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  “Such as another murder,” he said bluntly. “As in—possibly—yours!”

  3

  Maybe it wasn’t fair for Bryan to judge the funeral as a carnival with all kinds of acts being performed beneath a big tent. His mother had always assured him that there were many people living in Los Angeles—even those who were deeply enmeshed in the film industry, and despite its reputation for shallowness and ruthless ambition—who were decent and wonderful people. It was true. To be honest, he knew many people who were “Hollywood” all the way and who were fine, decent, caring and more.

  Still, the worst of the business seemed to come out when news cameras were rolling.

  And everyone, to paraphrase the artist Andy Warhol, wanted their fifteen minutes of fame.

  There was no way out of it; in this city, most bartenders, servers and so on were also actors and actresses. Bankers and lawyers handled accounts for directors, producers, screenwriters, actors and costumers, puppeteers—and more.

  It seemed as though everyone wound up being involved. But Greater Los Angeles was huge; its population had soared to over ten million people. Many were teachers, electricians, nurses, all the usual—you name it. And yet it all boiled down to the movies in the end. Teachers had actors’ children in their classes. Doctors patched up production assistants and prop managers and all manner of crew amid their other patients.

  And while Hollywood might offer up a world of make-believe, it could also be—as his mom had always claimed—a nice place where many people wanted what everyone wanted: a family filled with love and happiness.

  Before returning to the theater, Maeve and Hamish McFadden had been part of the Hollywood crowd.

  In retrospect, since they had died together onstage, coming back to the theater in the DC area had perhaps not been a good decision. And yet, in those years before the accident, life for the McFadden family had been great.

  Bryan had learned that death shouldn’t put a person on a pedestal. Still, when he looked back, they had been really good parents. They had put the needs of their sons above their own. They had left Hollywood.

  But they had been a big part of it at one time, which made it possible for Bryan to be where he was now—rubbing shoulders with A-listers at a funeral reception that had become the hottest ticket in town.

  It was obvious that Marnie Davante had thought she’d shake him when they reached the reception; there had been all kinds of gawkers and strangers who had managed to get close to the funeral. After all, Cara Barton had been buried at a cemetery often crawling with tourists. But the reception required an ID, to confirm the name on the guest list. Otherwise the masses would have readily joined in the reception that followed such a high-profile funeral.

  However, as a McFadden, he’d managed to charm his way onto the list.

  He saw Marnie standing with a group of people, Malcolm Dangerfield among them. Hollywood was often fickle—the hottest new star one year could be yesterday’s has-been by the next. At the moment, Malcolm Dangerfield was on the hot list. He would be, Bryan knew, considered to be more of a personality than an actor. He was basically always himself on-screen. But as himself, he was charismatic and it worked. On the other hand, while Jeremy Highsmith had only been cast in supporting roles since Dark Harbor had been canceled, each of those roles had been entirely different. Jeremy Highsmith was—Bryan knew his parents would judge—a true actor. A fine actor. Not a personality.

  In their own way, his parents had been snobs. But to be fair, they had both loved their craft. They didn’t have to be performing themselves—they loved a good performance by another actor, singer, musician or even stand-up comic.

  Marnie was barely holding it together, Bryan was pretty sure. But she managed to nod and speak now and then as she stood in the group with Malcolm Dangerfield, a producer, some young director and the rest of her castmates: Roberta Alan, Jeremy Highsmith and Grayson Adair. She was five foot nine in stocking feet, and taller here in low heels. She was regal. Despite the way she looked at him, with suspicion and irritation, Bryan couldn’t help but feel a tug of sympathy. She had an aura about her he couldn’t quite place. She was regal, and yet she appeared quick to smile at something said by a friend. Then the sadness would descend over her eyes again.

  There was definitely something about her. He couldn’t help but feel the attraction that certainly drew many, many people to her. She was fascinating, charismatic and sensual with each sleek movement.

  The perfect actress.

  Photographers—authorized ones who were on the guest list—were seizing pictures constantly. It was hard to imagine how anyone could actually mourn in all the hubbub, and yet he remembered his parents’ funeral.

  Much like this.

  And it had been hard to mourn. Hard to be the eldest of their children; hard to hold it all together and grieve with the carnival atmosphere going on.

  “Bringing back memories, eh?”

  He didn’t turn; he knew that Cara Barton was standing next to him.

  He lowered his head. She knew that he acknowledged her—saw her and heard her.

  “So lovely. I mean, it may be terrible, but I am truly grateful to see I did have this many fans—okay, even if some are people using such an occasion for a publicity advantage. A grand funeral, I do say. I do so wish that I could have a sip of that champagne...” She paused, and Bryan knew that she was waiting for his response. While he stood a bit off in the corner of the restaurant, he wasn’t going to allow himself to appear to be speaking to the air.

  Cara Barton apparently realized that he wasn’t going to answer her right then. He’d been at the cemetery early, and he had spoken to her. She might have figured out a ghostly way to contact his mother, but maybe she hadn’t really believed that she could get through to the living. She had been thrilled he could see her. She had been trying to torment the cemetery workers and the funeral director, and all she’d managed to do was to get one man to say that the cemetery, even in broad daylight, was incredibly creepy. She’d been ecstatic that Bryan could see her, hear her, because she had something important to say: she’d been murdered. She was afraid for the others.

  She wanted the truth.

  So right now, she didn’t really expect Bryan to reply.

  But she kept talking.

  “I remember sitting there that day...the day that I was killed,” she said. “I guess it’s good I don’t remember the pain. I do remember bits and pieces of my life shooting before my eyes...out of order, things when I was a child, things when I was older. And I remember thinking it was horrible, so unfair—that comic con really was, for me, where I’d come to die. And I remember Marnie, of course, holding me, shocked, horrified...such a sweet girl. Better than this world we’re in,” she added softly. “But I just don’t understand. Why in God’s name would anyone want to kill me? I mean, he probably was after Marnie. She was the one who had the most obsessed fans. You know she didn’t really want to have a reboot of Dark Harbor? A comeback, you know. She just loves the theater. She wants to direct. Children. Horrible little snot-nosed beasts, in my opinion, but...the thing is, there was no reason for anyone to kill me!”

  He turned briefly, making a pretense of studying a painting above the bar.

  “We’ll talk later,” he said.

  Right now, he was trying to watch anyone who spent too much time with the four remaining actors from Dark Harbor.

  Golden boy Malcolm Dangerfield seemed very interested in Marnie and her friends. But then again, the photographers where milling around them that day. It was the center of the action.

  He also noted another man.

  “That’s Vince Carlton,” Cara said. “He’s the one who wants to revamp Dark Harbor. I was so thrilled. I mean, that would have been a whole new life for all of us! On the top again. Okay, so not all shows make it. But we would have had a pilot and at least a season, I’m sure
of it. Vince is a nice guy. But, of course, I’m dead now. So...”

  Vince Carlton appeared to be in his early forties. He was known for having produced a number of successful fantasy and sci-fi projects. He appeared sympathetic and respectful as he spoke with the group.

  And Malcolm Dangerfield, who had determinedly remained with them throughout the afternoon. Maybe that was natural; he had been standing close to Cara when she was killed.

  He had watched her be cut down in cold blood.

  “What does a comic creature like Blood-bone have to do with a show like Dark Harbor?” Bryan wondered softly aloud.

  “Nothing—nothing that I know of, anyway. And the thing is, Blood-bone is like Darth Vader—that kind of a costume. Just about anyone could be in it. Well, it works best with a certain height and size, but...it could be anyone.”

  There had to be some kind of a relationship. Either that or the killer had chosen the costume because there would be so many people dressed up the same, making a getaway easy.

  Which it had apparently been, according to Detective Vining. Dozens of Blood-bones had been stopped and searched and questioned. And each had been the wrong Blood-bone.

  “Anonymous,” he murmured.

  “What?” Cara asked.

  Bryan pulled a set of earbuds out of his pocket and inserted them into his ears. While he found it incredibly rude that people seemed to be talking on the phone everywhere and through any occasion these days, the cell-phone-earbuds craze was a good thing—for a man who talked to the dead.

  “Anonymous,” he repeated softly. “Such a costume means that it could be anyone inside. Do you remember anything about the killer, a scent, the way he moved, the size of his hands...anything that felt familiar?”

  “I’ve racked my brain,” Cara replied, “but I can’t imagine who it was in that costume.”

  “So not necessarily someone you knew. If there was a specific target, the murder could have been perpetrated by the person who wanted them dead, or because of the costume, a killer could have even been hired.”

  Cara gasped. “You mean the bastard who did this to me might not have even had the balls to do it him—or her—self?”

  “I’m thinking aloud, Cara. Give me a break. I just got out here.”

  “You got out here yesterday.”

  “Doing my best,” he said.

  She harrumphed.

  Loudly.

  Bryan noted that Marnie had heard the sound. And she turned. At her side, Roberta Alan turned to see what Marnie was looking at, and both of them stared at him.

  Maybe it was time.

  He pocketed his earbuds and walked up to the group, extending a hand to introduce himself.

  Marnie looked at his hand as if he had offered up a snake.

  But Roberta Alan took it, staring at him curiously, a smile on her lips. “Well, hello, gorgeous!” she said, her voice and tone an excellent mimic of that used by Barbra Streisand as Fanny Brice in Funny Girl.

  He grinned. He could play the game.

  “Hello, gorgeous, yourself,” he told her. “My name is Bryan McFadden. My parents—”

  “Oh!” Roberta exclaimed. “I know—yes, you’re so like your father. And your mother, really, and they both were truly gorgeous. Well, your dad, of course, was very manly. You’re manly, too, naturally, and I...I’m just making a fool out of myself here. Mr. McFadden, may I introduce you to my costars? Grayson Adair, our brother. Jeremy Highsmith, good old dad. And Marnie Davante—”

  “Scarlet Zeta, Madam Zeta,” he said.

  Marnie forced a stiff smile. “How do you do, Mr. McFadden?”

  “Nice to meet you, son. I knew your parents. I was so sorry when they...died,” Jeremy Highsmith told him, wincing a little.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And they say that Hollywood is murder. Well, in this case... Oh, hell, I can’t get out of this one.”

  Malcolm Dangerfield suddenly cut between Jeremy and Marnie, offering his hand. “Malcolm Dangerfield,” he said. “Are you looking for work out here? Acting?”

  “No. I’m not an actor. I’m actually a private investigator,” Bryan replied curtly.

  “Hey, let me tell you—bodyguards are in high demand right now. You know, after what I witnessed, I’d take on another. Call me if you’re interested in anything like that.”

  “Actually, I’m out here to work the case of Cara Barton’s murder,” Bryan said.

  Marnie stared at him, startled.

  And wary.

  Very wary. She obviously didn’t trust him. At the moment, he was sure, she didn’t trust herself. Why should she trust a man claiming that he could see a dead woman, too?

  “Well, nice to meet you,” Malcolm said.

  “You sure you’re not trying to get into the movies?” Jeremy asked him. “Names and nepotism have been known to open doors. Are you...looking for a role?”

  “I assure you—I’m not looking for a role,” Bryan told him.

  They all continued to stare at him suspiciously. Except for Roberta. She remained curious and intrigued. “You’re here because your family knew Cara, I imagine. But...the cops are trying everything. They’re looking at every angle,” Roberta told him.

  Jeremy Highsmith cleared his throat. “Every angle. They’ve told all of us to keep special care, to keep our doors locked and to watch out for strangers. Oh, yeah. They’ve suggested we all avoid comic cons for the time being, and any place that a man or woman could dress up in a costume that would make them totally anonymous. Just in case Cara isn’t the only target.”

  “They do say that it could have just been random,” Malcolm said. “That the guy—or woman, but the dude was pretty big, so I think it was a man—was just out to kill. Someone, anyone, a guest or a celebrity.”

  “You know, like it might have been some kind of an exhibitionist,” Roberta supplied.

  “Marnie was going along with the show,” Jeremy said. “And Cara—Cara was never to be outdone. She hopped up and got right into it.”

  “Miss Davante,” a male voice said softly, interrupting them.

  They all swiveled around to see who had spoken.

  Bryan had seen the man before—in the cell phone footage of the killing that had gone viral around the world. Most of the news stations had shown the footage with some respect. Many social media sites had posted it in all its graphic detail—until the pure horror of it had been caught and taken down by whatever powers that be, those with some common decency.

  The man had been standing at the booth when it had happened. He’d been speaking with Marnie, or so it appeared. A fan?

  “Miss Davante, David Neal. I was there... I just wanted to say I’m so sorry. I... We...we have an appointment tomorrow. I wasn’t sure... Anyway, I wish you luck with your future,” he said. He backed away awkwardly, looking at all of them. “I’m truly sorry—all of you. She was a great talent. She was...a talent. Yes. I’m sorry. Miss Davante, I hope that... I hope that you won’t hold this against me when...when you’re looking to hire again.”

  He nodded uncomfortably to all of them and then moved on.

  “Rude,” Malcolm said. “We’re at a funeral, and he’s worried about a job.”

  “He was just apologizing,” Marnie said in the man’s defense.

  “As he should have been,” Roberta murmured.

  “We’re here for you,” Jeremy said. “We’re all here for each other. Oh, look, there’s Vince Carlton. I’m sure he’s hurting, too. He’d been in talks with Cara for a while,” he said to Bryan. “I’m going to say hello again. Excuse me.”

  “And excuse me,” Marnie said. She stared straight at Bryan, and he knew that he was the reason she wanted to be excused.

  But he couldn’t stop her. And he wasn’t sure that he should, not at that moment.

  “Miss Dav
ante,” he said, lowering his head as she stepped by.

  “So,” Roberta said as Marnie walked away, “may I get you a drink? I suppose you used your family connection to get in here today. Because though we had help from a few others, we were Cara’s family, and we pretty much put the guest list together. Naughty, naughty, Mr. McFadden—you weren’t on it! Then again, neither was that young man, David Neal. You have a connection. How did he manage it, do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Bryan told her. “But it would be interesting to find out.”

  * * *

  There was someone in her house. But that wasn’t unexpected.

  Marnie had driven herself to the service, though she could have gone to the funeral and the reception in the cast limo.

  She had chosen not to, explaining that she might not want to stay long at the reception, and she’d really like to have her own car available.

  She pulled up to her duplex. Her home was in a perfect location—close to Universal Studios, a hop on the I-5 to either Hollywood or to places up north. She wasn’t far from Burbank and the airport there.

  Also, she had just loved the home when she had first seen it. The yard was surrounded by a white picket fence. There were three gates—one at the walkway from the sidewalk, and one on each side for her and Bridget to bring their cars into their parking spaces. Really, for the location, her duplex had been an amazing deal.

  The charm of the duplex was, in a way, odd. There were dozens of skyscrapers nearby, but her place looked like it might have come out of Home and Garden for the rural crowd. But it was that kind of a neighborhood—houses for the median-income crowd along with businesses and skyscrapers. She’d loved where she lived since she’d bought it, at the height of Dark Harbor’s popularity.

  She kept the place whitewashed with green trim. It had been built right when Art Nouveau had been giving way to Art Deco. There were window boxes and arches and all kinds of charming little details in the architecture.