Krewe of Hunters 2 Heart of Evil (5 page)

Darkness was falling in earnest.

It had been a tremendous success; standing on the porch and watching the crowd ebb, Ashley told herself that she'd been an idiot, letting a dream get to her.

But, as she looked out, it seemed that the plantation was covered in a mist again.

It was the remnants of the black powder from the guns, she told herself.

The mist bore a reddish color. Bloodred.

The sun had set in the west; it was due to the dying of the day.

Whatever the explanation, the entire scene was eerie.

A breeze lifted, and she had the odd feeling that somehow everything had gone askew and changed, and she had somehow entered into a world of mist and shadow herself.

“Well, old girl,” Frazier said quietly, smiling as he set a hand on Ashley's shoulder. “Another wonderful day. Thank you for all your hard work on this.”

Ashley smiled. Her grandfather was happy. She adored Frazier, and she was always glad when he was happy. She worried about him constantly—driving him crazy, she knew. He had always been somewhat bony—though dignified! But now he seemed thinner, his cheeks hollow. He was old; but a man's life span could be long, and she wanted him with her for many more years. Now he was smiling, basking in the pleasant glow of the day's success.

“Come on. Let's head into the parlor,” Frazier said. “I think we should probably be there to toast our actors and friends, eh?”

The family and some friends—including the soldiers for the day—traditionally retired to the riverside parlor for drinks and unwinding.

“You go on,” Ashley said. “I'll be right there, I promise. I just want to see that everyone is really moving on.”

Her grandfather gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I'm sure Beth has already put out all manner of delicious little snacks, despite the fact we told her that chips
would do. I'll go supervise my liquor cabinet,” he said, wiggling his white brows.

She grinned. “You'd better do that. Ramsay will say that he deserves your hundred-year-old Scotch for being so generous!”

Frazier pantomimed real fear and then walked on into the house. Ashley was exhausted and ready for a fine glass of hundred-year-old Scotch herself.

But she left the porch to walk around to the front for one last look. Jerry Blake, one of the off-duty officers they hired for traffic and crowd control, was still out by the road, waving at the last of the cars to get them safely on their way. She lifted a hand to him and shouted, “You coming in, Jerry?”

He waved back at her and shouted in return, “No, thanks! I'm on my way home. I have an early patrol shift tomorrow. See you, Ashley!”

A minute later, she saw him check that the day visitors' cars were all gone. Then he headed for his own car.

The buzz of chatter from inside filled the new silence. She followed the sound to the front parlor, where the reenactors were gathering. Looking around, she had the same strange sense of time encapsulated that she had felt before; none of the soldiers had changed out of their uniforms yet, and she was still in her Emma Donegal attire. Even Beth, who had seemed to get a tremendous sense of entertainment out of the day, was still in her 1860s garb. Some of the men had cigars, and they were allowed
to smoke them in the house that night. Only the beer bottle in the hand of Matty Martin, the sutler's wife, provided a modern note.

Matty came over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Why, Mrs. Emma Donegal, you do create a mighty fine party, a mighty fine party! What a day!”

“Why, thank you, Mrs. Martin,” Ashley said, inclining her head regally as a plantation mistress of the day might have done.

Matty dropped the act for a minute. “Oh, Ashley, we sold so much! And I can't tell you how many people ordered custom uniforms. I'll be sewing my fingers to the bone for the next months, but what a great day we had.”

“I'm so glad,” Ashley told her. She walked for the buffet with its crocheted doily and poured herself a Scotch whiskey—it wasn't a hundred years old, but it would do. Others came up to her and she responded—so many friends, and everyone involved in the reenactment. The men bowed and kissed her hand, still playing elite gentlemen of the era.

Ramsay grinned when he was near her. “I'd say ninety percent of the fighting men never tasted a good brandy, so I'm sure glad we get to be the rich of the past.”

She smiled, and agreed. “Wouldn't it be something if we could have Lee and Grant, and Davis and Lincoln, and show them all that the war created the country we have now?”

Griffin walked over to them, lifting his glass.
“Grant was an alcoholic. A functional one, but an alcoholic. No relation, of course. My Grant family was Southern to the core. Cheers!”

“You're a cynic, Mr. Grant,” Ashley said, inclining her head.

Griffin laughed. “Not at all. We strive for an understanding of history around here, right?”

“We do,” Ashley agreed. “And, historically, many of them were truly honorable people. Can you imagine being Mrs. Robert E. Lee—and losing a historic family home, built by George Washington's stepgrandson and filled with objects that had belonged to George and Martha? Remember, Arlington was a home long before it became a national cemetery!”

“Cheers to that, I suppose,” Griffin said. “Whiskey, Mrs. Donegal? Why, my dear woman, you should be sipping sherry with the other wives!”

“I need a whiskey tonight!”

Ramsay and Griffin laughed, and she joined them while she listened to her guests chatting. Some of the other men argued history, too—and she saw that everyone involved in the actual reenactment had shown up. Cliff, Ramsay, Hank, Griffin, Toby and John—and the Yankees, Michael Bonaventure, Hadley Mason, Justin Binder, Tom Dixon and Victor Quibbly, along with John Martin, of course, and Dr. Ben Austin.

Everyone but Charles Osgood. She couldn't imag
ine that he wasn't there. He must have been thrilled to death with the day.

“Hey, where's Charles?” Ashley asked, interrupting a rousing discussion of Farragut's naval prowess.

A few of those close to her quit talking to look around.

“I haven't seen him since he very dramatically died of his wounds,” Ramsay said. “I ‘skedaddled' right after and rode out with Justin, before we rode back to take our fair share of the applause.”

“Cliff?” Ashley asked.

Cliff shook his head. “No, I was with the soldiers who came rushing in too late when Charles was being besieged by the enemy. I thought he just stood up and bowed when everyone was clapping. I don't remember seeing him when you and Frazier started talking…or when the band played.”

“He's probably outside somewhere. I'll call his cell,” Ramsay said. He pulled out his phone and hit a number of buttons.

Ashley watched him. She realized the others had already turned away and were becoming involved in their conversations again.

Ramsay shook his head at her. “No answer.”

Cliff cleared his throat. “Not to be disrespectful in any way, but maybe he met a girl and—got lucky.”

“Yeah for Charles!” Justin Binder said, lifting his glass. He was somewhat tipsy—if not drunk—Ashley thought. Good thing he was staying on the property.
The others were all still playacting; they were entrenched in the past.

They didn't want to look for someone they obviously believed was just off enjoying his own star turn. But…

“He would have wanted to be here tonight,” Ashley said stubbornly. “He was so thrilled to be taking the part of Marshall Donegal. I'm going out to see if his car is still here.”

Ramsay lifted a hand. “Sorry, don't bother, Ashley. He didn't drive. He came with me. I told him that I couldn't give him a ride back since I was going to stay at the house out here for a while, but he told me he'd hitch a ride back in with someone. Said he didn't have to be back to work until Tuesday morning and for me not to worry.”

“Gentlemen, perhaps a search is in order,” Frazier said. “A Civil War parlor game of sorts.”

They all stared at him blankly.

“Exactly,” Ashley said, relief coloring her tone. “Find the lost rebel. Beth will create a five-star private meal for a party of four, payable to the man—or woman—who finds Charles!”

“I will?” Beth said. She looked at Ashley. “Um, it will be—sumptuous!”

“It's a lot of property to cover,” Ramsay murmured.

“We need to organize, then,” Griffin said. “It will be fun. Yankees take the cemetery side, and rebels search out the bayou side.”

“Is that fair?” Griffin asked. “If he's still around, old Charlie would be by the cemetery, don't you think?”

“I pick scouting detail!” Justin said.

“Yes! Let's find Charles!” Toby said.

“I'll check out the area around the oaks out front,” Matty Martin offered. She was watching Ashley and seemed to realize that Ashley was seriously worried. “John, you can come with me. It's mighty dark out there, even with all the lights from the house and the property floodlights.”

“Of course, my dear,” John told her. “They should have let women fight the war,” he muttered, following her out.

Hank laughed. “Yeah, imagine, mud wrestling at its best.”

“Hank!” Cliff admonished. “War is always a serious affair.”

“Well, of course it is,” Griffin said. “War is very serious—but we're not at war. We're playing a game. We're looking for old Charles. Hey, Ashley, if no one wins…”

“Well, at some point, we'll just all have dinner,” she told them.

“Great!” Beth muttered to her. “Now I get to cook for all of them!”

“It's good that I've got the bayou side!” Toby Keaton said. “Borders my property.”

“I'll take the cemetery,” Frazier said.

“You will not. It's dark and dangerous in there,” Ashley told him.

“Not for me, dear. It's memories for me,” he said softly, and quickly turned away. Neither of them wanted to think about Ashley's parents, entombed in the majestic family vault.

“Grampa, please—you need to be here as everyone returns,” Ashley said.

“I'll take the cemetery,” Ben offered. “I'm really familiar with the living and the dead,” he added and winked. “Just give me one of the big old flashlights at the back door. I'll be fine.”

Ben would be fine. He was a big, strapping man in his mid-forties. Besides, he'd attended funerals for both her parents and knew the cemetery well.

Ashley wanted to take the cemetery herself; that dream had to have been a sign.

No, that would be insane. Ben knew what he was doing. She wasn't going to let a dream dictate what she did in her life.

“Okay, so where are we going?” Beth asked Ashley.

“The stables?” Ashley suggested.

“I'll come with you and stand there, but I'm not going near the horses!”

An hour later, they had finished the actual search as best they could in the night.

Ramsay went to speak with the guests who were staying in the rooms that had been the old stables, and the Yankee contingent spoke with those in the
other outbuildings. Cliff went to his office, wondering if Charles might have slipped in there to rest.

They all searched, from the river to the road, from the sugar fields to the bayou, but there was no sign of Charles Osgood. By midnight, all the searchers were back at the house.

“Ashley, really, he must be out somewhere else,”

Cliff told her.

She looked at Ben. “You searched everywhere in the cemetery? There are so many paths, little roads between all the vaults.”

Ben sighed. “Ashley, I searched. But we can all take another look.”

She nodded.

“That was actually not a suggestion,” Ben said.

“It's all right. I'll go myself,” Ashley said.

“We'll help,” Ramsay said, tugging at Cliff's sleeve.

“I've still got the key, so I'll come, too,” Ben said.

Ashley led the way, wondering why she thought that she'd really find Charles in the cemetery, just because she'd had a dream.

But she was determined.

Ben opened the lock on the gate, though, of course, they could have all crawled over the stone wall.

Ashley headed straight for her family tomb. The real Marshall Donegal had died there.

The last interment had been her father's. The usual little pain in her heart sparked—it always came when
she thought about him, and her mother. And tonight, especially, she missed Jake.

There was no sign of Charles there, and no sign that he had been there.

She almost fell, she was so relieved.

The tomb glowed white beneath the gentle touch of the moon, dignified in its decaying majesty. She heard the three men calling to one another from different sections of the graveyard, and she followed a voice to reach Cliff. He looked at her. “Ashley, Charles left. Whether he was spirited away by aliens or not, I don't know. But he isn't here. This isn't any parlor game, is it? You're really worried.”

“I am. Did you go in the chapel?” she asked.

“You think that Charles is hiding in the chapel? Or kneeling down, still thanking the good Lord for the chance to be Marshall Donegal?” Cliff asked dryly.

“Please, Cliff?”

He groaned. He walked around the ell that would lead them to the chapel, in the far corner near the embankment of the river. The chapel had carved oak double doors, which creaked when he opened them. He fumbled for the light switch, and light flared in the lovely little place with its stained-glass windows, marble altar and old mahogany podium.

The place was empty.

“Happy?” Cliff asked her.

“No. I can't help it—I'm worried,” she told him.

He just shook his head. “Come on. Let's just go.”

They walked back to the house, where the others were still milling on the back porch—many of them having retrieved their drinks.