic splicing and all that. Thing is, the villains become just as big as the heroes in these things—just as popular, and sometimes more popular.”