A Season of Miracles by Heather Graham (1)

Keep reading for a sneak peek at

WICKED DEEDS

the latest thrilling tale of romantic suspense

in the Krewe of Hunters series

by New York Times bestselling author

Heather Graham.

Available now from MIRA Books

PROLOGUE

In Dreams

It was dark, and it was night, and she was followingalong a strange wooded path.

Vickie Preston fought against it; good things never started this way.

But she wasn’t in deep woods. She was not far from some kind of a city—she could see light through the trees.

The light seemed strange. It wasn’t the contempo­rary, bright luminescence of electricity that shined with such fervor that it was easily seen from space. This was different. Soft light. As if it came from candles or…gas. Gas lamps.

She had, she thought, stumbled into a different time, a different place. She made a turn, and the darkness was gone, things changing suddenly in that way of dreams; she was in a city, and it was day, late after­noon perhaps, with evening on its way.

People were rushing about, here, there and every­where.

“Vote! Fourth Ward polls!” someone called out.

A woman with a big hoop skirt pushed by Vickie, dragging a man about by an ear. “Harold Finder! Vot­ing is no excuse for my husband to show himself in public, drunk!” she said angrily.

Harold was twice his wife’s size, but Mrs. Finder seemed to have an exceptional hold on his ear!

They had just come from what appeared to be a tavern. Vickie looked about, wondering why no one noticed her. They were all dressed so differently; men in frock coats and waistcoats and cravats and women with their tightly corseted tops and great, billowing skirts. Granted, she was sleeping in a long white cot­ton gown, “puritanical,” or so Griffin had teased her.

No, no, oh, yuck! You know how I feel about our dear historical Puritans! she’d told him.

Vickie, like Griffin, had grown up in Boston. She’d become a historian and wrote nonfiction books. De­spite trying to understand the very different times they had lived in, she just didn’t care much for the people who had first settled her area—they were completely intolerant.

Griffin could usually just shrug off the past; he’d been a cop when she’d first met him and he was an FBI agent now. The past mattered to him, but mostly when it helped solve crime in the present.

He’d been sleeping next to her, of course. They were on their way to Virginia from Boston, ready to start a new life. But they’d stopped in Baltimore, at a hotel… They’d laughed as they got ready for bed, he’d teased her about the nightgown…

She did not look like a Puritan!

Griffin had assured her that she wouldn’t wear the “puritanical” gown long, and she hadn’t, but then, freezing in the air-conditioning of their hotel, she’d put it back on…

She was glad, of course. Otherwise, she’d be walk­ing stark naked around this unknown and bizarre place.

Where was she?

She turned to the doorway of the “polling place” where Harold and his wife had just departed. She could hear all manner of laughing and talking. It was defi­nitely a tavern. Gunnar’s Place.

And there was nothing indicating Puritan Massa­chusetts here—she wasn’t in Massachusetts and these people certainly weren’t Puritans.

She walked in, wondering if women were welcome. It didn’t matter. No one seemed to notice her.

The place was smoky and dusty. Barmaids were hurrying about, handing out drinks. Men were being solicited for their votes.

There was a lone man seated on a wooden bench at a table, head hanging low. But when Vickie entered, he looked up, and he beckoned to her.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said impatiently. He stood, wavering.

He was a small man, just a little shorter than Vickie, maybe five-eight to her five-nine. His hair was dark and a curl hung over his forehead. His eyes seemed red-rimmed and sunken in his face, which was quite ashen, with a yellow pallor.

She knew him.

She’d seen his picture throughout her life; she’d loved his work. She’d loved that he’d been born in Boston—even if he had come to hate that city. There was a wonderful statue of him now, a life-size bronze figure of the writer, hurrying along with a briefcase and a raven.

She knew his face from so many pictures and im­ages, a man haunted by demons in life, most of those demons brought about by his alcohol addiction. She’d always wondered if more knowledge during his age might have helped him; a really good therapist, a good program…

“I’m hallucinating you, you know. Delirium trem­ors,” he told her gravely. “But I have been waiting for you, Victoria.”

“I love your work!” Vickie said. She flushed. It was a dream, or a nightmare, and she was having a fangirl moment. She needed control and decorum.

“Yes, well, then, you are brighter than my insidi­ous detractors,” he told her. “But here’s the thing. You must stop it. I am being used—my work, my memory. It was good—it was all good, until I came here, until I reached Baltimore. Then, they…were upon me.”

“They who?” she asked. “No one knows—it’s still a mystery.”

“They were upon me,” he repeated.

Vickie reached across the table and set her hand gent ly upon his. He was trembling, she realized, vio­lently. “You’re not looking very well,” she said.

And he turned to give her a rueful smile. “No. I will not be here long, you see. But I’m glad that you made it, so glad that you’re here. It’s happening again. And you must do something. You must stop it. No one will see, because it’s much the same. Do you understand?”

“Not a word,” she assured him.

He looked across the room and seemed concerned; he stood suddenly and hurried toward the door. Vickie raced after him.

She didn’t see him at first. He was on the ground, slumped against the building. She tried to reach him, but there was already a man at his side, attempting to help him. She noted an address then, Lombard Street.

As she stood there while the one man tried to help, people continued to hurry along the street. Hawkers shouted out their wares—and their candidates. Drinks were promised for votes; there was laughter, there was a rush of music, someone playing a fiddle…

She tried to reach the fallen man, thankful that at least someone was helping him.

Across the bit of distance between them, he opened his eyes and looked at her.

“I have to go now,” he said.

“No…!”

“But I must. And you…”

“Yes?”

“You must pay attention.” He laughed softly. “Don’t let it happen again.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

A loud cawing sound seemed to rip through the air.

He looked at her sadly and said, “Quoth the raven—nevermore!”

CHAPTER 1

“There’s been an incident, a very bizarre incident,” Jackson Crow said.

His voice over the phone as he spoke to Griffin Pryce was steady—as always. Jackson had pretty much seen it all. As field director of a special unit of the FBI—unofficially known as the Krewe of Hunters—Jackson had just about seen it all, although he’d be the first to say they’d probably never “see it all.”

The “bizarre” was usually the reason the Krewe got called in.

“What’s the incident?”

“You’ve heard of Franklin Verne?” Jackson asked.

“The writer? Yes, of course. Kind of impossible not to have heard of him—he likes to do his own commer­cials. He’s known for action books with shades of hor­ror, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

Griffin frowned, thinking about the night before. He’d actually heard mention of Franklin Verne’s name—he and Vickie had stopped for a damned good dinner and some excellent wine at a spectacular new Baltimore restaurant. Their waiter had mentioned that Franklin Verne was in the city and they were hoping to see him in the restaurant for a meal—and, of course, an endorsement!

“Griffin?”

“Yeah. I’m thinking that you’re about to tell me how he died, and since you’re on the phone with me, and you know we’re in Baltimore, I’m assuming he died in Baltimore?”

“Yes, last night. He was found in the wine cellar of the Black Bird, a new restaurant—”

“What?” Griffin said. He knew the restaurant—pretty well! It was, in fact, the posh place where he’d taken Vickie last night.

“The Black Bird,” Jackson repeated.

“We ate there last night.”

“Oh. Well, that’s convenient. You know right where it is.”

“I do. Fell’s Point, not far from where we’re staying. You know Vickie—we found a really great old historic hotel. Blackhawk Harbor House. In fact, I’m standing outside. It’s so wonderfully old and historic, though I can’t seem to make a cell phone call from inside.” He glanced up at the building. It had been built as a hotel in the 1850s—built with concrete and care. It would probably withstand any storm. The hotel was hand­some and elegant, and Griffin enjoyed it—but he still found it annoying when he couldn’t get a decent signal on his phone from his room.

“They sure weren’t expecting Franklin Verne at the restaurant,” he told Jackson. “They talked about the fact that they hoped that he would come in. His patronage would be great for business.”

“I imagine. Well, he was there—is there. Sadly, he’s dead. At the moment, they’re calling it an accidental death.”

“Okay. So. How did he die? Was it an accident, pos­sibly…?”

“A combination of over-the-counter drugs and al­cohol,” Jackson said. “That’s a preliminary—the ME, of course, will deny he suggested any true cause as of yet. You know how that works—they won’t know for certain what caused it until all the tests are back. I take it you haven’t seen any news yet?”

“Jackson, it is 7:30 a.m. This was our last weekend before settling in—me back from a long stint in Boston, and Vickie moving to a new state and an entirely new life. Hey, it was supposed to be free time. We were out late last night. Vickie is still sleeping.”

“Okay, you haven’t seen the news. Anyway, Frank­lin Verne used to be quite the wild man, drinking, get­ting rowdy with friends, playing the type of hard-core character that appears in most of his books. His wife, Monica, put a stop to it a few years back—when the doctors told her he wouldn’t make it to old age. But his body was found in a wine cellar. According to Monica, Franklin had been clean for two full years.”

“You know all this because…?” Griffin asked him.

“Because Franklin Verne gave generously to a lot of the same causes our own Adam Harrison holds so dear,” Jackson said.

Adam Harrison was their senior advisor—he was, in fact, the creator of the Krewe, and a man with a phe­nomenal ability to put the right people together with the right situation.

“Naturally,” Jackson continued, “he’s quite good friends with Monica, so… Well, there you have it. He’ll wrangle us an invitation into the investigation eventually—you know him and his abilities with local police.” Jackson hesitated a minute. “Even if we wind up having to tell Monica she lost her husband because he slipped back into addiction, she’ll have the truth of the situation. For the moment, I need you to go make nice with Detective Carl Morris.”

“Carl Morris, sure,” Griffin said.

So much for the incredible plans he’d had with Vickie for the day!

“Addiction, a friend, temptation… It could have been an accident,” Griffin said.

“Yes. Except that none of the waitstaff saw him in the restaurant, much less down in the wine cellar. And, as I said, Monica—who claims she really knew her husband—is calling it murder.”

“Ah. Okay, are you coming up?” Griffin asked Jack­son. Krewe headquarters was only about an hour and a half—two hours at most—from Baltimore, even count­ing Beltway traffic.

“Maybe, but Adam wants to move delicately with this. We’re not invited in yet—Franklin Verne’s death isn’t even considered to be a murder at the moment. But of course, the way the man died, there has to be an au­topsy and an investigation. Get started for me, and then give me a call. Let me know what you think.”

“All right. When did this happen?”

“He was found about an hour ago. Adam got the call from Monica immediately after she was visited by the police and informed that her husband was dead. If you head in quickly, you’ll see the body in situ. Oh, and one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, it is Baltimore, and Poe is buried there, and, hell, the name of the restaurant isn’t Raven, but it is Black Bird…”

“What?”

“He was found gripping a little bird. Yes, a raven, of course. It’s the kind you can find just about anywhere they have Poe souvenirs. Cheap, plastic, black—on a little pedestal with its wings out, beak open…and the word nevermore written on the base.”

“Like you said, you can buy those souvenirs any­where.”

“Yep. And, sorry. Just one more thing again.”

“What’s that?”

“He was surrounded by three dead blackbirds. Nat­urally, of course, no one can figure out how Franklin Verne—or the birds—got into the wine cellar.”

Vickie opened her eyes.

For a moment, she was disoriented.

She wasn’t at all sure where she was!

And then she realized that Griffin was there, look­ing down at her with concern. A half grin curled his lips, though that grin was far more rueful than amused.

Grim, even.

“A nightmare?” he asked her gently, a trace of worry crossing his bronzed face. There wasn’t a reason for her to be having nightmares—at the moment. The Krewe cases with which she’d been involved had come to their conclusions.

She was in the wonderful hotel in Baltimore’s Fell’s Point where she had enthusiastically suggested they stay on their trip from Boston to Arlington, Virginia—even though they hadn’t really needed to make it an over­night trip, much less a weekend one.

But she and Griffin had wanted time together. Fun time, sightseeing, before Griffin reported back to head­quarters; Vickie was preparing to enter the FBI’s train­ing academy at Quantico.

Eventually, they’d both be working out of the main special offices of the Krewe of Hunters unit. But for now, Griffin would be getting back to work, they’d both be settling in to living together—and Vickie would be starting up with the next class for twenty weeks of train­ing that would lead to her graduation and an official position with the Krewe.

Vickie could have told Griffin about the dream. The Krewe were more than simply dedicated and well-trained agents. They had been gathered together care­fully because they all had unique abilities, the center of those abilities being that they could communicate with the dead.

When the dead chose, of course.

She and Griffin had both known for years just what the other was capable of. While they had only rekindled their relationship recently, they had first met almost a decade ago—when a serial killer had nearly taken Vickie’s life. It had been a ghost, the older brother of the child she was babysitting, who had saved her by sending her running out of the house to safety, straight toward a young Officer Pryce. He’d been a cop before becoming an agent, though he had now been with the Krewe of Hunters for quite some time. He’d always known that he wanted to be in law enforcement.

It wasn’t that way for Vickie.

She loved history. She’d been a guide, leading youth-group tours as a historian, and she was an author of his­tory books. She was proud to say that she was good at it—the most important reviews to her were the ones that said she had a way of making history fun for the reader.

It was only the cases with which she had recently become involved that had made her want to veer in a new direction. Not a change—an addition. There had been a case in which an incarcerated serial killer had managed to reach out to strike again, and then another where modern-day Satanists had tried to bring the devil back to Massachusetts.

She was now determined to do her best to become an agent herself, and it was a decision with which she was really pleased. It was odd to realize that she had once been embarrassed by her secret talent—the abili ty to speak with the dead. She hadn’t wanted to admit that it could be real. But she’d learned recently that her so-called curse allowed her to actually make a differ­ence. She might have the ability to help in more bizarre cases—to save lives. And that mattered. To that end, she’d applied for and been accepted to the academy at Quantico. The Krewe might be a special unit, but even so, the agents were required to go through the academy. Vickie had passed the necessary tests on paper and made it through the grueling physical regimen neces­sary to become an agent.

Griffin already had an apartment in a wonderful old row house in Alexandria. For him, it wasn’t a move—just a return to his home of the past several years. He had only been back in Boston—where he and Vickie both were born and raised—on assignment.

Vickie had gone to college at NYU and then lived in New York for several years, but never farther south.

It was, she’d assured him, exciting to move.

But she was aware that Griffin believed it had to be a tug on her heartstrings as well—she was leaving a lot behind.

And she was. But she was also happy to be mov­ing forward.

“A nightmare?” he repeated, and the note of worry seemed higher.

She smiled, staring into his dark eyes. Griffin was fine with her decision to become an agent; the Krewe was composed of both men and women, and he knew women were every bit as efficient and excellent as agents as men.

It was just her—but of course, he loved her. It wasn’t going to be easy for him to accept her walking into the same danger he did daily. He would, however, get used to it—and she loved him all the more for that fact.

“No, not a nightmare!” she told him. He far too quickly became concerned for her. All it had been was a bizarre dream. It might well have been due to the way they’d overindulged in some delicious blue crabs at dinner last night.

She would stay mum. For the moment. After all, she was in Baltimore. Edgar Allan Poe was buried here; he’d died here. Having dreams about him didn’t seem the least bit strange, actually.

But for the moment…

“It was a dream, and rather a cool one. I was walk­ing around Baltimore…”

“We’re in Baltimore, so that seems…normal, maybe?”

She grinned, rolling onto an elbow to better face him—he’d already gotten up and showered and dressed for the day. He was an early riser—alert and ready to face the world as soon as he opened his eyes.

Vickie…not so much! But she was getting used to early mornings.

“Perfectly normal,” she told him. “It wasn’t a night­mare. It was just a dream. About beautiful old Baltimore—hey, it’s an important city, right? And we are going to go and do some cool things today, aren’t we?”

“Absolutely,” he promised. “Fort McHenry, the Inner Harbor, Federal Hill—”

“Don’t forget the aquarium!” she said.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. But I thought we might want a full day for that. We can do whatever you choose, my love. Anything you would like.”

“You’ve done it all too many times before?” she asked him.

He laughed. “No. I mean, I have done it all before, but not with you, so it’s as if it’s the first time, right?”

“That is an incredibly good suck-up line if I have ever heard one!” she assured him.

She thought that the line might take them some­where, but he smiled and stepped away from the bed.

“I just have a couple of hours of work first,” he said.

“What?”

“Work. But there’s not much involved at the moment, and not much I can do.” He added quietly, “Franklin Verne—you know who he is?”

“Yep. I’m living and breathing and have ears and eyes. You can’t miss him. What about him?”

“He died last night.”

“Oh, that’s too bad—terribly sad! I’ve seen him speak. I mean, I write nonfiction and he writes fiction, but I’ve been at a number of conferences where he’s been a speaker on a panel. He was charming and very funny…helpful, giving. He’s actually written some his­torical fiction, and while Verne tended toward horror—some action, some sci-fi and some mystery—he was a wonderful researcher as well.”

“Always the writer!” he teased.

“That’s not going to be a problem, is it?” She’d spo­ken with other agents and she believed that—assuming she did make it through the academy—she’d still be wel­come to write on her own time. It seemed that Krewe agents were, in fact, encouraged to keep up with any previous pursuits.

“It’s fine!” he assured her quickly.

“So what happened to Franklin Verne? I know that he was ill a few years ago—in fact, he joked about it sometimes when he spoke, saying that his wife taught him how to have fun and not be totally boring without a dip in a whiskey vat.”

“Yes, I had heard that he was supposedly as clean as a newborn babe.”

“Supposedly?”

“He was found dead in a wine cellar.”

“In a wine cellar—he didn’t have a wine cellar. I don’t think he even drank wine. When he did drink.”

“Not his wine cellar. But how do you know he didn’t have a wine cellar?”

“He was very open about his health problems, about his wild days—and his love for his wife,” Vickie said. “So, if not his own wine cellar—where then?”

“The Black Bird.”

“What?”

“Amazing. That was my exact reaction when Jack­son told me. Want to come with me? I’m on my way there now. Heading off to kowtow to a local cop named Carl Morris.”

Vickie rolled out of bed. “Ten minutes,” she told him.

He nodded; he knew she was telling the truth.

Vickie and Griffin had both thoroughly enjoyed the Black Bird the night before; the service had been won­derful and the food had been delicious.

Vickie had especially like the decor; the building was 1820s Federal style, and the restaurant had the first two floors and the basement of the building while the remaining three floors above were given over to of­fice space. Upon entering a long hall of a foyer with exposed brick walls and plush red carpeting, you came to the hostess stand. From there it went through to the bar area.

The bar was lined with portraits of Poe and his fami ly; there were framed posters of quotations and more, all having to do with Edgar Allan Poe.

Stairs led from behind the bar to several sections of seats and a few party rooms of various sizes. The main dining room was the first floor, and tables and booths were surrounded by bookshelves.

Of course, not even the master could have written enough to fill the restaurant’s shelves; it was an eclectic mix of secondhand novels. The venue had charmingly been planned on the concept that every diner was wel­come to take a book, and, naturally, you were welcome to leave a book or books as well.

New editions of Poe books were sold in the gift shop, which was conveniently on the way out, at the back of the restaurant. Of course, one could leave through the front door, but the bookshop was like a minimuseum, and Vickie sincerely doubted that many people ignored it. Their waiter—he’d introduced himself as Jon—told them that though the restaurant was comparatively new, they attracted a lot of local, repeat clientele, for which they were very grateful. But locals didn’t tend to shop for souvenirs, unless they were entertaining out-of-town friends. Since they were happily playing tourist, Vickie and Griffin made sure to visit the shop. Lacey Shaw, the woman working the little boutique, was a bit of a Poe aficionado, and she assured them that even the lo­cals loved to come in and chat.

And their waiter was also quite the enthusiast. “Se­riously, poor Poe was much maligned in life, but most of the time, the people who wrote about him were se­riously jealous competitors, so of course they tried to make him out to be nothing but a drunk with delusions of grandeur. In truth? He was brilliant. You do know that we credit him with the creation of the modern de­tective novel? ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’! What an imagination the man had!” Jon had told them, eyes bright with his admiration. He might be a waiter there, but he truly loved the works of the man and had stud­ied his life.

“I promise you, we’ll not argue Poe’s brilliance,” Griffin had assured him.

Jon had gone on, “But people love the restaurant be­cause of the library. It’s not a new idea but what a great one—bring a book, take a book! Or just take a book. Well, okay—buy a shiny new one in the gift shop, too. I love working here! Gary Frampton—the owner—is a wonderful man. I’m crazy about him. Alice—the lovely girl with the long blond hair who greeted you as a host­ess tonight—is his daughter.”

It wasn’t “lovely Alice” who met them then, though, by light of the next day.

It was an officer in uniform.

Griffin produced his credentials, and the officer gruffly told him to go on downstairs to the wine cellar.

The stairs were brick, as old as the building, but well maintained. As they descended, the air got cooler. The cellar was climate controlled but obviously didn’t need much help. It was stone, deep in the ground near the harbor, and naturally protected from the heat of a mid-Atlantic summer.

A tall, slim man who somewhat reminded Vickie of Lurch from The Addams Family was standing quietly in the center of the main room. Crime-scene techs—

easily identifiable by their jackets—were moving about, collecting what evidence could be found.

The body of Franklin Verne remained, giving Vickie a moment’s pause.

She had known him in life. She had seen him when he had smiled, gestured, moved and laughed.

And now, of course, the man she had known—if only casually—was gone. What remained, she felt, was a shell.

She glanced at Griffin. They both felt it.

Yes, Franklin Verne was definitely gone. Nothing of his soul lingered.

At least, not here.

The dead man was seated in a chair near a desk; it was a period piece, Victorian era, she thought. Fitting for the place, but it had a modern computer with a nice monitor, along with a printer/scanner, and baskets most probably from Office Depot that held papers and mail and more.

The desk, however, was next to an old potbellied stove. In winter, it might have warmed up the place a bit, for those condemned to keep the wine company on a cold night.

Franklin Verne had died slumped back in the chair. His eyes were eerily open. A man in scrubs and a mask worked over him—the ME, Vickie assumed.

“Detective Morris?” Griffin asked, stepping forward to introduce himself. Vickie knew that Griffin would follow every courtesy, thanking the detective first and then speaking with the ME.

The Lurch-like man turned toward him, nodding, studying him and then offering him a hand.

“Special Agent Pryce?” Morris asked.

“Yes, sir. Thank you for the courtesy. Our supervis­ing director is friends with Mrs. Verne, as I suppose you’ve heard.”

“Yes,” Morris said, looking at Vickie.

“Ms. Victoria Preston,” Griffin said, introducing her. “Vickie is heading down to start at the academy in a few weeks.”

“Excellent,” Morris said, nodding. He lifted his hands. “Sad thing. I’ve been standing here, looking around, hoping that something brilliant might come to me. I can’t say I knew Mr. Verne—he was local, but he and Mrs. Verne were only in residence part of the year these days. He’s a popular personage around here. There are wild tales of him back in the day, but he never stopped giving to the city police, and he was involved in a number of charitable enterprises.”

“I’ve heard he was a very good man,” Griffin said. “Vickie knew him.”

“I didn’t exactly know him,” she corrected. “We met several times at conferences. I write nonfiction books,” she explained.

It was certainly not something that was at all impres­sive to Detective Morris. “Perhaps this is uncomfort­able for you,” he said, “being in here. Since you know the victim. And you are a civilian.”

“Accepted into the academy,” Griffin said.

“I’m fine,” she assured Morris, glad that Griffin had so quickly—and indignantly—come to her defense.

Morris turned to the man working with the corpse. “Dr. Myron Hatfield, Special Agent Pryce, Ms. Preston. Dr. Hatfield is, in my opinion, one of the finest medi­cal examiners to ever grace the Eastern coast,” he said.

Hatfield straightened. He was tall, too, probably about fifty, with steel-gray hair and a good-sized frame; he was built like a linebacker or a fighter. But he had a quick—if slightly grim—smile. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about the circumstances. I’d met Mr. Verne, too, at a fund-raiser for a local children’s hospital. He seemed a good man. And…well, the night I met him, he looked great.” He looked as if he was about to say more. He shrugged. “I really won’t know much of anything until I get him into the morgue.”

“Doctor,” Griffin said. “My field supervisor sug­gested that he died of a mix of alcohol and drugs.”

Hatfield hesitated. “His mouth… Well, a layman could smell the alcohol. The condition of the body sug­gests a catastrophic shutdown of organs. But we need tests. I need to complete an autopsy. I hope that my words haven’t gone any further.”

“No, sir,” Griffin assured him. He turned back to Morris. “No one saw him come down here—they’ve spoken to all the employees?” he asked.

“It was a late night. The manager didn’t close up until almost three in the morning,” Morris said. “The place was, according to him, completely empty. We’re still trying to contact all the night staff, but the last thing the manager does is check the basement—the wine cellar here—and see that the shelves are locked for the night.” He pointed. “Master switch there. You can see that most of the shelves have cages. Some of these wines are worth thousands of dollars.”

“And there’s no other way in than by the stairs? What about cameras?” Griffin asked.

“None down here, but there are cameras at the front door and the back door, which is really more of a side door, by the gift shop.”

“We were here last night,” Vickie said.

“Oh?” Morris asked, a brow politely raised a half notch.

“Yes, but we were early birds, comparatively. We were gone by eleven,” Griffin said. “Ironic—our waiter was wishing that Franklin Verne would pay a visit and endorse the restaurant.”

“He’s endorsed it now, all right,” Hatfield said.

“So tragically!” Vickie said.

Morris grunted. “Yes, but people are ghouls. The place will be booked for years to come now—it’s where Franklin Verne mysteriously died!”

None of them could argue that. “Detective, may I walk around?” Griffin asked.

Detective Morris nodded. “I’ve been here almost two hours. Can’t figure it myself, but I don’t believe he vaporized or said, ‘Beam me up, Scotty!’ There’s something here. I’m mulling. You knock yourself out.”

“We’re about to take the body,” Hatfield said quietly.

“Thank you,” Griffin said. Vickie kept her distance. She was startled when she heard Griffin ask Hatfield, “I heard he was holding a raven?”

“The kind they sell in the gift shop, right upstairs,” Hatfield said.

“Bagged it as evidence,” Morris said. He pointed to the desk, where the raven lay in a clear plastic evi­dence bag.

“Thanks,” Griffin said. He lifted the bag. He and Vickie both studied it.

Vickie had noted other ravens just like it at the gift shop the night before; they were cheap plastic, cost no more than a cup of coffee—perfect little souvenirs that brought back a memory and made you smile.

“There were three dead blackbirds by the body?” Griffin asked.

Morris lowered his head in acknowledgment. “They’re in the evidence bags at the end of the desk. Take a look—knock yourself out. I guess what’s going to matter is how they died, and that falls in Dr. Hat­field’s territory.”

“Actually, it’s a necropsy—but we have a fellow on staff who deals with all animals that aren’t of the human variety,” Hatfield said. “And we’ll keep you apprised every step of the way.”

“Thanks,” Griffin said. “They are blackbirds, right? Not young crows or ravens?”

“Blackbirds,” Hatfield agreed. “The size alone gives us that.”

Vickie held where she was, watching Griffin’s broad back as he headed down the rows of carefully shelved wine.

After all, he was an agent; she wasn’t sure what pro­cedure would be. It was best in this situation to let Grif­fin move forward without her.

And…

For a moment, she felt dizzy, remembering her dream.

Poe—Edgar Allan! She had met him at a tavern that wouldn’t have been far from here…the tavern he’d been found near, delirious and wearing clothing that wasn’t his.

He’d been missing three days. Some said he’d been kidnapped for his vote—and thus the different clothing that he wore. Some said that it had been the drink, that he’d met up with friends and the alcohol had quickly cost him his life.

Some said it had been a murder plot, perpetuated by relatives of the widow he’d planned to marry when his business was accomplished…

But the author and poet had not died in a wine cel­lar. Rather, one of his immortal characters had done so!

“Miss?”

“Oh! I’m sorry!”

Men from the medical examiner’s office were there to take the body. She quickly moved out of the way.

Griffin came back from walking up and down the racks of wine.

“I’ll know soon enough what I suspect, even if it takes a bit longer to be official,” said Dr. Hatfield. “Spe­cial Agent Pryce, you’re welcome to come by this after­noon with Carl. I’m afraid that this gentleman will be bringing me in to work all day on a Saturday.”

Griffin shook hands all around and gave Detective Morris a card; Morris returned the courtesy. Then Grif­fin set an arm on Vickie’s shoulder and they started back up the steps to the restaurant.

They walked outside.

Vickie stopped dead.

There were birds everywhere.

“Ravens!” she gasped.

“Blackbirds,” he said. “I had an uncle who loved birds. Crows, ravens, rooks and blackbirds—all con­fused for each other, but all different birds. Ravens be­long to the crow—or corvids—family, but not all crows are ravens. Blackbirds belong to the thrush family. A raven, however, is about the size of a hawk and a crow is about the size of a pigeon. Those guys…”

He was looking up; he suddenly stopped speaking.

“How bizarre!” he said.

“What?” she asked.

He pointed high where a bird glided over the street, far above the little blackbirds that gathered on build­ings and wires.

“That one—that one is a raven,” he said.

Vickie wasn’t at all sure why—the sun was brilliantly shining—but she shivered. She stared at the bird.

It flew over the area, again and again, before light­ing on the roof of a nearby building.

Griffin looked at her. “Come on. Let’s go see Mrs. Verne. I’ll report to Jackson. Maybe we can still get in a trip out to Fort McHenry.”

“Actually…”

“What?”

“I think we should visit Poe’s grave,” Vickie said.

“Haven’t you been before?”

“I have.”

“It’s just… It’s a grave,” he reminded her.

“Yes, but fitting today, don’t you think?” She shrugged. “It is one of those things you do in Baltimore, you know.”

The hardest part of the job wasn’t dealing with the dead.

The dead didn’t weep like the living.

Griffin hadn’t met Monica Verne before, but thanks to his conversation with Jackson, he knew that Adam Harrison was friends with her.

Adam was careful about the friends he chose.

Griffin and Vickie reached Monica Verne’s pala­tial home on the outskirts of the city right before noon.

An attractive young woman wearing a black dress, functional pumps and a bleak expression opened the door.

“Police?” she demanded. She had an accent. She was most probably from somewhere in Eastern Europe.

“No, ma’am,” Griffin began.

“You are despicable! You are horrible. Poor Mrs. Verne. She’s just learned about this unspeakable tragedy—from you people! And you are hounding her!”

“Ma’am!” Griffin said. “We’re not the police. We’re FBI—and Mrs. Verne requested that we be here. Please, we’re here on behalf of Adam Harrison.”

“Oh, oh, oh! Do come in! This way!”

She led them to the widow. Monica Verne was seated in the enclosed back porch of the home, which sat on a little hillock. Picture windows looked out on beautiful gardens, a pond and a small forest.

Monica was slender, almost ethereal. She was no trophy wife; while very lovely, she’d done nothing to correct the changes of time. She was obviously in her late sixties, and still beautiful. Great bone structure, huge powder blue eyes and a quick smile for them—even through her tears.

“I’m so grateful that you’re here and that you’ve come so quickly! I knew that Adam would help… I knew. The police are going to get this all wrong. It’s such bull! Franklin was, of course, a player when he was young—some drugs, a hell of a lot of drinking, partying. That’s how we met—back when I was mod­eling he was just becoming known as an author. Strug­gling! Wasn’t making much of anything at the time. I was actually the far more prestigious person! We met at a party where I was a guest—and he was working for the catering company!” She wasn’t boasting when she spoke; she was laughing. She choked slightly, more tears spilling from her eyes.

Vickie reached out and set her hand over Monica’s. “I’m so sorry.”

Monica looked at Vickie and nodded. Griffin thought that Vickie’s ability to empathize with others and offer them real comfort was going to be one of her great­est assets in joining the Krewe. It was also going to be one of the most difficult parts of the job for her to learn to manage. He lowered his head for a moment; it was an odd time to smile. And, an odd time to think just how lucky he was. Vickie was beautiful to look at—five foot nine, with long raven-black waves of hair and blue-green eyes that could change and shimmer like emeralds.

She was also so caring—honest and filled with in­tegrity.

He truly loved her. Watching her empathy and gentle touch with Monica, he knew all the more reason why.

“My husband didn’t kill himself!” Monica whispered fervently.

“I don’t think it’s been suggested that he killed him­self. I believe they’re considering it an accidental death,” Griffin began.

“Accidental death, my ass! If there’s any last thing I can do for Franklin, it’s going to be to make some­one prove that this was no accidental death!” Monica lashed out, furious and indignant. She wasn’t angry with Vickie—who was still holding her hand. Her passion was against the very suggestion that her husband’s death had been through a simple slip—some misfortune.

She wagged a finger at Griffin. “You listen to me, and listen well. We were the best, Frankie and me. I swear it. When all else fell to hell and ruin, we still had one another. I had nothing against his friends, all the conferences, all the fun—some I went to, some I didn’t. I trusted him. I was glad of his buddies—his writing friends, men and women. I’m a reader, but I can barely string a decent sentence together. Frankie needed other people who could write and talk about it. But when it all threatened his body, I put my foot down. No drugs whatsoever—not even a toke off someone’s joint. No al­cohol. None. And he listened to me. Because he wanted to live, and he loved and respected me. He loved us—he loved living. Adam sent you to me because he knows, damn it! Accidental death! No way. And you will find a way to prove it.”

“Mrs. Verne, what happened yesterday? Was he home—did you not notice that he wasn’t with you until the police came to tell you that…that he’d been found? What went on here yesterday?”

“What do you mean?” Monica asked indignantly. “There is no lie to this. You may ask anyone anywhere who knows the two of us, from friends to associates, to—”

“I’m not suggesting anything was wrong between you,” Griffin said, interrupting her softly. “What we’re trying to do is figure out where he was during the day, how he came to be where he was last night. Where was he when you went to bed?”

“Next to me, lying right next to me!” Monica said.

“What time was that?”

“Early. We’d been at my cousin’s house the day be­fore. Her grandchildren were in town. We were literally exhausted—in bed by eight o’clock!”

“And when you woke up this morning—he wasn’t with you?” Griffin asked.

Monica shook her head. “But there was nothing un­usual to that! Franklin loved to head out for walks first thing in the morning. He always told me that the longest and hardest part of writing was all in his head. When he went for his morning walks, he was really working. Of course, he’d say that with a wink, so what was and wasn’t really true…”

“Did he mention anything about going anywhere? Meeting up with someone? Any arrangements he might have made to meet up with a friend later—and he didn’t tell you?”

“He had no reason to lie to me!” Monica said. “No reason. Ever—and he knew it.”

“But he did keep up regular correspondences with friends, right?”

“Of course. The police took the computer from his home office. And—”

She broke off, sighing.

“What is it?” Vickie asked gently.

“They asked for his phone. But I don’t have it. They didn’t find his phone anywhere. And I can’t find his laptop, either.”

Griffin glanced at Vickie. Missing personal devices were suspicious.

Because there might be evidence on them.

“Franklin did not meet up with a friend! He did not break in to that cellar to drink wine! I’m telling you, I knew my husband, he…”

She broke off, gritting her teeth. She was trying not to cry. The woman was truly in anguish; she was also furious.

“I don’t know when he went out. I don’t why he went out—or how he wound up at the restaurant. I do know one thing.”

“What is that, Mrs. Verne?” Vickie asked.

Monica Verne startled them both, slamming a fist on the coffee table. “My husband was murdered!”

The motion seemed to be a cue.

In the yard, a dozen birds took flight, shrieking and cawing…

Griffin could see them as they let out their cries, sweeping into the sky.

A murder of crows…

And an unkindness of ravens…

As poetically cruel as the death of Franklin Verne.

WICKED DEEDS

by Heather Graham

Available now from MIRA Books

Copyright © 2017 by Heather Graham Pozzessere