She rose from her barstool. “Okay, I’m really going to try to sleep.”
“I’ll be here on the sofa. One scream will bring me running. And I am a crack shot,” Sophie promised her.
Marnie went to the guest room and crawled beneath the covers.
Two hours later, she realized she wasn’t going to sleep.
She lay there through the night, staring at the ceiling.
Waiting for the sound of breaking glass...
Waiting...
For a dead woman to appear before her.
*
Bryan had checked into a boutique hotel just down the hill from Marnie Davante’s duplex.
If he was going to manage to find a killer and keep Marnie alive, he was going to have to stay at the top of his game. That meant sleep. But he knew, as he returned to his room and pulled out his computer, it also meant he’d need some help.
For a moment, he drummed his fingers on the laptop. He was pretty good at research, but as far as trying to determine who—in a Hollywood sea of fans, directors, writers, actors, producers and others—might have wanted Cara Barton dead, or if Cara had even been the intended victim, he wasn’t even sure where to begin.
He sat for a minute, mentally recalling all the videos he had seen of the crime actually taking place in real time. The whole thing had appeared to be an on-the-spot and accidental performance, but unlike any other spontaneous shows that popped up here and there at a comic con. Especially in Hollywood, where you had not just fans cosplaying, but professional actors and hopeful actors in costume everywhere.
The police had interviewed dozens of people who had been wearing a Blood-bone costume.
Even though it had been possible to rule some out based on observations and enhancement of some of the videos gathered at the scene, including determining which costume manufacturer had sold the one worn by the killer, they were still left with twenty-six Blood-bones who had been questioned more thoroughly.
Not one had had a drop of blood on them. Not one had appeared to have been sweaty or shown signs of recent physical exertion. Most likely, the Blood-bone who had committed the deed had been long gone while confusion reigned—before anyone realized that a murder had actually been committed.
“This isn’t just finding a needle in a haystack,” he murmured to himself. “It’s like finding a needle in a stack of needles.”
There was a light tap at his door. He frowned, wondering if one of the detectives wanted to speak with him that night. He rose, one hand drifting almost subconsciously to the holster at his back, and carefully looked out the peephole.
He felt his tension ease and opened the door.
It was Cara Barton.
“You didn’t just come in?” he asked her.
“I’d never be so rude, darling! You’re a handsome, able-bodied man in his prime and...well, who knows what you might be doing,” she said with a wink.
“I’m here to solve your murder.”
“You’re still a young and virile man and... Oh, I could say more, but you are the child of my dear, dear friends, so I won’t. Suffice it to say that I was—whatever my other faults—courteous in life, and therefore, my darling boy, I shall continue to be so in death.”
“How nice. Do come all the way in.”
Cara glided past him. She didn’t actually walk—but then, she never had. She was a diva in the old Hollywood sense of the word. Not mean in any way—simply above it all, and everyone else she encountered, as well. “So, what can you tell me?” he asked her. She perched elegantly at the end of the bureau that held the wide-screen TV.
She sighed dramatically. “I don’t know... I just keep thinking he might have been after Marnie. She was laughing and plunged right into an improv.” She was silent for a minute. “You know, I love that girl. When others were not so kind, Marnie always was. It’s so odd, because, in a way, I must admit I was jealous, as well.” She waved a hand in the air. “Not because she was young and I was...older. But everything about her is so natural. And most of us want to be the ones with our names in giant lights. Marnie just loves literature and theater and the art behind it all. I mean, it’s almost nauseating!”
He lowered his head. He agreed that Marnie had a charming authenticity to her, but he didn’t find it nauseating. Every time he came close to Marnie Davante, he felt more determined to save her life.
Whether she wanted saving by him or not.
“So, one theory. The killer was actually after Marnie.”
“One theory...” Cara murmured. “What could be another? Oh, that people hate me. Yes, I’m afraid that’s possible. But...they don’t hate me in the way you’d hate someone and then want to kill them. I mean, honestly—good God, I hate to say it—I don’t think killing me, to anyone, would be worth the prospect of a life sentence. But...I am dead. You start with theories, right? More or less. So...why? Why am I dead?” she whispered miserably.
“I’m so sorry,” Bryan said softly, and he was. Seeing her sitting forlornly in his room, her grand diva presence dropped for the moment, he was truly sorry.
“Another possible theory—a random killing,” Bryan continued. “Maybe whoever this was just wanted to kill someone and make a massive statement. Perhaps an unhappy actor, one of those people who do need to see their names up in bright lights.”
“They wanted me dead, they wanted Marnie dead, or it was random,” Cara murmured. “It wasn’t a sudden murder—not a killing out of passion or anger. Whoever did this—for whatever reason they did it—they thought it out. Blood-bone is one of the hottest comic characters at the moment, even if he is a villain. Bad guys can be very popular, though, the best, I think, is a character like Marvel’s Deadpool—a good guy who can act badly when he needs to! Oh, I’m digressing... It has to be Marnie. Someone tried to break into her house tonight, and on her side of the duplex. I mean, who would want to kill the writer? Wait—let me go back on that. There have been dozens of times when I thought the writer ought to be smacked in the head if not shot! But once again...”
“The breakin could have been random,” Bryan said.
“But you don’t believe that for a minute, do you?”
“No.”
“But you’ve left her there alone.”
“I’ve left her alone with a very capable police officer.”
“You don’t even know her.”
“She’s capable and trustworthy.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know! Damn it, Cara—”
“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed suddenly, and he realized she was fading. He sank down at the foot of his bed and watched her; he’d seen the phenomenon before—it wasn’t always easy for spirits, especially new ones, to stay in the world.
In all, he’d had a fair amount of exposure to the souls of the departed. However they did it—be it through the power of the mind and the vast portion of the human brain never normally used, or by some other method, scientific or spiritual, yet to be discovered—learning to maintain a physical image was not something that just came with the territory of being dead; making themselves known to the living took practice.
As to his parents, Bryan figured they felt they needed to stick around and look after their boys.
Once Maeve and Hamish had realized the determination in their sons, and it became clear the boys all had the bizarre talent of seeing the dead, they hadn’t hesitated to use those talents to help their friends.
There was usually a strong reason for a soul to stick around. Often, there was some little thing, and then the dead moved on. Sometimes it was just confusion.
One time, it had been an elderly friend who had been helped to death by a nephew. Bryan, with Bruce as backup, had convinced the nephew to confess.
“But I’m really good at this!” Cara protested as she faded. “I can knock on doors!”
With that protest, she was gone.
Bryan got ready for bed and lay down to sleep. The next days would be long ones.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about the theories. Yes, you had to look for motive, or even lack of a particular motive, such as in a random killing, to find a killer.