But Whitney was smiling when she hung up.
“We have permission? I’m shocked,” Ashley said.
“He’s just trying to protect you, you know,” Whitney said.
Ashley smiled. “Yeah,” she said quietly. He was trying to protect her. “But you know what? I may not have been a cop like Angela, and I may not be a crack shot—but I did grow up here, and I do know how to use a shotgun. Guess I’ll go drag mine out.”
“I’ll get Angela. Jackson and Jake are almost back with your grandfather and Beth. If you get the horses saddled—and I’m a decent rider, not great—we can head out as soon as they drop off Frazier and Beth.”
“Are they staying?”
“No—they have another stop to make. They’re going to have a talk with Toby Keaton,” Whitney explained.
Whitney headed back to the house, her dark curls bouncing as she walked. Ashley was about to knock on Cliff’s door and find out if he’d mind helping her saddle up the horses, when he walked out.
“We’re expecting a load of hay,” he told her. “I imagine the cops will let that through. Seems like they’ve been doing a good job, though. I haven’t seen any reporters around for a while.”
“Maybe they’ve decided that peering in from the road just isn’t that exciting,” Ashley said. “Apparently, they’ve got something going with the police. I think that a police spokesperson has been handling news on the investigation. Well, actually, what do I know? We’re all at the house having the same experience.”
“Cops are supposed to come out—or forensic people, whatever they are—and go over my apartment,” Cliff said.
“And you don’t mind?” Ashley asked him.
“I want to be cleared,” he said.
She smiled. “You’re clear in my book.”
“Well, and that’s what counts to me. But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with people glaring at me if they don’t catch the bastard.”
“They’ll catch him,” Ashley said.
“How do you know that?”
“Jake said so,” Ashley told him.
Cliff nodded. “Well, God knows—I hope so. I pray so, Ashley, I really do.”
They looked at one another as they heard tires on the gravel near the front. Walking around, they saw that a white minivan had just pulled into the front. Will Chan emerged, followed by a tall, slim, red haired woman.
“Hello!” she called out, seeing them watching her from a distance.
She said something to Will, who nodded and grinned. He went for the bags at the back of the car while she walked over to them.
Her brilliant green eyes shone out over her easy smile. “Hello, I’m Jenna,” she said, offering her hand.
“Jenna, lovely to meet you. We’ve been expecting you, of course,” Ashley said. “Welcome to Donegal Plantation.”
“It’s brilliant,” she said. There was a lilt to her voice, very soft, and yet it spoke of an Irish background.
Jenna looked at Cliff and seemed to assess him quickly. “You’re—”
“Cliff. Cliff Boudreaux. Suspect,” he said dryly.
“Ah, well, we’re all suspect at one time or another, aren’t we, then?” she asked.
“If you say so, Jenna,” Cliff said. He was grinning; the two were looking at one another with amusement and something like an instant rapport. Ashley found herself amused.
“I’ll bring you into the house, Jenna, and show you to a room. There are a few left to choose from—” Ashley began.
“I can—and have—slept on many a floor. Put me wherever you would like, and I’ll be just fine,” Jenna assured her.
“Oh, Cliff, would you saddle Varina, Nellie and Tigger for me? Whitney wants to go riding, and Angela is going to come, too.”
“Riding?” Jenna’s eyes lit up.
“Cliff, add Jeff to the horse list, will you?”
“Oh, I think she’d do well on Bobby. You’re a rider, aren’t you, Jenna?” Cliff asked.
“I like to think so,” Jenna said.
“Bobby, then. Bobby it is!” Cliff said.
“Are you joining us?”
“Can’t,” Cliff said. “We’re expecting a delivery. But hopefully we’ll get a chance somewhere along the line to head out together.”
“It’s a date,” Jenna said.
Bemused, Ashley led their new guest to the house.
Frazier and Beth were still sipping coffee when Jake and Jackson went in to pick them up for the ride back to the house.
They both looked a little brighter for having escaped the house for a while, but Beth was grave.
“We have another missing person,” Beth said.
“What?” Jake asked her.
She lifted her coffee cup and indicated the television above the diner’s counter.
“The news just had a thing about it. That reporter—I think you knew her?—Marty. Marty Dean. She didn’t show up for work today, and her station has plastered her picture on the news a dozen times. See—it’s who you know,” Beth commented to Frazier. “This woman was a newscaster—people saw her every day. So they ignored us when Charles disappeared, but they’re all over it now because she’s missing.”
“It’s true,” Frazier said. “Her coworkers believe she wouldn’t miss work. Ashley was upset about Charles. She knew him. She knew something bad was going on when he turned up missing. But Charles didn’t work for a news program, and neither did Ashley. If I hadn’t known Adam—”
“Think about the people who don’t know Adam, either,” Beth pointed out.
“They might have found Charles alive if anybody had really been looking,” Frazier said.
Jake stared at the television. An old Western rerun was playing.
“What did they say about Marty Dean?” he asked.
“She rushed out on a tip yesterday afternoon, said she’d be back for the eleven-o’clock news, but she didn’t make it,” Beth said. “She still hasn’t shown up.”
“But she was in New Orleans, right?” Jackson asked.
Beth nodded. “Yes, she disappeared from New Orleans.”
Jake looked at Jackson. He had a bad feeling—a really bad feeling.
But the police in New Orleans would certainly be on the disappearance. Forty-eight hours or not, the media would be forcing them into action.
“Let’s get them back and look in on Toby Keaton,” Jackson said.
It was nice, riding with the other women, even if their previous acquaintance made her the odd man out.
Jenna was a welcome addition. She was sweet and energetic, but it was really the accent, Ashley decided. Americans loved accents from the British Isles, English or any variety, whether Irish, Scottish or Welsh.
And Jenna oohed and aahed over the river, over the cemetery, over the horses, over everything. She seemed to love Donegal Plantation, and as they rode, she told Ashley that her expertise was in nursing.
“A federal agent—in nursing?” Ashley asked.
Jenna waved a hand in the air. “I have other talents,” she said.
“Oh?”
“I’m not as good as Angela,” she said flatly. “But I speak with the dead.”
“A little subtlety might be in order!” Whitney called out.
Ashley twisted around in the saddle to see Angela, who was also rolling her eyes.
“The cameras, the shadows, Jake…is this a paranormal unit?” Ashley asked.
“No—we’re a regular unit,” Angela said.
“We’re a special one,” Whitney told her.
“We look for what’s real,” Jenna said. “But we may be able to find what everyone can see by seeing what everyone can’t. There, does that clear it all up?”
“Just like Mississippi mud,” Ashley said.
“Jackson came from a regular behavioral-sciences unit,” Angela said. “Then Adam Harrison formed a team when Senator Holloway’s wife, Regina, died. Jackson knew all about forming a team and learning each member’s specialty, but Adam had done the legwork already, finding those he wanted.”
Ashley studied them all. “I know the case, of course. But people were saying that ghosts had killed Regina Holloway. I suppose we’re in much the same position here.”
“Exactly. Here’s the thing. Jackson knows that things happen out of the norm, but he’s also aware that living people usually prove to be behind it,” Angela explained. “He’s a true skeptic—a prove-it-to-me man. The thing is…”
“The thing is what?”
“Ghosts do exist,” Whitney said. “And no one sees them more clearly than Angela.”
Ashley looked ahead as they rode on.
Had Angela seen Marshall Donegal yet? She hadn’t seen him herself today. Maybe he had decided he might find a more intelligent life force in someone else?
Angela smiled. “Well, I also believe there has to be human evil involved. But…Whitney is telling you the truth. We investigate for ghosts. Not because they’re evil, though, honestly, evil men make evil ghosts. They’ll encroach on someone’s mind, but they can’t carry out evil deeds. It’s like hypnotism. If it’s something you won’t do, you still won’t do it, no matter how a ghost tries to play with your imagination.”
“Wait a minute. It sounds like you’re saying ‘The ghost made me do it!’” Ashley said.
“Not at all,” Angela said gravely. “What we’re saying is that…well, if the evil in a man’s soul or spirit remains behind, it can act as fuel to someone who is already a madman. But most of the time, those souls that linger are yearning only to bring something to right, to protect those they might have loved. To bring about some kind of resolution or conclusion.”
“Interesting. What about a ghost who lingers over a hundred and fifty years?” Ashley asked.
