Darkest Journey (13 page)

He stopped her just as she was about to slip the key into the lock, stepped forward and examined the door. Satisfied that no one had tried to pry it open, he nodded at her.

“We're going to be late to the café,” she said, leading the way inside.

“Not that late. I'll see you back down here in twenty minutes—if
you
can be ready that fast, that is,” he teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“Hey, you may be FBI, but I majored in theater. I can be ready to go in about fifteen minutes,” she said, then turned and raced up the stairs.

He followed more slowly.

As he showered, he thought about the fact that they were both naked. Wet. Slathered in soap bubbles. And mere feet away from each other.

And he wondered...

If it didn't seem imperative that they actually make it to the café that night, so he could have a chance to study the whole group in one place, he might have been tempted to make his way to her shower.

What was the worst that could happen? She could demand that he get away from her. She could be indignant and incredulous. Admittedly, she'd had a schoolgirl crush on him a decade ago. But that was all over now.

Or was it?

Maybe she would feel even better about him, like him more, once she'd had her chance to turn the tables but, he hoped, decided not to take it.

No, he couldn't take that chance, because something could happen that would be much worse than her simply telling him she was no longer interested. She could ask him to leave, and then someone out there, someone watching, might think that she knew more than she did.

He twisted the knob and made the water cold. Very cold.

7

C
old showers were good. They didn't tempt a man to stay beneath the steaming hot water and think equally steaming hot thoughts.

Ethan quickly got out and dressed and was ready to go. He grabbed his phone and dialed Jackson Crow before he headed downstairs.

As soon as Jackson answered, Ethan gave him a quick rundown of the case. The fact that a replica bayonet was missing from the film set was the best new information they had.

“That does seem to point toward someone working on the film being our killer. Still, I wish we had some idea of motive,” Jackson said.

“There
is
a motive, there always is, and I'll figure it out,” Ethan promised.

“Don't get ahead of yourself. You've only just begun your investigation. We've spent months—years—working some cases,” Jackson reminded him.

And some cases, as Ethan knew, were
never
solved.

“We're working out some things here,” Jackson said, “but more of us will join you by the day after tomorrow. Meanwhile, I've got Angela digging up more detailed information on the key players from the
Journey
and everyone involved with the film. Yes, there was some kind of an argument about history. We can't figure a motive for the murders based on that. The men didn't kill one another. Someone killed them. And though they might have worked together—and argued—on the ship, that's not the only place where their lives collided. They both belonged to the local Masonic lodge, and they were both Shriners, as well. They contributed to and worked for a number of the same charities. But we're still considering the riverboat, of course, and Charlene Moreau's conviction that something connected to the riverboat can lead us to the truth. We're also still considering the plan to have her and the others work aboard the ship.”

“I'm sorry, what?”

“I guess she hasn't spoken to you about it, then. At the moment, it's only on the drawing board here. When Charlene contacted us to ask for you to be assigned to the case, she went through her friends Clara Avery and Alexi Cromwell. The three of them were talking again recently, and Charlene seemed to feel strongly that the answer can be found aboard the
Journey
. The three of them have proposed a plan to work aboard the boat as part of the entertainment staff. Clara and Alexi have an in, having worked other cruises for Celtic American.”

“I see,” Ethan said. “No, Charlie hasn't mentioned this to me. Just what exactly is the plan?”

“They can accept a week's contract and go aboard as a trio of singing Southern belles performing Civil War–era songs. They proposed it as a test run to see whether the line would like to hire them for future cruises, not that the details really matter. Adam could have gotten them on board if necessary. Anyway, they'll probably join the staff for the
Journey
's next cruise. And with the situation as it is, I'll come down and probably take over in St. Francisville while you tackle the riverboat.”

“The murders happened on land,” Ethan reminded him.

“Yes, I know. But from what Charlene told Clara and Alexi when she asked them to intercede, there's a local ghost who's appeared to her several times.”

“Captain Anson McKee,” Ethan said.

“Charlene feels he's indicated that the riverboat holds the answers.”

Ethan had felt his temper simmering before; now it was boiling over. But Jackson was still speaking, so he kept his mouth shut, though it was a struggle.

“The
Journey
leaves in three days out of New Orleans. And you'll have plenty of coverage. Jude will be coming down with Alexi Cromwell, and Thor Erikson will be down, too, though he's not a Southerner like you and Jude. Alexi and Clara aren't agents, but they're smart, and they've been through a hell of a lot themselves. Also, they have the same talents we all share, and their perceptions might prove to be handy.”

“Jackson, you've been with the Bureau a lot longer than I have,” Ethan said, “but the missing bayonet does point to the film crew.”

“You just said it's missing, and that means anyone could have gotten hold of it.”

“True enough. And there
is
a connection between a number of the actors and the
Journey
. It turns out that some of them took part in the same special reenactment as the victims,” Ethan said. “So I suppose the likeliest explanation is that the killer is involved with both the ship and the movie.”

“That's certainly what it sounds like.”

“Or the killer could be setting things up to look that way,” Ethan said. “It's possible the murders were motivated by something that has nothing to do with the film or the riverboat. According to the film crew, the bayonet was last seen before the program on the
Journey
. I can't figure out a motive, no matter what angle I look at it from—well, not yet, anyway. Farrell Hickory owned a historic plantation, Albion Corley was a professor in Baton Rouge, their paths crossed in multiple ways... There's got to be something else we're not seeing yet.”

“Well, with no physical evidence and no real leads or witnesses, questioning and watching anyone who was even tangentially involved with both men seems to be the way to go,” Jackson said.

“Agreed.”

“And that involves the
Journey
.”

Yes, Ethan thought, it involved the
Journey
.

And Charlie.

She had been busy, setting all this up and not saying a word to him.

“I'll go over everything we've talked about with Detective Randy Laurent tomorrow and see if the police have come up with anything else themselves. I'll let him know we're going to take a closer look at the riverboat.”

“It's always best to work as closely as possible with local law enforcement. They always know more than we do about the area. Of course, in this instance, you're familiar with the area, too.”

“But I've been gone a long time,” Ethan said, “so Randy is much more aware of what's going on around here than I am. Things change—people change. The good thing is, people still gossip. And gossip can be the best lead there is.”

“True. We'll connect again in the morning,” Jackson said. “And if anything new comes up before then, call me.”

“You got it.”

They said good-night, and Ethan hung up.

He was still for a moment—both angry and amused. On the one hand, Charlie had gone behind his back. But on the other, he was only here because of her. So she had faith in him, apparently, but maybe not enough?

He looked at his watch. He'd used what was left of his twenty minutes on the phone. As he left the room he saw that Charlie was just coming out of her own.

He started down first, but near the bottom of the stairs, she tried to push past him. “Told you I'd be ready first!” she cried.

“Hey, no cheating,” he told her, catching her by both arms as they reached the lower landing. He spun her around to face him. For a moment they were looking straight at one another, laughter in their eyes.

And for a moment he felt as if they were caught in time, as if his body were both frozen and searing hot all at once.

“Better get going,” he said huskily, and released her quickly.

As if she had burned him.

Which, in a way, she had.

He smiled, curious as to when she would tell him about the plans she'd made with her friends.

She nodded. “Yes, let's get going.”

They drove toward the café without speaking, as if neither one of them was quite sure what to say. It was late enough that it was easy to find parking on the street. As he exited the car, he looked up at the old wooden sign that identified the eatery as Mrs. Mama's. It was the same sign that had been there since he'd been a kid.

The café itself hadn't really changed, either. The place was still paneled in wood, with tile flooring. The building had originally been a hotel way back in the day, and at a later point it had been a school for young ladies. The Watson family had owned it for over seventy years.

The booths and tables were all solid wood. There was a bar that offered a view into the kitchen, and the lights were relatively bright. The kitchen itself was modern and busy. The café drew both locals and tourists.

It was especially busy whenever the Saints played. Emily Watson had seen to it that there were flat-screen televisions set high on the walls—along with pictures of famous Louisianans, Grace Episcopal Church, the Myrtles and other nearby plantations. There was also a striking picture of the
Journey
proudly moving down the Mississippi.

There was no Saints game that night, though, and the news was on, the sound muted.

When they entered, Mrs. Mama's was busy, though the crowd consisted mainly of the film's cast and crew. Everyone who had been working that day had shown up, from Brad and Mike Thornton to the photographer, Chance Morgan, who quickly came over and promised Ethan that he would get the files to him as soon as possible, but he was hungry and hadn't been able to resist the lure of a good meal first.

Ethan nodded. There were only two seats left, and they weren't together. Charlie wound up across the table from him, between Jimmy and George.

He took the remaining chair between Brad and Jennie.

Brad leaned toward him and said, “I heard from your friend Detective Laurent today.” He laughed. “Randy! Whose high school claim to fame was popping beer bottles open with his teeth. But he makes a good detective, strange as that seems. Never acts like he's lording it over anyone, but he gets the job done.”

“We were all kids once, and then we grew up,” Ethan said. “So, what did Randy tell you?”

“He finally went through all the footage I gave him. Nothing. He said he didn't expect to see anything, that based on the autopsy, Farrell Hickory was dead and in the ground long before we started filming that day. I guess they're figuring he was killed the night before. And if Charlie hadn't found him, he might still be there, buried in a shallow grave.” He was quiet for a moment. “Guess it might have gotten a lot worse if he hadn't been found. It would have looked like the North against the South all over again. Of course, now it looks like someone involved with my movie might be the killer.”

“Yeah, I know how you feel,” Ethan said. He liked Brad. He had also eliminated Brad and Mike Thornton from his personal list of suspects.

He believed someone had thrown a knife at Charlie.

And Brad and Mike had been with him at the time.

That still left a wide array of possibilities, along with the question of why someone was after her. Did it have something to do with her father? But what?

He glanced across the table at her. She was laughing at something Jimmy was saying. They had always been good friends, he remembered.

“Ethan, what are you having?”

He turned. Emily Watson—proprietor of Mrs. Mama's since he'd been a kid—was standing behind him. Despite being at least eighty, she was still slim and straight, and her face was beautiful, even with the passage of time. She was holding a coffeepot, and when she offered him some, he grabbed the cup in front of him and accepted with an enthusiastic “Thank you.” He could see her age in her hands, but there was strength in them, as well.

He smiled at her. “I'll have your gumbo, of course, ma'am.”

She nodded, pleased. Then her smile faded slightly.

“What's wrong?” Ethan asked her.

“I'm proud of my gumbo. It's my own recipe. But I can't help remembering that both Albion and Farrell were in here often, and they both liked my gumbo—and now they're gone.”

“Did they ever get together here, Mrs. Watson?”

“Oh, my, yes. Those fellows were the best of friends,” she said. Her eyes started welling up. “You find out who killed those two fine men, Ethan, you hear me?”

“I intend to do everything in my power,” Ethan promised her. “Miss Emily, were they in here together before they were killed, by any chance?”

“I don't remember exactly, Ethan. I know they were both in here not long before they died, but not together, though.”

Ethan nodded. “Thanks, Miss Emily. And I promise you again, I'll do everything I can to bring their killer to justice quickly.”

Emily frowned. “Maybe Jonathan can help you.”

“Jonathan?” Ethan said.

“You know. Jonathan Moreau. Charlie's daddy. He's in here all the time, too. Bless that man. He tells people on the boat that they have to come here for lunch. I saw him with both men together not that long ago. Maybe they told him something you can use. It was nice to see you come in here with Charlie, too.” She winked at him. “You two make one handsome couple.”

“Uh, thank you.” He didn't try to tell her that he and Charlie weren't a couple. “So you're saying Jonathan was in here with Albion and Farrell recently?”

“Yes, a week or so ago, maybe. He's such a nice man.”

A nice man whose name kept coming up in connection with two dead men. Even so, he couldn't believe Charlie's father had anything to do with the murders.

“You were always a bright and determined boy, Ethan. I know you'll handle this.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Emily gave herself a little shake. “I'm going to get moving over yonder to see what Charlie would like to have—took care of the rest of these riffraff already,” she said, smiling.

“Miss Emily knows everyone in town—and just about everything that goes on, too,” Brad said. “And, of course, Nancy is working here now, too. What Miss Emily doesn't know, Nancy does.”

“Nancy?” Ethan said.

“Nancy Deauville. Well, Nancy Deauville Camp now. She married Todd Camp. He works over at Perry's Garage.”

“I remember her now. She was a year behind me in school.”