Everyone apparently loved Marnie Davante.
Everyone apparently did not love Marnie Davante.
The comic con had offered an amazing stage for a dramatic murder.
Facts and images filtered through Bryan’s mind. He didn’t fight it; sleeping on a problem often helped.
In the realm of sleep somewhere, something else in his mind kicked in.
He was walking through a graveyard. With Marnie. It was Hollywood Forever, where so many of the beloved stars lay. The owners tried to make the beautiful cemetery relevant to the living as well, showing movies on the mausoleum walls, hosting music events and more.
There was a band playing in the cemetery in his dream. As he looked at Marnie, he felt a sharp stab in his heart as he feared she might be dead.
But she wasn’t. She was flesh and blood, alive, beautiful, looking up at him with amazing trust in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry—fear does it, you know.”
“Fear of the dead?” he asked her softly. “They will not hurt you.”
She smiled ruefully. “Fear of you.”
“Of me?”
She didn’t answer him; she looked ahead and told him, “There. One of my favorite graves here. The statuary really means something—it’s Johnny Ramone and his guitar.” Then she paused and looked at him. “But we’re really here for Cara!” she said.
“Cara,” he agreed.
“It was supposed to be me,” she whispered.
He woke up; his alarm was going off, and a brilliant sun was shining through a slit in the drapes.
It was time to find the truth behind the theory.
5
Marnie was not sure if she had drifted off for a while or if she had actually slept. She must have done so; she had a dull, throbbing headache, but the night had been all but torture.
She threw off the covers of the guest room bed and slid her legs out, yawning as she came to a sitting position, her feet on the floor.
It was good that her feet were on the ground.
Cara was back.
She was seated in a wingback chair beside the dresser.
“I thought you were going to sleep all day,” Cara told her.
Marnie covered her face with her hands.
She almost screamed aloud. She held it in.
It wouldn’t help, she knew.
Instead, she spoke softly. “You’re not here. Oh, dear God. You are not here. You are not here!”
“Marnie. Please, I’m so sorry. I am here, but you mustn’t be upset. I don’t want to hurt you. You are probably the best person I ever knew. I mean, actually, really kind. Some people are fair-weather friends. Not you. Some people only want to use you—and they’re terrified of being used by you. But, Marnie, you’re just the best. I don’t want to torture you. Though, in truth, this ghost business is not so bad. I do intend to become very, very good at it. It’s not so easy. If you can just accept that this is really a cool thing, all will be well.”
Marnie swallowed. She could hear Cara as clearly as if she were there—in the flesh. Her voice was just a little bit raspy; a little bit like the wind.
“I need a therapist,” she murmured.
“You don’t already see a therapist? This is Hollywood—everyone in Hollywood sees a therapist.”
“Technically, this is just Los Angeles,” Marnie said.
What an idiotic argument. Almost everyone out here did see a therapist, that was true. And she clearly needed to talk to someone about what was happening to her. What would she tell them? That she spoke with a dead friend?
“The thing is, Marnie, you are in danger!” Cara said.
There was a knock at the door. Bridget’s concerned voice came through. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, thank you.”
Marnie stood and walked over to the bedroom door. Her cousin stood there looking at her, anxiety clear in her eyes. Detective Manning stood just behind Bridget.
True to her word, she had stood guard through the night.
“Hey, I really didn’t want to disturb you, but it is getting late. And there’s a guy here. He said that you had an appointment. Don’t worry—I didn’t go talk to him, Sophie did. I’m still a wee bit shaky after last night.”
“It’s David Neal,” Sophie said. “I know him because Detective Vining interviewed him the day of Cara’s murder at the comic con. He said he was coming to see you about a stage manager’s job. I told him it had turned out to be a very tough set of days for you, and he was immediately apologetic. But none of us know your schedule, if you do need to see him.”
Marnie had to lock down her rental space before she could make any promises, but getting a good stage manager had been at the top of her list.
“Oh, see the poor boy,” Cara said.
“When I’m ready!” she snapped.
Both Bridget and Detective Manning looked shocked by her sudden rudeness.
She pursed her lips, looking downward.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Tell him two minutes for me, if you will please. Again, forgive me. I’ll just shower quickly—I can do that, you know I can, Bridget—and I’ll be right out.”
“I’ll let him in and chat with him in the living room. He was there, after all—almost within touching distance—when Cara was killed,” Sophie said. “That’s what he said, and what I learned from other eyewitnesses.”
Marnie frowned. “Which means he couldn’t have killed her.”
“Physically, no,” Sophie said, turning away.
“There’s coffee on, when you’re ready,” Bridget told her.
The door closed. Marnie turned to stare at Cara.
“Oh, dear!” Cara said before Marnie could berate her.
And then she was gone.
Marnie sank back to the bed, shaking. She inhaled deeply. Had she just imagined Cara Barton?
But Bryan McFadden had seen her, too. He had taken it in stride that Cara Barton had attended her own funeral.
Here was the thing: it was traumatic, but her friend was dead. Gone. And she did have to move on. Before the comic con, she’d been so excited that she’d actually saved up the money to open her own theater, to become a producer of children’s theater.
So she would do the Hollywood thing.
She would get a therapist and deal with whatever was happening to her.
With that in mind, she marched into the shower. She made the water hot, washed quickly, emerged and vigorously dried off.
And then she remembered that she wasn’t really in her own home—her property, but Bridget’s half of the duplex—and she was standing there in a towel.
But she needn’t have worried. Bridget had apparently run over to Marnie’s side of the duplex, grabbed some clothes and had laid out jeans and a tailored cotton shirt along with clean underthings and socks—though, she realized, they had both forgotten about shoes.
That was fine.
She dressed hurriedly and headed out to the living room. Bridget, Sophie and David Neal were sipping coffee and, to her surprise, talking about local plays rather than the murder.
Seeing her enter the living room, David Neal leaped to his feet. He smiled at her uncertainly. She liked his manner. He was here—that meant he was determined. He was uncomfortable, which meant he had feelings for the fact that she had just buried a friend.
“Miss Davante,” he said. “Forgive me. I didn’t know if you remembered you were going to meet with me.”
“To be honest, and forgive me, I knew we were meeting, but I had forgotten when. I still have to find out about my venue, so all is really moot until that is sorted, but...assuming all goes well, I’m glad to meet with you face-to-face.”
He was a good-looking young man, somewhat thin—or maybe just not old enough yet to be really filled out. Dirty blond hair a little long but neatly brushed off his forehead. He might be just what she was looking for—someone with enough experience to corral children, but not so much that he wanted to tell her what to do in her own theater.
“I sent in my résumé—”
“Of course. I have it. I’ve read it. Please, sit down again,” she said.
“Thank you,” David Neal said and sat.
Bridget leaped up. “I’ll get you coffee,” she told Marnie.
“I’ll just sit here and listen,” Sophie Manning said. “If that’s all right.”