“We need that pecking order written down,” Jackson said.
“Here’s the strange thing, from what I’ve understood so far. Charles shouldn’t have been playing Marshall Donegal. The role should have gone to Ramsay Clayton, but Charles was apparently causing a stink about having to play a Yankee—they were short a Yankee—and Ramsay decided to let Charles have the honor and play a Yankee himself.”
Jake realized that they were both staring at him. He sighed. “Slavery was obviously wrong, but for some reason, it’s more romantic to be a rebel now. Especially if you are from the South. Don’t look at me like that.”
Angela chuckled. “Hey, I’m from Virginia. I’ve seen plenty a Civil War roundtable.”
“Me, too,” Jackson said.
“Then why are you staring at me like that?” Jake asked.
“I was staring at you because it seems that Ramsay Clayton is the first man we have to investigate,” Jackson told him. He cleared his throat. “Get anything you can on the man off the computer. See if he made any waves anywhere—angered anyone.” Jake nodded.
“But first let’s head down to the local police station. I want to see that our use of their forensics department is going to be respected.”
Jake nodded again. He didn’t really want to leave the house, but he usually accompanied Jackson on their police liaison.
“By the way, nice handling of the media,” Jackson said.
“Oh? I thought I walked onto a live broadcast?” Jake said.
Jackson grinned. “Apparently, it was bought by several stations. Anyway, you handled the anchorwoman well.”
“I knew her.”
“Great. I’d bet big-time that she’ll be traipsing around here a lot. You can take the press on this one, too.”
“Sure. It’s hardly my expertise—”
“No, you just didn’t know it was your expertise,” Jackson told him. “I’ll meet you in front in five minutes,” he added, rising to leave the room.
Angela was still there. She looked like an angelic piece of fluff, but she could handle a Glock as if she’d been a shooting champ for a hundred years.
She set her hand on his. “I’ll be here,” she told him.
He grinned. “The place is riddled with ghosts, isn’t it?”
“Probably,” she said.
“Have you met any yet?”
“I haven’t tried. But I promise I’ll be getting right on that. And,” she added, a curve to her lips and a light in her eyes, “you know me—I usually need a little time and quiet. God knows why—most ghosts are shy of disbelievers. You’d think it would be the other way around.”
“You’d think Charles Osgood’s spirit would be around here somewhere,” he said.
“You never know who lingers and who moves right on,” Angela said. “Remember, death doesn’t make the soul all-seeing. Sometimes, ghosts don’t know what’s happened—we all know that.”
“Great,” Jake said. “Death is as confusing as life.”
“Don’t worry today,” Angela said. “I’ll keep my eye on your Miss Donegal—and her grandfather, of course.”
“Thanks,” Jake told her.
“Want to tell me about it?” Angela asked him.
He shrugged. “We were close, intimately close. Her father died, but I knew when he first went into emergency, and I shouldn’t have. And I related a dream I’d just had about him, in which he said how much he loved her and that he was all right—and two seconds later the nurse walked in to say that he was dead. In that moment, I became a pariah.”
Angela nodded sympathetically. “That’s why we learn to keep our own council. But you’re okay, right?”
“Yes, I swear it. Don’t worry about me. I’m working, and my emotions won’t sway me in any way,” he assured her.
“Our emotions always sway us,” Angela told him. “Just so long as they sway us in the right direction, we’re fine.”
He left her, ready to head to the front of the house. But he heard noise in the dining room and stepped in. Ashley was there, pouring herself coffee from the samovar on the buffet.
“Ashley, can you get me a list of the Yankees and the rebels who took part in the reenactment? I’m sure the police asked you for your rosters, but would you write up the names—and what they do and how long they’ve been involved with the plantation?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
That morning she was in jeans and a T-shirt. She still appeared as gloriously beautiful as she had in flowing white. She had that same air of dignity that sat so well on Frazier.
And elegance. Even in jeans.
And she seemed to have forgotten her earlier tirade.
“Of course,” she repeated. She looked away for a moment and then back to him. “Sorry about earlier. I was really tired.”
“Don’t worry. It meant nothing.”
She looked down. “Of course not,” she murmured. But she looked up again, frowning. “Are you leaving?”
“For a few hours—just down to the station. Angela will be here. And there are still two patrol officers getting your guests out and stopping others from coming in.”
“Jake, I really can’t believe that one of our reenactors could have done this. I’ve known most of these guys since I was a kid.”
“Then you need to think hard about anyone who might have had a grudge against Charles—or Ramsay Clayton.”
“No one had a grudge against Charles. They felt sorry for him all the time, if anything. And I really can’t imagine anyone having a grudge against Ramsay. He’s a pleasant person, not much of a temper—actually, a nice man. He had no problem with letting Charles take his place.”
“He wouldn’t—if he knew something was going to happen to the actor playing Marshall Donegal,” Jake said.
She stiffened at that. “It was a last-minute change,” she told him. “Why couldn’t this have been a random killing?”
He paused, thinking that was obvious—except that Ashley very stubbornly didn’t want to believe that anyone with whom she’d been friends could possibly have plotted out the brutal killing.
“First, Ashley, simple logic,” he said. “You have to know this area to have kidnapped a man and kept him hostage—even drugged—for that long a time. You’d have to know Donegal Plantation well to know the cemetery, how to reach the Donegal vault easily and to escape unseen.”
“We’re open to the public—we’re a bed-and-breakfast. And the history of the place is written up in a number of books.”
“Ashley,” he said seriously, “a murder like that isn’t a sudden act. It was preplanned, and preplanned carefully. Is it possible that a stranger came on a tour and devised a way to find notoriety? Yes. But it’s most likely, considering human nature and behavior, that someone close to Donegal Plantation committed this crime. I’m sure that law enforcement will look at all angles, but we—the team—specialize in behavior—” he broke off; he didn’t want to tell Ashley bluntly that they would also be seeking those who weren’t still living for help “—and even the events that occurred in the past that cause someone to act a particular way in the present, and so, we’ll put our focus on those who are close to the family and Donegal Plantation. I’m sorry, but I honestly believe you’re going to have to accept the fact that someone you know is a murderer.”
“You could be wrong,” she said.
He had to grin ruefully at that. “Damn, you’re still stubborn as hell. Think about it again, about everything I said. A random act of violence wouldn’t explain someone holding a man drugged and hostage and then killing him with a bayonet—as your ancestor was killed.”
“But you could be wrong,” she insisted.
He didn’t answer. “I’ll be back soon,” he told her.
Jackson was waiting for him in the hall. He drove, and as he headed out, he looked back in the rearview mirror as Donegal Plantation became smaller and smaller, and disappeared in the trees.
He didn’t want to leave. Not while someone was still out there.
“This,” Beth commented, “is sad!”
She and Ashley were at the dining-room table. All of the guests were now gone, including Justin, who had taken his family into New Orleans. At this point, it was definitely going to be better to think about his children enjoying the zoo and the aquarium than hanging around Donegal Plantation.
Ashley looked at Beth, frowning, “Well, of course, it’s sad. A man is dead.”
Beth shook her head. “No, this—the two of us sitting here, drooping on our elbows, getting nothing done. That’s sad!”
Ashley sat back. “They asked me for a list—I’ve done the list. I’ve checked on my grandfather—he’s actually sleeping. There are two guys in uniform hanging around outside, and I’m not sure what else to do.”
“Well, I’m going to cook.” Beth stood up. “And I suggest that you go befriend the blonde cop who is wandering all over the house.”
“Angela. Angela Hawkins?” Ashley murmured.
“That would be the name of the blonde cop or fed or whatever we have walking around,” Beth told her. “Go on. I’m going to occupy myself. Alone. Go find the investigator. Maybe you can help her.”
Ashley rose. “All right,” she said.
She left Beth and looked through the rooms on the ground floor. Upstairs, she saw the door to Angela and Jackson’s room was open; Angela was inside, sitting on the bed and staring into space.
Ashley approached the door. “Hello?” she said.
The woman started and looked at her, and then smiled. “Hello. This is a beautiful place. Absolutely beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
