Ashley didn’t tell anyone but Beth that she was leaving. The players were all assembling, costuming and preparing for the evening, and she would be back soon.
When she returned, she’d change into costume. Something that she had worn during the re-enactment days, or maybe… Maybe she’d wear the outfit that had so upset the clowns. She couldn’t imagine that her killing trio would be headed this far into the country, away from the prime pickings of the city. But if they did, the plantation had security working and a county police officer on duty every night.
She’d worry about that later. Right now she had to get into NOLA.
She called an Uber again. It wasn’t until she was nearly in the city that she called Jake.
He answered, sounding surprised to hear from her.
“What’s up?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“I’m trying to pin down the location of a man. The boyfriend. And I’m waiting for Jackson.”
“Jackson is on his way?”
“Yep. With Jude McCoy.”
“Nice.” Jude McCoy was a more recent addition to the Krewe, but he hailed from New Orleans and was great. He had first worked with Jackson on a serial killer case when the killer found refuge on a cruise ship out of New Orleans. He was intuitive—fast as an arrow—and a great friend and agent.
“You know how we like to do things. One will watch over Richard Showalter and one will work with me.”
“What about the cops?”
“They’re short officers in the city right now and they also have to deal with Halloween. Jackson calls the shots and this is how he’s called it. Jude is friends with a lot of the local agents who will be prowling the city, so it’s a good call. But how are you? How’s it going at the property?”
She looked ahead. The Uber driver was ever-so-slightly dancing to a number by Queen that was playing on his radio.
“I’m on my way in,” Ashley told him.
“What?” Snapping anger and disbelief were clear in his voice.
“I need to see Shelley Broussard’s corpse,” Ashley said.
“No, you don’t,” Jake responded instantly.
“Listen to me. She’s the ghost I’m seeing in my dreams, Jake. This is important.”
“What makes you think it’s her?”
“My eyesight. I look like her—especially when I’m dressed up in that costume that resembles the one worn in the painting she did. Jake, come on. She may really know something. She could help us.”
“Don’t come in, Ashley.”
“I’m almost there.”
He was silent for so long, Ashley thought he’d hung up on her. Then she heard a long sigh.
“Have the driver take you straight to the morgue,” he said, obviously still irritated. But he would meet her. And she knew that meant he believed her.
She agreed and they ended the call.
She hadn’t told the driver that she was headed to the morgue—she’d just given him the address.
But apparently he’d found the connection.
“You’re going to the morgue?” he asked, his eyes catching hers in the mirror.
“Yes,” she said.
“I’ve never taken anyone to the morgue before.”
“I guess that’s good.”
She didn’t tell him more. He was probably wondering if she’d been called in to identify a body, but she couldn’t very well tell him the truth.
So she sat in silence for the next twenty minutes of the ride.
They arrived and he let her out on the curb. She studied the building and felt a moment of sadness at its function. New Orleans had excellent pathologists and medical examiners by necessity. The city—and the entire parish—had been through a lot.
She headed up the path. Before she reached the front door, Jake stepped out. And he wasn’t alone. Jackson Crow walked at his side.
Their tall, seemingly impregnable leader had been an agent before the birth of the Krewe. He was imposing in his stature and appearance, with features that spoke to his Native American and Northern European heritage. He could be stoic—his position often demanded it—but it was his gentle streak that Ashley admired.
He must have just arrived.
She was glad. Jackson would make this easier.
Jake was visibly angry. He didn’t speak. Jackson greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and a worried smile. “You know what you’re doing, right, Ashley? I hate to remind you, but you’re a civilian.”
“You use other civilians when the need calls for it,” she reminded him.
Jake was standing tall and straight by Jackson’s side. They were both rather towering.
At least Jackson seemed to be on her side.
“Let’s go in,” he said.
They met up with Detective Parks, who had apparently made arrangements, and they were immediately ushered down a long hall and into one of the holding chambers. The autopsy had been completed, but Shelley Broussard had been brought out on a rolling gurney for them to see. She waited in the center of one of the examination rooms.
The medical examiner seemed curious, but she kept that curiosity to herself. She introduced herself as Dr. Sienna Hardgrave.
Shelley lay with a stark white sheet drawn up to her breasts. The gash in her throat was obvious. There was a sweetness and innocence about her face.
Even in death.
Ashley swallowed hard.
“Dr. Hardgrave has explained,” Jake said, “that Shelley was most likely taken from behind. Like this—” Jackson moved forward, allowing Jake to demonstrate how the killer had come up from behind, taking her by surprise, holding her by her shoulder with his left hand, and drawing the knife hard across the throat with the right.
“She never saw her killer,” Jackson said.
“Miss Donegal.” Detective Parks focused on her. “Do you know something?”
She shook her head. “I just—by coincidence—met the man who owns the gallery where she was living and working. And I bought one of her paintings. I’m sorry to have disturbed everyone coming here, but…” She paused, shaking her head. “I can’t help but feel that I’m getting to know her and that there are clues in her life or in the painting. The killer had to have been someone close to her. Someone she trusted, and someone who would call her a traitor.” She stepped forward, trying not to let the M.E. or the detective see that she wanted to touch Shelley’s body.
And see if she could reach the ghost haunting her dreams.
The dead were cold. So cold. And yet, even as she stood there touching the frigid flesh of the deceased, she imagined that she saw the young woman open her eyes, look at her, and whisper softly, “Please help me.”
The intensity of the plea was heart wrenching.
Ashley jolted and stepped back.
Jake didn’t miss the response. He moved forward, blocking Ashley while thanking the medical examiner, and guided her toward the door.
On the street, he spoke. Not angrily, but in anguish. “Ashley…”
He was visibly shaken on her behalf, reminding her that even when angry, he’d never be anything but…Jake.
“Jude is at our office here in town,” Jackson said. “Let’s go talk. She needs to know exactly what we know.”
Ashley looked at Jake and frowned, confused. He’d been upset on the phone that she was coming in.
What had happened since they’d talked?
“You shouldn’t be at home, either. Not without…one of us. Not until we’ve had a chance to talk,” Jackson said quietly.
“Let’s head to your office,” Detective Parks said. As head of the investigation, he was definitely joining the party.
Parks had his own car and Jackson rode with him, leaving Ashley alone with Jake in their rental car.
After clicking in her seatbelt, Ashley turned to him, determined to get some answers. “Jake, what’s going on?”
He looked at her unhappily.
“Since you spoke with me,” she persisted.
“Two things, Ashley. Angela has been doing research back at Krewe headquarters.”
“And?”
He inhaled. “She found a number of deaths from here to Biloxi and over in Baton Rouge that had been chalked up to drugs or gang violence. Bad guys—really bad guys—were killed. Murdered. She found seven in all, over the last year and a half.”
“So you think whoever killed that man Tink and most probably Shelley Broussard—and went after Richard Showalter—murdered those people as well?”
“Quite possibly. They see themselves as vigilantes. Shelley might have known about them—and not wanted to be involved.”
“The art studio,” Ashley said.
“Yes. But I also found out the name of the man she kept seeing at the gallery. The one who’d given her a hard time.”
“You did?”
“She told an old friend about him. An old friend that she hadn’t seen much of since she started at the gallery.”
“And his name is—?”
“His name is Jonathan Starling. According to Angela, he’s one of your employees at Donegal for the Halloween season—a scare actor. So, you see, on the one hand, I don’t want you getting involved here in the city. You might have put a target on yourself. But I don’t exactly want you out there, either—not until we find out just what went on with this man. With Jonathan Starling.”