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  “Someone who is invested in the horrible thing that happened—and in Marnie—believes that a dead woman is out there trying to help solve her own murder. Please, Bryan. It’s you—you need to help. You were just working with that FBI friend of yours, helping track down that missing child. And you said that he knows Adam—my friend Adam Harrison? Well, my friend and dad’s friend. I think your father knew Adam first.”

  “Yes, I was working with a friend named Jackson Crow, and we were lucky—we found the missing child.” He didn’t mention that his old friend was with a special unit of the FBI, or that he’d suggested that Bryan might be just right for that unit.

  He could only hope that she didn’t know that her old friend Adam Harrison had actually created the unit.

  “How is Adam? Such a dear man.”

  Hopefully, she hadn’t seen Adam since she’d...

  He could never think the word died.

  Maybe because she was his mother, and he did love her.

  And maybe because she had never really gone anywhere.

  “And you—all three of my boys—still at odds and ends, taking on various odd jobs.”

  “Good jobs, Mom. We help people. You should be a happy camper. All three of us served our time in the military and went through college. And yes, in the last year or so we have taken on some strange jobs, but they’ve been good ones, jobs that help people.”

  “And here’s someone who needs help. Yes, I hope, eventually, you and your brothers are going to get together. You’re looking to form a company. I do like that idea. You want to know what to do with your life? You’re doing quite nicely at the helping people thing, and this—this!—would be an important part of that. I mean, you broke my heart when you completely ignored the fact that your father and I were known for our extreme talents and absolute love of live theater. And you didn’t even want to head in the direction of film. I must say, I created—I created!—three of the most handsome men one could ever want to imagine, and you’ve no interest in using that beauty to a good—to a paying—end.”

  “Mother,” Bryan said, “I believe you and Dad did emphasize that in life, looks mean nothing, that the heart and soul of a man or a woman matter most.”

  Here she was, giving him a pitch about helping someone.

  And she was still brokenhearted she hadn’t produced a single actor among them.

  “Yes, well, of course,” Maeve said, sweeping back a long, curling strand of her dark hair. “Looks do not matter. Heart and soul and kindness and compassion. Things like that matter most with everyone you meet. Seriously, of course, decency—it’s a total given. But I have these three strapping lads! Strapping, I say—tall, dark and absolutely, stunningly handsome—and not one of you chose to use such wondrous good looks.”

  “Mother, you don’t think you might be a little prejudiced on that?”

  He moved past her to fetch another piece of wood.

  She waved a hand in the air. “One can only be so prejudiced!” she said. “But that’s so far beside the point. I am afraid that I must have done something terribly wrong if not one of you felt the lure of the stage. The military! Well, I do understand. Your father and I were gone and... The military. Noble. What an honorable and lofty ideal—to serve one’s country. Yes, that was all quite fine, and thankfully you all came home in one piece. But that was then, and this is now. You went out and got a PI license. You’ve been working with the FBI and cops. You do realize that if you were to just choose to be an actor, I might not be so determined to haunt you?”

  Bryan had the strange feeling that, one way or another, his mother was going to haunt him. And Bruce and Brodie. At least he had two brothers to share the burden. Of course, mothers were known to torment their sons.

  Not usually, though, mothers who had passed away.

  Bryan was the eldest; he had been twenty-four on the day that Hamish and Maeve had been leads in a DC run of Murder by Gaslight; they had both been killed—hand in hand—when the famous chandelier had fallen onto them both, killing them instantly.

  It might have been fitting—they were known for having achieved the rarest of the rare, an amazing marriage and a true love affair; they were always together, beautiful people, blessed to have a wonderful family with their love and their three strapping sons.

  It had been an incredible tragedy—for their sons more than anyone else.

  Bryan had been the first to pull himself together. He’d been the first to see his mother. She had tiptoed behind him at her own funeral, bringing a finger to her lips and whispering, “Shh!”

  He’d assumed he was suffering from PTSD—they’d lost both parents in a single blow.

  And then he’d heard his father’s voice.

  “Stop that, Maeve. I believe the boy can hear you. Don’t be a tease.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’re dead. The living can’t hear us. I’m simply being a diva, darling,” Maeve had assured Hamish. “I’m making sure that the funeral is appropriately massive and...well, that people are properly emoting for us.”

  “They’re emoting all over, including our sons,” the ghost of his father had said sternly.

  “Oh, dear, yes—our precious boys!”

  Then they had been gone. And that night—after an appropriate amount of Jameson whiskey—Bryan had convinced himself that they hadn’t really been there. That it was the shocking loss affecting him. Because he’d known it was what they would have wanted: a massive funeral with all kinds of press coverage.

  Even if he and his brothers wanted to believe that they were strong and capable of managing the tragedy, they had loved their out-there, talented and ever so slightly crazy parents. It was natural that the grief might be intense.

  Then...

  They had moved back in.

  It had been quite the night when each one of the brothers had tried to pretend that he wasn’t seeing the ghosts of his parents. But Maeve had heckled and teased—she was really quite as good at being a ghost as she had been at acting. She had quickly learned how to make the fire snap, how to press a glass just hard enough so that it appeared to move across the table and how to touch them...with a gentle stroke on the cheek, the way she had touched them in life.

  Brodie—the youngest—had been the first to snap. Maeve had counted on that; Bryan was certain. Eventually Brodie had leaped out of his seat and screamed, “Can’t you see them?”

  Bryan had looked at Bruce, and in that moment, they had realized that their parents, while not alive, were still with them.

  Hamish was worried; he didn’t know why he and his wife were still there, and he was sorry—a father needed to let his sons lead their own lives. But they were young. Maybe he and Maeve were still there because they were needed. The boys might still need help; they could be there to guide them as they grew older and became men.

  Maeve informed them all that she knew the very solid reason they had remained on the earthly plane—were they all daft? To guide their sons, yes. But she and Hamish had been taken too soon. They were kind, decent people—and young and beautiful!

  They had basically been robbed of life.

  Now they’d been granted the chance to help their boys, though, of course, they hadn’t really been at all sure that the boys could see them until Brodie—bless him—had cried out the obvious.

  Maeve and Hamish were home.

  At first it was wonderful. It was still wonderful. Other than still wondering now and then if he was sharing a terrible hallucination with his brothers.

  If it weren’t for the other dead people his mother and father always wanted to help. The dead they brought home, too.

  Because his parents’ reappearance had opened some kind of door, and now he could see the dead. And Bruce and Brodie could see them, as well.

  “You do remember Dark Harbor, right? The run ended...oh, five or six years ago. You three wer
e grown-up, but I remember that even you said they managed to make it pretty darned scary and that the plots were good.”

  “Kudos to the writers,” Bryan said. He slammed down hard on his hunk of a log.

  She came up before him, suddenly very serious.

  “Bryan, please. A friend of mine was viciously attacked. And I’m worried sick about a young actress who I thought was wonderful—and who was very dear to Cara. My friend was murdered, Bryan. Do you understand me? Murdered—cruelly and with malice. And now, she sincerely believes that the other members of her cast are in trouble.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because of the way the killer came to the table. Cara was always ready to jump up and get out front, and that’s what she did, and she was worried that, well, maybe someone else was the intended target.”

  “Someone else.”

  “There were five main cast members, Bryan. I know you remember the show. You would have had to have slept through seven years to have missed it. Cara Barton was the matriarch, but Scarlet Zeta was the most popular member of the cast—and she was next to Cara when she was killed.”

  “Scarlet Zeta?”

  “Marnie. The actress’s name is Marnie Davante. Her role was that of Scarlet Zeta.”

  Bryan did actually know. He’d seen the show. He’d actually enjoyed it. He wasn’t usually that big on the paranormal—especially now, living a life in which his dead parents haunted him and brought home their dead friends now and then.

  But Dark Harbor had been good.

  And he knew who Cara Barton was—or had been. He grudgingly remembered that she had come to the funeral when his parents had died; she had been kind.

  And he knew who the actress Marnie Davante was—true, only someone who had been on Mars for the past decade or so would not. She had been great on the show—sexy and endearing, an American sweetheart who might well have sent a few adolescent boys into their first solo sexual experiences. But on many talk shows she’d also come off as an amazing human being. She loved animals, gave to all kinds of children’s charities and appeared to be a really decent human being.

  “What is Marnie Davante now, about twenty-seven, twenty-eight?” he asked.

  Maeve sighed. “Twenty-nine, but what difference does it make?”

  “I’m trying to find out about her. She has a good reputation among coworkers, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re all in danger, so you say. Why are you most worried about Marnie Davante?”

  “Because,” Maeve said, “I told you, the Blood-bone-costumed guy was coming for Marnie first. Cara wanted the extra attention and pushed her way forward. Maybe the killer got mixed-up. Maybe it was supposed to have been Marnie.”

  “I’m assuming the police are already looking into it.”

  “Ah, but will they look far enough? Bryan, someone who cares, who is willing to give the murder his full attention, needs to be out there.”

  Bryan looked up at the sky.

  When he’d gone to help in the missing child case, he’d been asked for his assistance.

  Getting in on a high-profile murder case where police certainly had to be touchy, and might not want an outsider’s help, wasn’t a pleasant contemplation.

  “Well?” Maeve demanded.

  He didn’t answer right away.

  Then he heard his father’s voice.

  Yep. The ghost of Hamish McFadden was there as well, standing behind his wife. His father was a dignified man, and someone who might have been a performer, but who had also lived his life always trying to do the right thing.

  “Might as well say yes, son. I believe the young lady will need you. Not to mention your mother will haunt the hell out of you, day and night, until you do. You know that what I’m saying is true.”

  Bryan looked up. His father had been an exceptional actor; he’d won an Emmy and a Tony. He was a tall solid man with ink-dark hair that he’d passed on to all three sons, along with his formidable height and shoulder breadth.

  Somehow, his father and his mother had kept their careers and been good, loving parents, as well. They’d chosen work to stay as close to their sons as often as they could.

  Yeah, they’d been damned decent.

  “Please!” Maeve wheedled.

  “She’ll torment you to tears, son,” Hamish reminded him.

  “This girl doesn’t even know she wants help,” Bryan protested. “And there are police out there, and...” He sighed. “Miss Davante has no idea she needs my help.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” Maeve said.

  “And why not?”

  “Cara will let her know.”

  “Cara is dead.”

  Maeve smiled. “Yes, she is. But she’s still hanging around, too. Because, of course, she is worried about Marnie, so...not to worry! She will let her know.”

  He paused and looked at his mother curiously, frowning. “And just how do you know all this?”

  “Oh, I talked to Cara, of course.”

  “How?”

  “Well, your father and I saw the news, even if you didn’t. I was horrified, of course, and then I saw Cara was trying to get through on the computer.”

  “You can use a computer?” he asked his mother, incredulous—and somewhat disgusted with himself.

  “She does—I don’t,” his father said. “Your mom has always been the family communicator.”

  “A new ghost managed to contact an old ghost?” he asked.

  “It’s difficult to explain, but it’s like we Skyped,” his mother said.

  “But how—Never mind. Never mind. I’m not sure I even want to know. So, Cara has shown herself to this young lady, this Marnie Davante?”

  “If she hasn’t, she will,” Maeve said.

  “I really hope so. And I hope, Mom, I can even get near her.”

  “Of course—you’re our son. You can go just about anywhere, using the name,” Maeve assured him.

  “I believe she is right on that,” his father said.

  Bryan set down his ax and headed for the cabin.

  “Where are you going?” Maeve asked him.

  He turned to look at her wearily. “I’m going to go check out flights to LA. God knows you haunt me enough that I spend more time with the dead than the living.”

  He saw the look of relief and pleasure on his mother’s face.

  And his father’s approving nod.

  Oh, hell.

  Hollywood.

  Well, he did have a bit of time on his hands. He’d spent enough time fishing and splitting logs and wondering if he and his brothers should form an agency.

  Or if he should go ahead and look into the position that had been offered.

  If he should join the FBI.

  With the unit known unofficially as the Krewe of Hunters.

  But his mother and father had come to him, and he wasn’t committed to any path as yet.

  He was going to LA.

  * * *

  Marnie had definitely spent too much of her life in Hollywood.

  It was impossible to grasp the fact that what happened was reality.

  Someone was going to yell, “Cut!” Then the director was going to step forward and tell them what a great job they had all done; they had gotten the scene in one take.

  And then Cara Barton would get up. She would straighten her shoulders and look at Marnie and say, “Of course! I’m a pro. I really was great, wasn’t I?”

  And Marnie would laugh. Cara had been ambitious; she had even been obnoxious at times. But from the get-go, she had been good to Marnie, and they had been true friends.

  And now Marnie had held someone she loved as she had died.

  Even then, even as reality reared its ugly head, she expected everything would happen as it did in the movies
or on television. The detectives would look like Josh Hartnett or maybe Ice T, and within an hour, they’d know who had killed Cara Barton.

  That hadn’t happened. It had taken them way more than an hour just to sequester Marnie and her fellow surviving cast members, and to begin to round up all the Blood-bones who filled the convention hall.

  The day had been a nightmare, endless. Filled with scores of police. With sirens, with medical personnel, with a medical examiner, with crime scene techs.

  In the end, though, there were two detectives assigned to the case. One was an older man who, to be honest, in Marnie’s mind, would have been perfect for the movies.

  For being a homicide detective, his voice was bizarrely soft and gentle. He was tall and thin, clean-shaven, and possessed a full head of silver-gray hair. His eyes were a powdery blue, as soft and gentle as his voice. His name was Grant Vining.

  His partner was his total opposite. She was young, and when she spoke, it was apparent that she was not to be taken lightly. She was a tiny blonde with brown eyes and a powerful voice that apparently made up for her size—she had no problem being heard over any amount of chatter or noise. She seemed to do the corralling and instructing while Detective Vining did more of the intimate interviews. Her name was Detective Sophie Manning. She wasn’t mean—she was just blunt. She started a bit harshly with Marnie. But then Marnie had been holding Cara Barton as she had died.

  Good cop, bad cop? Did cops really play it all out that way? Marnie didn’t know.

  In the midst of it all, Detective Manning turned to her and said, “We’ve got your statement. I’m going to take you to the station. We’re going to need your clothing. Yes, I know you’re thinking this is horrible and the blood on you belonged to your friend. But the killer might have cut himself. His—or her—blood could be on you, too.”

  “The killer was wearing black gloves,” Marnie told the detective.

  “Yes, still, we need what you’re wearing. It will be returned.”

  Marnie looked around. A group had gathered by Malcolm Dangerfield’s booth; the actor was just beyond the crime scene tape surrounding the Dark Harbor booth.

  Close and yet oh, so far away! Marnie thought. To his credit, he appeared to be stunned and horrified.