He was not going to appear that night.
“Mo, if you don’t take Alicia’s part, they’ll hire someone else—someone I don’t know. Or trust. Come on, please?”
“What’s wrong with Alicia?” Mo asked worriedly.
“She’s in the hospital with an emergency appendectomy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” But the last thing Mo wanted to do that night was play the Woman in White.
“If the Horseman isn’t being used—”
“The Horseman is Robbie Anderson. He’s becoming H. H. Holmes for the night in the Gauntlet—and he’s not a woman.”
Robbie Anderson was a historian, but he was also big in local theater.
“I’ve seen Robbie play a woman,” Mo said.
“Please?” Grace continued, as if Mo hadn’t spoken. “My bosses know you and love you, and they said I could ask you first!” she told her. “And you know Sondra, who’s in charge of the horror nights? She loves you. She’s said you’re our best backup possibility.”
Mo sighed. “Okay, okay. Just until Alicia can come back!”
“Pick you up in an hour.” Grace abruptly ended the conversation.
“Fine.”
She hung up. Rollo was by her side, looking at her reproachfully. He must have sensed that she was going out—and that he wasn’t going with her.
“You’ll be okay. Candy and Daniel are here. And you need to watch the house,” Mo said.
As she spoke, Candy came sweeping into the room. “Mo!”
“What?”
“Come! Come quickly.”
Mo followed Candy to the front of the house. When Candy tried to pull back the drapes, they just fluttered, so Mo took over.
“I will move them one day!” Candy insisted.
Mo nodded. “Sure, but what is it, Candy?” she asked.
“Look. Look there.”
Mo did. And then she saw him, a dark figure near the trees. He grew more distinct as she blinked.
It was man, a dead man.
It was Richard Highsmith.
Forgetting safety, Mo rushed to the door and threw it open. She slipped out of the house and called softly, “Hello! I’m here. Come and speak with me!”
The figure seemed to vanish instantly.
There was nothing there now but the trees.
“Told you! Told you he was lurking around,” Candy said.
“Tell me when you see him again, okay? I can’t do anything if he vanishes as soon as I speak. I have to get ready. Thank you, Candy. Maybe...maybe he’ll come closer to the house next time. Maybe you and Daniel can try to reach him.”
“We can try,” Candy promised her. “We can try.”
* * *
Aidan sat across from Jillian Durfey. She’d been given a soda and he was trying to make the interview easy on her.
She was still crying when he’d arrived.
She’d finally stopped. Now she just sat there dully, repeatedly denying that she’d ever had the chloroform.
There were no prints on the bottle; it had been wiped clean.
An attorney had yet to turn up.
“What do you think could have happened—if you never had the chloroform?” Aidan asked her.
She shook her head, threading her fingers through her hair.
“I...I don’t know. Someone came and put it in my room. I know that much. I’ve never seen that bottle or vial or whatever before. I swear it,” she said. Her voice wasn’t passionate anymore. It was flat and tired.
“Who do you think would have done such a thing?” he asked.
“Someone else.”
“Maybe Muscles? Or Mischief or Magic? Or...Taylor Branch?”
“That would be crazy! We all worked for Richard. We depended on him. We’re all being used and framed.”
He leaned toward her. “Jillian, we’ve pulled the security tapes from your hallway. If anyone went to your room, we’ll find out who it was.” That wasn’t the truth. The hotel manager had been apologetic and mortified to tell them that at the moment, the security cameras were for show. Their first company hadn’t worked out. The camera systems had failed and they were in process of redesigning the system.
But Jillian didn’t know that.
She lifted her head and looked at him. “All I can tell you is it wasn’t me.”
He leaned back in his chair, watching her.
“I loved him. It wasn’t me,” she said again.
Sloan was with Taylor Branch in another interrogation room. Voorhaven and Van Camp were working with Muscles, Mischief and Magic, leaving one man alone and observed by Purbeck while he waited his turn. Separating them—giving them time to sweat and wonder what the others were saying—was one way of getting at the truth.
“I don’t know what’s going on. But look at me! I’m barely a hundred pounds!” she said in confusion. “How on earth could I have done this? Knocked out a big man, dragged him to some other place and cut off his head, then found a woman and attacked her, too—all while doing the sound check.” She hesitated and seemed to brighten. “Bari!” she said. “You have to talk to Bari, the woman from the convention center. She’ll tell you. She saw me all the time. Well, almost all the time. Oh! That’s who else you need to check out—the convention center people! They were in charge of the trucks and vendors bringing people into the parking lot. Someone—”
There was a tap at the door, and Aidan rose and went to open it. Purbeck was standing there. “Sorry, but there’s a woman who got through to me. She said it’s urgent and that you weren’t answering your cell phone.”
He hadn’t been; he always had it on vibrate when he was in interrogation. He hadn’t felt the vibration, because the phone was in his jacket and it had been thrown over his chair.
“Who is it?”
“Said her name is Debbie and that she really needs to talk to you. She sounds desperate.” Purbeck shrugged. “There was a lot of music in the background and whooping and hollering. I told her I’m the lieutenant leading the case, but she wants to speak with you.”
“Thanks.”
“You know who she is?”
“Yes. She’s a stripper at Mystic Magic.”
“Ah,” Purbeck said. “Come on, you can take it in my office. I hope she’s still on the line.”
Aidan followed Purbeck to his office. Purbeck watched as he picked up the phone.
“Aidan Mahoney,” he said. “Debbie?”
“Agent Mahoney, it’s really you, right?”
“Yes, it’s really me.”
“Can you get here? Fast?”
“Yes, of course. What’s wrong?”
“No one else has seen it yet...not here, I don’t think.” She paused. “But I’m sure they will soon.”
“Seen what?”
“The picture, the picture on the news. It’s up on the web, too.”
“The picture—”
“Of the missing woman. Agent Mahoney, I do know her. She works here. She worked here, I mean. She wasn’t due in yesterday and today is her day off—but it’s her! It’s Wendy Appleby. She was— I’m not sure how I didn’t see it before, but... Oh, Agent Mahoney! She’s a friend of mine. She was a friend of mine. And she’s dead—and I’m scared! Please get out here!”
“I’m on my way, Debbie. Is there any reason you fear for your safety right now?”
The line went dead.
7
Mo sat patiently in the makeup chair while piles of white foundation were applied to her face, neck, hands and arms. Ron Cary was good at what he did; when he wasn’t working at the Haunted Mausoleum—his favorite place in the world, he’d told her—he worked for a special effects company in Hollywood.
“You’re a great subject!?
?? Ron stepped back. “Beautiful!”
“And done?”
“And done.” He grimaced comically. “I’m onto Vlad the Impaler.”
The dressing room for the twenty characters at the mansion was in the old carriage house. Originally, they’d used the embalming room in the basement—but that had been such a marvelously atmospheric spot that it had been turned into a Mad Doctor’s Experimental Lab and fitted with all kinds of plastic “bloodied” body parts. Guests would travel among them and, of course, scream as the mad doctor and his deranged nurse popped out and one “victim” came to life.
“Coffee and cookies are on the table,” Ron said. “Help yourself.”
Mo walked over to pour a cup of coffee. The mad doctor himself and Jack the Ripper were there, munching away as they discussed the football season. “Hey, Mo,” Jack the Ripper greeted her. She peered at him more closely and greeted him in return. It was Phil Ainsley, one of Mo’s old friends.
“Hello, Phil.”
“So, you got dragged in.”
“I did.”
“It’ll be fun.”
Mo nodded. “Yeah, I know.”
Grace—painted in bronze—came up and said hello to everyone.
“I was just telling her she’d have fun,” Phil said.
“Hey, I’ve done this before. You guys are all so good, I’ll probably wind up scaring myself to death,” Mo said.
“It is a little creepy tonight,” Phil agreed. “I mean, we’re opening after real body parts were discovered. But we’re all about entertainment, and the only body parts here are plastic.”
“Except that we’re working in a real graveyard,” Grace noted.
“No one’s been interred here since the Civil War,” Phil said. “The mortuary kept working, but the cemetery closed after the war.” He shuddered dramatically. “It got crowded fast!”
“Who keeps up the graveyard?” Mo asked Grace. “Your company, right?”
“Of course.” Grace said. “They’ll do another clean-up after Halloween when we’re all out of here. Oh, there’s Jerry Martin, our stage manager. He’s sent the plainclothes guides on in. We’re about to open. Come on, I’ll show you the Woman in White’s walk. You’ll probably remember. It’s so easy. You just glide around one of the little family mausoleums. There’s a nook in back where you hide before you step out to scare people.”
“I guess I’m on. Great to see you, Phil.”
“You, too. Hey, some of us meet up at the all-night café up on the highway for a bite afterward. It’s the only place other than Tommy’s that’s still open by the time we’re out of here,” Phil said. “Join us, huh?”
“If I’m still half-awake,” Mo promised.
Red-and-blue lighting had been designed to cast eerie shadows over the graveyard that stretched to the side and the rear of the mausoleum.
Music began to play, macabre funeral music. It drifted around the tombstones and decaying mausoleums of the dead. The late-October breeze, shifting the fallen leaves, only added to the effect. “That’s your stage set,” Grace said cheerfully. “So to speak. When you see one of the guides directing a group, you just take a walk around the tomb. Don’t crack any smiles. And don’t touch anyone and don’t let anyone touch you.”
“Got it,” Mo assured her.
She took her position leaning against the tomb. She could hear screams from inside the mortuary, so she knew it had all begun. As she waited, she looked across the burial ground.
A man sat atop one of the tombstones, casual and smiling. He was dressed in Revolutionary garb and resembled Major Andre. He appeared to be amused by the evening as he watched the other ghosts take their places.
She’d thought the Andre character was supposed to be in the mortuary, in the historic ghost area.
And then she understood that she wasn’t seeing an actor; the ghost of Major Andre was sitting on the tomb.
A sound left her throat, and she started forward, ready to speak to him.
He turned and the amusement fled his face as he stared at her. He whispered something, lifting one hand.
There was a strange expression on his face.
As if he’d realized she was alive, just as she had realized he was dead.
His lips seemed to form a single word. She couldn’t hear him across the distance, but she thought the word was a name.
Lizzie.
A light waved across the path that wound through the small burial ground. People were coming, laughing, jumping and shrieking as they passed another of her coworkers.
Major Andre was gone.
The crowd came closer. In her long white gown and veil she eased around the corner of the mausoleum and began her slow walk.
A startled scream told her she’d been seen. And appreciated.
The night wore on, and periodically she continued her ghostly walks.
She kept looking for what seemed to be the fun-loving specter of Major Andre.
He did not reappear.
* * *
When the cell abruptly cut out, Aidan asked Purbeck to send the closest patrol car, afraid something was happening that needed immediate action. When he and Sloan arrived at the club, the two patrol officers were at the back of the room—enjoying the show. They were obviously embarrassed, stumbling a little in their speech, but told Aidan that they’d found the manager and all the girls, and everyone was fine. They’d explained to the employees that they’d come in response to an anonymous call and that they were there to make sure everyone was all right.
“Nothing’s going on, Agent Mahoney,” one officer said.
“We checked everyone who was supposed to be working today, from the girls to the waitstaff and the bouncers,” the other uniformed officer told him. “All accounted for.”
While Aidan was getting info from the officers, Sloan had gone off to meet with the manager. Timothy Bolton was a man of about forty who’d clearly been in the business too long. He didn’t so much as blink when topless girls went by, didn’t even seem to notice.
Grinning inwardly, Aidan realized he didn’t quite feel the same. Many of the showgirls here were stunning.
He could appreciate their beauty objectively, but he felt a little...numb. These women were definitely attractive and sexy, yet he wasn’t particularly stirred by any of them. The face that appeared before him, in his mind, was that of Maureen Deauville. He remembered the wariness she had often shown toward him—his own fault—and he remembered her as she stood on the hill, looking down when they’d found the woman’s head on another effigy. She had seemed like an ancient goddess standing there, or a long-ago queen saddened by the depravity of the people in her kingdom.
Mo Deauville was different. The kind of different he didn’t need. He’d already been transferred into a unit that dealt with the unusual, and that was enough. More than enough.
“You’re welcome here, Agent Mahoney. The second crew told me you were in the other night, too. I’d really like to help you. This is terrible. Not only that, it’s going to hurt every business out there—especially the ‘haunted’ venues, you know.” Aidan could see that Debbie had gone onstage. She was evidently fine.
He turned to Bolton, pulling his smartphone from his pocket and bringing up the newest likeness Jane Everett had created—the one that was being shown on the news.
“We’re still looking for our Jane Doe,” Aidan said.
“A John Doe I could probably help you with more,” Bolton responded dryly.
“But what about this woman?”
He handed his phone with Jane’s image of the dead woman on the screen to Bolton. The man’s face immediately paled. “Wendy,” he managed. As Aidan had assumed, Debbie hadn’t told anyone at the club, certainly not her bosses.
“You do know her.”
&
nbsp; “She’s...she’s one of ours. Is she—”
“Yes, I’m sorry. She’s dead. She’s our Jane Doe,” Aidan said.
Music soared to a crescendo. Across the expanse of tables and men, Aidan saw Debbie finishing her act.
Her eyes went directly to his.
He nodded, trying to tell her she was safe; the police were here.
She nodded in return before she took several bows, smiling that great smile of hers for a cheering audience.
Bolton was still staring at the picture. He glanced up at Aidan. “I saw what they put on TV yesterday, but I never thought... Lord. She was supposed to be in the city for a few days, visiting friends. We didn’t even know she was missing. We didn’t know....”
His voice broke, and there were tears in his eyes.
He wasn’t that jaded, after all.
“I’m very sorry,” Aidan said quietly.
Bolton looked at him. “You probably think this place is filled with immoral, disgusting people. Strip club—criminals, prostitutes and drug addicts. Half of my employees are in the middle of getting degrees and the other half are single mothers doing what they can do to support their children. We’re not a drugged-out has-been place at a strip mall. Believe it or not, we have some class. There are no perks to be had here—when we say no touch, we mean no touch. So, you go ahead and judge. Everyone loved Wendy. The girls are as close as sisters and...well, all the world will think is, hey, another stripper dead. There you go. The wrath of God.”
“I’d be the last one to pass judgment, Mr. Bolton,” Aidan told him. “And I promise you this—I’ll be looking to put away Wendy’s killer with the same dedication and determination as if she were a kindergarten teacher—or a politician.”
Bolton shook his head.
“That’s the truth, I swear it,” Aidan said.
“I believe you. Here’s the irony, Agent Mahoney. Wendy was a kindergarten teacher. Until budget cuts. She’d been a dancer in Broadway musicals. Then she got married, had a little boy, and went back to school. Her husband died a few years ago, all very tragic. She began teaching, and then her position was cut....” He shook his head again. “She was a good person.”