Kristi found herself wandering down Drayton Street, away from the river. She turned down East York, and then on to Abercorn, finding she’d walked to the Colonial Park Cemetery. She hadn’t particularly planned on coming this way, at least not consciously, but she did love to visit here.
The old cemetery—right in the heart of the city—was a park now. About six hundred or so old stones and tombs remained, while it was estimated that ten thousand were buried there. The cemetery had been opened in 1750 by the British and closed to burials by 1853. A yellow fever epidemic had swept through the city in 1820, bringing around seven hundred souls to rest there. It had a section specifically for “duelists,” and many a Revolutionary War soldier had come to find eternity at the cemetery, as well. A handsome arch had been erected by the Daughters of the American Revolution in the early years of the twentieth century and dedicated to the Patriots of the American Revolution, and a long, curving path made its way through the old stones and offered benches for sitting, relaxing, enjoying the sway of the moss that dripped from the trees.
She found an empty bench and sat. It was peaceful, though the cemetery was seldom empty of visitors, since tour groups came to sightsee, and locals like herself loved to wander through. Today, it seemed very relaxed. She looked up at the sun, filtering through the trees, and then closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she wasn’t alone.
This time, she didn’t scream.
The man at her side was in a military uniform, complete with wig and tricorn, and she wondered for a moment if he might have wandered over from a historic presentation or if he might be a tour guide.
But then she realized he was one of the dead.
Great. Now they were coming out of the woodwork.
“I’ve seen you so many times before,” he said softly. “And by the way you’re looking at me now, you can finally see me, too. Begging your pardon, miss, I am Lieutenant Max Hudson, and it is an extreme pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She smiled weakly. There were other people around, studying the old headstones. She didn’t speak.
“I’m glad they’ve made such a lovely place here—those gone are not all remembered by monuments, but in a strange way, as a park, this gives us life.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Ah, well! The dead have not always been respected! I watched during the War Between the States. The Union soldiers and their horses were camped here—men burned and weary from fighting. Sad affair—all praying to the same God, and yet bitter, of course, for the very losses they brought upon themselves. But the soldiers thought it fun to re-chisel stones, to break and move some, having very little respect for the dead. But then, war is such that you see your friends pile high atop one another in mountains of bloodied flesh, and so, playing with the stones of men and women long gone seemed like no evil at the time.” He shrugged thoughtfully. “Even if Sherman did give the City of Savannah to Lincoln as a Christmas present in 1864. A little cemetery destruction was as nothing.”
Kristi just nodded slightly.
“I must say, I did have some fun of my own with those destructive fellows. Oh, nothing too evil—they’d been fighting too long. I moved a few food tins, disposed of a bit of their libations and walked about knocking and wailing and freezing the old boys. Made them see the error of their ways now and then!” He was smiling. “One must do what one can, you know.”
The other visitors had moved far enough away that Kristi felt she could speak without looking like she was talking to herself.
“I’m glad you were able to make them think twice about wanton destruction,” she said. “But I know my history, and I love Savannah. You could haunt someone who doesn’t know much about the city,” she added hopefully.
“But you see me,” he said. “Today, you see me. It is as if you have opened your eyes.” He turned to her.
“Lucky me,” she murmured.
“Not luck,” he said. “Something very special. You never know, my dear, when the dead may prove themselves to be of some assistance.”
His words disturbed her; she couldn’t help but wonder just what was happening, causing her world to fly into chaos in so swift a manner.
He patted her hand; she didn’t feel a touch, just a brush of cold air. “We’ll talk again,” he said, and rising, he moved on. He strode over to where a teen girl, obviously growing bored as her parents read a stone, tapped away on her cell phone, head down.
Lieutenant Hudson walked through her; the girl suddenly straightened, shivered as if chilled. She looked around anxiously, and pocketed her phone.
The cemetery wasn’t providing the respite Kristi had wanted. Standing, she wandered over to the Graham tomb. It wasn’t a tomb or vault such as those found in Louisiana or even in other cemeteries where families had large handsome vaults. It was brick and low to the ground. She stood reading the plaque on the tomb, although she could have recited the facts from memory.
It was then she realized that someone among the living was standing at her side. Tall, bronzed and blond, Dallas Wicker still struck her as someone who should have been a lifeguard down on a beach somewhere, not an investigator.
“Nathanael Greene rested here until his remains were moved to his monument—on Johnson Square,” he said smiling at her. “Ah, death! Why would such a hero lie in the tomb of another? Died of heatstroke or exhaustion in the state and came here—and that wily turncoat Graham had run on back to England when the Patriot cause was willing, and thus his tomb was empty.”
“You know Savannah,” she said.
“Somewhat,” he said. “You like to come here?”
“Um, yes.” She took a deep breath. “Are you sightseeing?”
He laughed. “I’ve been out and about in the city, and wandered here, getting ready for my next move. I saw you at the tomb. Thought I’d say hi.”
She smiled. “Hi. By the way, Carl Brentwood is going to be talking to you. He wants to film a séance. Friday night. I’ve told him that you are also a guest, and that he must get your permission.”
“He wants to film a séance?”
She nodded. “His own production—for social media, to sell an idea... I’m not sure. He swears it will be good for the house. I’ve told him that if you object...”
For a moment, she thought he would. She realized then that there was a steel in his eyes, and he’d never be a man to be taken lightly.
“A séance,” he said. “On film. Could be interesting. I don’t want to be on camera, but I’d love to observe from the wings, so to speak.” He shrugged. “It’s fine with me. And very courteous of you to say my permission was required.”
She flushed, looking away. “Well, I’m sure you’re busy. And I do need to get back to work.”
He nodded, but he was still studying her. She felt the heat rising to her cheeks; he was a very attractive man.
She could still feel the iron strength of his body and arms as he had caught her.
“Uh, have to go,” she said, trying a small smile.
“See you back at the house,” he said.
She was ridiculously afraid she would trip as she walked away.
She didn’t trip, but he called her back.
“Miss Stewart.”
She turned to face him again, just a few feet further away.
“I’d love to talk sometime.”
“Of course. I’m available,” she said weakly. “I’m pretty good with history, but this city is teeming with excellent historians.”
“Everyone’s history is a bit different, isn’t it?” he asked. “There are just so many different...perspectives one can take.”
Something about his words chilled her.
He was an investigator. He was looking into a suspicious death.
Lachlan had just fallen, that’s what they had said, a tragic accident...
Not far from her house...
Kristi suddenly had the feeling Dallas was there for much more than a deeper investigation into an accidental death.
She waved and hurried out of the cemetery.
Brenda Nunez was a bright young woman with long black hair and flashing dark eyes—eyes that saddened when she talked about Simon Drake.
She leaned back in her café chair and sipped her tea.
“He was the nicest man,” she said, and then her eyes widened as she looked at Dallas. “Is the nicest man—he has to be okay!”
“I understand you were one of the last people to see him after the rally,” Dallas said.
She nodded. “I was handing out pamphlets—you know, on what he wanted to accomplish, about him, his family... He’d spoken to a small crowd on the riverfront. He didn’t plan a big rally or anything. He was just answering questions and people gathered, and they lingered, and he was generous with his time—wanted to answer everyone. He didn’t have bodyguards, or anything—maybe he should have, but, oh, Mr. Drake really just loved people and wanted the best for everyone.”
“So, he was on the riverfront, surrounded by people. And then what?”
“I guess I rather hero-worshipped him. I stayed while he talked to everyone. Hours. I think he gave his speech at noon, and then it was at least four o’clock or so when the crowd began to thin. He came up to me and thanked me for staying until the end—even his campaign manager had moved to the closest restaurant. With Mr. Drake’s blessing—he said, ‘Henry, you go on, get something to eat. We’ll meet back up at the hotel later.’ You see, Mr. Drake was listening to a man who hadn’t gotten any justice—his son had been murdered ten years ago, and the case had just gone cold. Mr. Drake assured him he was going to fight to have every case solved, no matter how old. He would have people work with the police and dig and investigate—all the way back to the days when Oglethorpe founded the city, if need be. People were asking him how he could manage that, and he was outlining a way of enlisting help from librarians, retired police and investigators... He had answers!”
“Interesting. And when did he leave? What did he say to you?”
“He excused himself from a group of people and came over to me and asked me specifically to give the last people a few pamphlets. He said he had an appointment at Johnson Square. And then...then he walked away. It’s the last time I saw him.”
“The riverfront was busy. Johnson Square is right off the riverfront...surrounded by city hall, Christ Episcopal Church, banks, houses, businesses.”
She nodded solemnly. “The riverfront was busy, and I’m sure the whole area was. It was a Saturday, so banks were closed...but I think there would have been services at the church...and there are homes and...someone else should have seen him,” she whispered. “He was headed to Johnson Square. Just about every tourist in the city winds up there...” She paused indignantly. “How could he disappear from that area?” she finished. “How could it be that no one saw anything?”
“Someone saw something,” he assured her. “But possibly they don’t understand what they saw.”
“The police have asked for help,” she said. “No one has come forward—not that I know about.”
“Maybe someone still will,” Dallas said. “Brenda, can you tell me anything else about Simon Drake? He was a widower,” he added—more information he had received from Adam’s files. “Was he seeing anyone?”
She shook her head. “Not that I knew about—he carried a picture of his wife. He really loved her. They never had children, but from everything I’ve heard—and from people who were always around him, not just local like me—he was a devoted husband. When she died, he threw himself into his work, to right things that had gone wrong, and to hopefully maybe make a real difference. Educated people are less likely to resort to crime to survive—he wanted to work on all kinds of education issues. He wanted to press for work programs so people wouldn’t wind up on drugs or stealing because they couldn’t get jobs.”
“Did he have any enemies? In all of this, he might have slighted someone. Or maybe someone was against his agenda?”
“He was a politician. People disagreed with him sometimes. But he didn’t attack other people in his speeches or ads or anything else. He was amazing—he said what he would do instead of tearing down what others had or hadn’t done. He was...he was what I believe a lot of our founding fathers to be—really ruled by idealism. I mean, did you know that, years ago, our congressmen served their terms and then went back to work? Imagine! The taxpayers didn’t support them forever and ever.”
Dallas smiled at that. Brenda seemed to be a great promise of good for the future. She’d fallen in love with the politics of an ethical man.
“Idealism certainly existed. The signers of the Declaration of Independence knew they were risking their lives and everything they owned, that they would be hanged as traitors if caught. But the founding fathers were men as well—I understand they could get fiery in their debates, and that they weren’t all angels. But yes, we did start out with our politicians wanting to serve more than to find reward in what they did. But, Brenda, what makes you so sure that Simon Drake made it all the way to Johnson Square when he left you?”
“I was still talking to him, and so I was with him halfway down the street until we were done talking. I watched him walk—straight toward the square.”
“Did he say who he was meeting—did he tell anyone who he was meeting?” Dallas asked.
“He just said he thought he was going to get some very interesting information, that’s all. He...he was really excited about whatever he was going to find out about. When I left him, he smiled and winked at me and said he had to hurry—he even raised a finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Shush!’ It was as if we were sharing a secret, only I didn’t know what it was. I got the impression that maybe...”
“Maybe?”
“Maybe he was going to learn something that would help his campaign. I don’t know, Mr. Wicker. I just don’t know more. I’m so sorry!”
“Please, don’t be sorry. You’ve been a tremendous help.”
“I haven’t really given you anything. I’ve told all this to the police. Like I said, they’ve had videos out, they’ve begged for help. It’s as if he just vanished.”
“No one vanishes.”
Brenda looked out the café’s window at the passing people. Then she lowered her head, and said softly, “No, they just wind up beneath the earth, forgotten.”
“I’m going to find him, Brenda, wherever he may be,” Dallas told her.
A promise.
Somehow, he was going to have to make sure he fulfilled it.
Afternoon tea at McLane House did offer tea—also coffee, sodas, pastries, beer and wine. And it was early evening, but afternoon tea was what it had always been called.
Kristi’s presence wasn’t required for the preparation, the service or the cleanup. Jonah, Genie and Sydney had it easily covered. As with breakfast, things were set out as a buffet in the front parlor, and guests were welcome to enjoy whatever they had chosen in either parlor or out in the courtyard.
But Kristi was restless; she’d spent an hour on actual work—without being disturbed by anyone, or so much as a breath of cold, ghostly air. So she decided to go back downstairs.
Genie loved to bake, and the offerings as far as pastries went were homemade creations and highly touted in the reviews for McLane House on almost all booking sites.
Kristi walked around checking on little things, but when Jonah mentioned to her that she really didn’t need to micromanage, she flushed and apologized.
“Why don’t you quit looking for dust and go smile at the guests?” he suggested.
She found her visitors—all six, other than Dallas Wicker—out in the courtyard. The sun was low, the day was balmy and beautiful and it was just such a time when the courtyard should be enjoyed.
“Miss Stewart!” Carl Brentwood said, apparently delighted that she had appeared. “Will you join us?”
“Of course,” she murmured. “Thank you.” He had drawn out a chair.
She noted that Shelley’s séance must have been a bonding experience for all of them—Granger Knox was relaxed, a beer in hand, one leg crossed over the other. His daughter, Lacey—beneath his watchful eye—was seated next to Carl, with his wife on the actor’s other side. Janet Knox seemed pleased they were all so chummy-chummy with the young up-and-coming actor. Young Lacey was staring adoringly at Carl, while Murray Meyer rolled his eyes. Clare Danson seemed obsessed with her smartphone, barely glancing up.
“Everyone is excited to start filming,” Carl told Kristi.
“This is awesome! I can put that I was in a video with Carl Brentwood on my résumé!” Lacey told Kristi. She was a pretty girl, and so enthusiastic. Kristi realized she should just be happy for this group—they all wanted to do the same thing.
And it wasn’t as if plenty of people didn’t come to Savannah looking for ghosts.
She’d taken it all with a grain of salt—until she’d come across her own ghosts, she realized.
“Well, then, it’s set,” Kristi said.
“We really can’t thank you enough,” Clare told her, finally tearing her eyes away from the small screen in front of her. “I mean, I know you set up séances all the time, but to allow Carl to film, well, we’re truly appreciative. We have paperwork for you. For the house, and for you. We’re hoping you’ll be available for an interview. If you’re willing.”
Kristi smiled—not ready to commit until she’d figured out what she might say.
“Well, there’s great history to the house,” she said. “And I do know the history.”
“I haven’t seen Mr. Wicker again,” Carl told her. “But I swear, we’ll convince him, we’ll make it worth his while...we’ll handle it...however he wishes.”
“It’s fine. I spoke with him,” Kristi said. “I don’t think he wants to be part of the séance, but he’s okay with your camera crew.”
“Whatever he wants,” Claire Danson said, obviously delighted. “I guess you don’t really understand what we’re doing... Carl has a huge online presence. He does videos all over the country, kind of hip history, or hidden hot spots, and we’ve been working on a piece about Savannah, but when we booked here and found out about the ghost stories...well, the hits on this are going to be amazing. We’ll draw in all kinds of new sponsors.”
“Claire found the booking here,” Carl said. “She knows Georgia.”
“I had family here at one time,” Claire said. “There are so many great and historic places! I love the 17Hundred90 Inn and Restaurant, the Olde Pink House Restaurant...the Ballastone, the Mercer House...made famous by Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil! But for history and intimacy—and a place with a fabulous reputation, there’s just nothing like McLane House,” she finished, inclining her head with compliment.
“Well, thank you. Thank you very much,” Kristi murmured.
Darkness was falling for the night. There were massive streetlights all around Johnson Square, stretching out to cover most of her yard. But while the courtyard itself was well illuminated, beyond that, past the old stables and smokehouse, shadows reigned.
Kristi squinted. She thought that she’d seen a shadow move within the darkness.
“Excuse me,” she said, rising.
She left them and hurried along the path that led to the monuments, now shrouded in the edges of the night.
While they were due for a full moon that weekend, cloud cover now was heavy. At first, Kristi didn’t see him. And then her eyes adjusted—Dallas Wicker was standing with his hands on his hips, staring around the far rear of the property.
“You know, you’re also a guest here, and the courtyard is open with all kinds of people who would be delighted to see you,” she told him. She frowned. A patch of earth near the monument looked like it had been dug up, or at least disturbed, and he was suspiciously close. “Have you been digging in my yard?” she asked.
“I have not,” he assured her.
“You know, we really, really, really frown on people digging in the yard.”
She realized suddenly that she wasn’t alone; the ghost of Justin McLane was by her left side. Monty was to her right.
“They’ve been digging since the revolution,” Justin said wearily. “Always looking for old bones, or artifacts, treasure... Lord knows what!”
“I wasn’t digging in your yard,” Dallas informed her, his expression amused. “Evidently, however, someone was. Maybe they weren’t looking for old bones.”
Kristi gasped when she caught his strange emphasis. “You’re insinuating that...that someone might be digging for new bones? Fresh...bones?” she demanded.
“Such indignation,” Monty said, laughing softly.
She wished that she could kick a ghost—and make it hurt. She tried not to blink; tried not to look at him.
“Two people have disappeared from this area recently,” Dallas said.
“And...you think that there might be bodies in my yard?” She was nearly sputtering at the ridiculousness. “What exactly are you suggesting?” she demanded.
“That someone somehow associated with the house just might be involved in the disappearances,” Monty said.
“Exactly,” Dallas said.
Kristi froze.
Dallas Wicker had replied to the ghost.
She blinked; she must have imagined it. Maybe he had misheard her?
“I would really appreciate it if you weren’t out back here this late at night. We don’t like people interfering with the monuments and the garden area.”
Monty made a snorting sound. “Someone should be watching out,” he said.
“Yes, they should be,” Dallas agreed.
“Should be—what?” Kristi asked.
“Oh, for the love of God!” Justin exclaimed, “Mr. Wicker, will you please tell her that you see us quite clearly, and that your hearing is excellent. It will make the next few days far more pleasant if you both stop running around pretending that you don’t commune with the dead.”
Dallas Wicker shrugged, looking at her. “I see Lieutenant Justin McLane and Captain Monty McLane as well, Kristi.”
She stared at him.
Then she simply turned and walked away.
Her other guests had left the courtyard. They were tidy guests; they had taken their cups, glasses and pastry plates from the tables back into the house. Nice, no mess.
At the moment, she wouldn’t have cared. She would have gone striding right past any mess.
She hurried through the parlor and up the stairs to her room. She closed the door, twisted the old key in the lock and threw herself on her bed.
She wished she could go back two weeks. She wished desperately that she had known Lachlan Plant would be heading somewhere at a ridiculous hour, passing by the Johnson Square area. She could have run out, grabbed him, dragged him into the house, and the sweet and optimistic man might still be alive and...
Ghosts wouldn’t be haunting her.
Deep in her thoughts, she was startled to hear something at her door.
The ghosts themselves again?
She dragged herself up and went over to her door. No one had knocked; she’d heard the doorknob rattling—as if someone wanted to gain entrance without knocking.
Her ghosts had just promised to knock...to be polite!
A guest? What guest in her house wouldn’t knock?
She hesitated. The doorknob wasn’t moving. She gripped and turned it, throwing the door open.
The hallway was empty.
She stood there, staring down the length of hall. Foolish. The sound had been her imagination. Or had it? If she’d jumped right up and immediately opened the door, would she have seen someone there?
The door next to hers opened; Dallas Wicker stepped out, looking at her.
“Is something wrong?” he asked her.
Was something wrong? She was being plagued by the ghosts of her ancestors, and, apparently, this man saw them, as well.
“No, nothing. I thought I heard someone in the hall.”
“Yeah, I thought I heard someone out here, too.”
She swallowed hard. “Ghosts?” she asked quietly.
He shook his head. “Not that I know about. You know, I’ve had some good conversations with Captain and Lieutenant McLane. They’re outside tonight—watching.”
“For whoever was digging in the garden?”
“Yes.”
She just stood there, staring at him. “And you really see them?”
“I really do.”
“And you see—others?”
He nodded gravely. “I do.”
“Why are you really here?”
“Because people have died and gone missing.”
“You’re not a private investigator.”
“Yes, I seriously am.”
“But you’re more.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“You want me to trust you,” she said. “How can I, if you won’t trust me? I don’t understand any of this. Sad things happen, bad things happen, but...”
She wanted to protest again that McLane House could have nothing to do with anything that was going on. She wanted to point out the ridiculousness of linking the strange events taking place in the city together. Then again, she’d never been plagued by ghosts before, and they’d appeared to warn her of danger.
“What are you? A ghost hunter of some kind?”
He smiled at that. “No.”
“You don’t have to hunt them—they just walk right up to you, right?”
“Sometimes,” he said.
“Then why don’t you just find some ghosts and ask them what happened?”
“I wish it worked that way.”
“Then what way does it work?”
He turned and glanced down the hallway. They were alone.
Or so it seemed. But she was suddenly certain that he didn’t trust any kind of a hallway—in fact, he’d be very careful about what he trusted, period.
She stepped back into her room. “Please,” she said softly.
He nodded and joined her. She backed into her room, finding the chair where she had sat when her great-uncle had still been alive, and she had spent her days reading to him, holding his hand, just laughing because to him, life was funny, life had been good, and if his end was coming, well, yes, it had been a really good run. She found the familiarity of the cushions comforting.
“You’re new to...the dead?” Dallas asked her.
“New to the dead...” she repeated, watching him.
“You’ve just started seeing the dead?” he asked. He knelt down by her chair, smiling oddly and gently. “It’s new to you. In fact, I’m thinking maybe you just saw them for the first time before you plowed into me on the front porch?”
Hands gripping the arms of the chair, she nodded. “But—but I guess, they’re...my ghosts? They are my ancestors. But I saw...”
“You’ve seen others now?” he asked.
“Just one. A Revolutionary soldier. At the cemetery.”
“Once you realize the ability, it opens you up to others.”
“You’re not new to ghosts,” she said drily.
“No, I’m not.” He hesitated a minute. “I had an experience when I was very young. A ghost helped me out, and since then...well, anyway, here’s the thing you must remember. Ghosts are—people, essentially. They don’t become omniscient. Some barely gain any more wisdom than they had while they were living. Some are better than others at being seen. Some talk easily, many don’t. There are certainly many about who never learn to materialize for anyone. Most people do not see the dead—they may sense them, but they don’t see them, and they certainly don’t get to carry on conversations with them. You have to remember...people are people, and there are things that do not change with death.”
Kristi shook her head. “Why do some stay around—and some go? Monty said Trinity wasn’t here anymore.”
He hesitated, and then said, “I don’t know. I don’t have the answers to the universe, or God, or the hereafter. I just know that for some, there is a reason to stay. They need to help solve their deaths...they’ve left someone behind they feel they can help. Maybe they even stay because history may not tell all the truth, or because they don’t want history to be forgotten. I’m not sure. Some stay only so long, and then move on. Some seem pleased to be here, to do what needs to be done, to watch over the living.”
She began to smile slowly.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s all too unbelievable,” she whispered.
“Except that it’s not,” he told her.
She shook her head. “Okay. But the ghosts are worried. I just don’t understand. How could these local deaths be related, and how could they be linked to this house?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. But that is why I’m here.”
“But you’re not a ghost hunter.”
“No. I came to find out what is happening.”
“Are you really friends with Lachlan Plant’s family?”
“I am associated with someone who cares about him, someone who plans on being responsible for the burial. He’s put in all the extra money that’s needed for Lachlan to be buried here, where he found his last friends, in Savannah.”
“And who is that?”
He hesitated again.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
He sighed deeply, looking away for a moment. “Kristi, I am here just in the capacity of a private investigator.”
“But what are you really?”
“FBI. Part of a special unit.”
She shook her head, frowning. “FBI... I thought that they only got involved in serial killing, kidnapping... I don’t know, cybercrimes, things that cross state lines.”
“Yes. That’s just it—we haven’t been asked in officially. So, I’m here as a private investigator—until things change.”
“You’re sure they’re going to change?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“Because?”
“We’re going to find a body,” he told her.