Книга - Ghost Shadow

Ghost Shadow
Heather Graham


There are those who walk among us who are no longer alive, but not yet crossed over.They seek retribution…vengeance…to warn. Among the living, few intuit their presence. Katie O'Hara is one who can. As she's drawn deeper and deeper into a gruesome years-old murder, whispered warnings from a spectral friend become more and more insistent. But Katie must uncover the truth: could David Beckett really be guilty of his fiancée's murder? Worse—the body count's rising on the Island of Bones, andthe dead seem to be reenacting some macabre tableaux from history.The danger is increasing by the moment—especially as Katie finds herself irresistibly drawn to David, who may be responsible for more than just one killing….









Praise for the novels of Heather Graham


“An incredible storyteller.”

—Los Angeles Daily News

“Graham wields a deftly sexy and convincing pen.”

—Publishers Weekly

“If you like mixing a bit of the creepy with a dash of sinister and spine-chilling reading with your romance, be sure to read Heather Graham’s latest…Graham does a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”

—Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground

“Eerie and atmospheric, this is not late-night reading for the squeamish or sensitive.”

—RT Book Reviews on Unhallowed Ground

“The paranormal elements are integral to the unrelentingly suspenseful plot, the characters are likable, the romance convincing, and, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Graham’s atmospheric depiction of a lost city is especially poignant.”

—Booklist on Ghost Walk

“Graham’s rich, balanced thriller sizzles with equal parts suspense, romance and the paranormal—all of it nail-biting.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Vision

“Mystery, sex, paranormal events. What’s not to love?”

—Kirkus on The Death Dealer




Ghost Shadow

Heather Graham











www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)




Also by Heather Graham


NIGHT OF THE WOLVES

HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

UNHALLOWED GROUND

DUST TO DUST

NIGHTWALKER

DEADLY GIFT

DEADLY HARVEST

DEADLY NIGHT

THE DEATH DEALER

THE LAST NOEL

THE SÉANCE

BLOOD RED

THE DEAD ROOM

KISS OF DARKNESS

THE VISION

THE ISLAND

GHOST WALK

KILLING KELLY

THE PRESENCE

DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR

PICTURE ME DEAD

HAUNTED

HURRICANE BAY

A SEASON OF MIRACLES

NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD

NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS

EYES OF FIRE

SLOW BURN

NIGHT HEAT



The Bone Island Trilogy



GHOST SHADOW

GHOST NIGHT (August 2010)

GHOST MOON (September 2010)


With lots of love and thanks

to Jen Boise and “my cousin” Walt Graham,

Steve, Toni, Mike, and Lili



And for Boogie Man George and Brian Penderleith



Bernie and Petey



Titanic Brewery, Waxy O’Connor’s, Red Koi,

John Martin’s, Mr. Moe’s, Sgt. Pepper’s,

and especially, Jada Cole’s



Two Friends Patio and Ric’s



And the wonderful, crazy, historic, wild, wicked,

and sweet city of Key West, Florida




Key West History Timeline


1513–Ponce de León is thought to be the first European to discover Florida for Spain. His sailors, watching as they pass the southern islands (the Keys), decide that the mangrove roots look like tortured souls, and call them “Los Martires,” the Martyrs.



Circa 1600–Key West begins to appear on European maps and charts. The first explorers came upon the bones of deceased native tribes, and thus the island was called the Island of Bones, or Cayo Hueso.



The Golden Age of Piracy begins as New World ships carry vast treasures through dangerous waters.



1763–The Treaty of Paris gives Florida and Key West to the British and gives Cuba to the Spanish. The Spanish and Native Americans are forced to leave the Keys and move to Havana. The Spanish, however, claim that the Keys are not part of mainland Florida and are really North Havana. The English say the Keys are a part of Florida. In reality, the dispute is merely a war of words. Hardy souls of many nationalities fish, cut timber, hunt turtles—and avoid pirates—with little restraint from any government.



1783–The Treaty of Versailles ends the American Revolution and returns Florida to Spain.



1815–Spain deeds the island of Key West to a loyal Spaniard, Juan Pablo Salas of St. Augustine, Florida.



1819-1822–Florida ceded to the United States. Pablo Salas sells the island to John Simonton, for $2,000. Simonton divides the island into four parts, three going to businessmen Whitehead, Fleming and Greene. Cayo Hueso becomes more generally known as Key West.



1822–Simonton convinces the U.S. Navy to come to Key West—the deepwater harbor, which had kept pirates, wreckers and others busy while the land was scarcely developed, would be an incredible asset to the United States. Lieutenant Matthew C. Perry arrives to assess the situation. Perry reports favorably on the strategic military importance, but warns the government that the area is filled with unsavory characters—such as pirates.



1823–Captain David Porter is appointed commodore of the West Indies Anti-Pirate Squadron. He takes over ruthlessly, basically putting Key West under martial law. People do not like him. However, starting in 1823, he does begin to put a halt to piracy in the area.



The United States of America is in full control of Key West, part of the U.S. Territory of Florida, and colonizing begins in earnest by Americans, though, as always, those Americans come from many places.



Circa 1828–Wrecking becomes an important service in Key West, and much of the island becomes involved in the activity. It’s such big business that over the next twenty years, the island becomes one of the richest areas per capita in the United States. In the minds of some, a new kind of piracy has replaced the old. Although wrecking and salvage were licensed and legal, many a ship was lured to its doom by less than scrupulous businessmen.



1845–Florida becomes a state. Construction begins on a fort to protect Key West.



1846–Construction is begun on Fort Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas.



1850–The fort on the island of Key West is named after President Zachary Taylor.



New lighthouses bring about the end of the golden age of wrecking.



1861–January 10, Florida secedes from the Union. Fort Zachary Taylor is staunchly held in Union hands and helps defeat the Confederate Navy and control the movement of blockade-runners during the war. Key West remains a divided city throughout the Great Conflict. Construction is begun on the East and West Martello Towers, which will serve as supply depots. The salt ponds of Key West supply both sides.



1865–The War of Northern Aggression comes to an end with the surrender of Lee at Appomattox Courthouse. Salvage of blockade-runners comes to an end.



1865–Dr. Samuel Mudd, deemed guilty of conspiracy for setting John Booth’s broken leg after Lincoln’s assassination, is incarcerated at Fort Jefferson, the Dry Tortugas.



As salt and salvage industries come to an end, cigarmaking becomes a major business. The Keys are filled with Cuban cigar makers following Cuba’s war of independence, but the cigar makers eventually move to Ybor City. Sponging is also big business for a period, but the sponge divers head for waters near Tampa as disease riddles Key West’s beds and the remote location makes industry difficult.



1890–The building that will become known as “the little White House” is built for use as an officer’s quarters at the naval station. President Truman will spend at least 175 days here, and it will also be visited by Eisenhower, Kennedy and many other dignitaries.



1898–The USS Maine explodes in Havana Harbor, precipitating the Spanish-American War. Her loss is heavily felt in Key West, as she had been sent from Key West to Havana.

Circa 1900–Robert Eugene Otto is born. At the age of four, he receives the doll he will call Robert, and a legend is born, as well.



1912–Henry Flagler brings the Overseas Railroad to Key West, connecting the islands to the mainland for the first time.



1917–April 6, the United States enters World War I. Key West maintains a military presence.



1919–The Treaty of Versailles ends World War I.



1920s–Prohibition gives Key West a new industry—bootlegging.



1927–Pan American Airways is founded in Key West to fly visitors back and forth to Havana.



Carl Tanzler, Count von Cosel, arrives in Key West and takes a job at the Marine Hospital as a radiologist.



1928–Ernest Hemingway comes to Key West. It’s rumored that while waiting for a roadster, he writes A

Farewell to Arms.

1931–Hemingway and his wife, Pauline, are gifted with the house on Whitehead Street. Polydactyl cats descend from his pet Snowball.



Death of Elena Milagro de Hoyos.



1933–Count von Cosel removes Elena’s body from the cemetery.



1935–The Labor Day Hurricane wipes out the Overseas Railroad and kills hundreds of people. The railroad will not be rebuilt. The Great Depression comes to Key West as well, and the island, once the richest in the country, struggles with severe unemployment.



1938–An Overseas Highway is completed, U.S. 1, connecting Key West and the Keys to the mainland.



1940–Hemingway and Pauline divorce; Key West loses her great writer, except as a visitor.



1940–Tanzler is found living with Elena’s corpse. Her second viewing at the Dean-Lopez Funeral Home draws thousands of visitors.



1941–December 7, “A date that will live in infamy,” occurs, and the United States enters World War II.



Tennessee Williams first comes to Key West.



1945–World War II ends with the Armistice of August 14 (Europe) and the surrender of Japan, September 2.



Key West struggles to regain a livable economy.



1947–It is believed that Tennessee Williams wrote his first draft of A Streetcar Named Desire while staying at La Concha Hotel on Duval Street.

1962–The Cuban Missile Crisis occurs. President John F. Kennedy warns the United States that Cuba is only ninety miles away.



1979–The first Fantasy Fest is celebrated.



1980–The Mariel Boatlift brings tens of thousands of Cuban refugees to Key West.



1982–The Conch Republic is born. In an effort to control illegal immigration and drugs, the United States sets up a blockade in Florida City, at the northern end of U.S. 1. Traffic is at a stop for seventeen miles, and the mayor of Key West retaliates on April 23, seceding from the U.S. Key West Mayor Dennis Wardlow secedes, declares war, surrenders and demands foreign aid. As the U.S. has never responded, under international law, the Conch Republic still exists. Its foreign policy is stated as, “The Mitigation of World Tension through the Exercise of Humor.” Even though the U.S. never officially recognizes the action, it has the desired effect; the paralyzing blockade is lifted.



1985–Jimmy Buffett opens his first Margaritaville restaurant in Key West.



Fort Zachary Taylor becomes a Florida State Park (and a wonderful place for reenactments, picnics and beach-bumming).



Treasure hunter Mel Fisher at long last finds the Atocha.

1999–First Pirates in Paradise is celebrated.



2000 to present–Key West remains a unique paradise itself, garish, loud, charming, filled with history, water sports, family activities and down-and-dirty bars. “The Gibraltar of the East,” she offers diving, shipwrecks and the spirit of adventure that makes her a fabulous destination, for a day, or forever.




Prologue


Then

The blue light made the hallway dark and eerie, though just beyond the doors of the museum, the magic sunlight of the island glowed upon tourists and the few locals who considered early morning to be a time before noon. Traces of fog, designed for effect in the museum, lingered and created an atmosphere that was ghostly and suspenseful.

“Blood and gory guts! Murder, most foul!”

The teasing cry came from a man in the group of fifteen. He was dressed as a tourist, in shorts, T-shirt and baseball cap. His nose still bore traces of white zinc and, as typical of most tourists, he was sporting a sunburn that would soon hurt.

“No, death most absurd,” David Beckett corrected. He had to admit—he loved filling in as a tour guide, and had been glad to give Danny Zigler, the weekend tour host, time off.

“Ooh,” murmured one of the teenaged girls.

David heard a small, aborted laugh. It came from Pete Dryer, Key West policeman, who happened to be on the tour with his sister, brother-in-law, niece and nephew, family down from Fort Lauderdale for a few weeks during summer break.

“This is going to be dramatic, folks,” Pete teased.

“Our next exhibit is definitely one of our most bizarre stories—even in a place where the bizarre is quite customary,” David said.

They had been moving at a steady but relaxed pace through the exhibits. The museum was a family business, and covered all of the colorful history of Florida’s Key West. Each major event was shown in an incredibly detailed and authentic tableau. The tableaux were not wax. Once upon a time, the place had been a small wax museum, but David’s grandfather, something of a mechanical and electrical genius, had avoided the constant loss of wax figurines when the heat soared in Key West, when storms came through, when air-conditioning ceased to work. The figures in the exhibit were brilliant mechanical masterpieces.

The group was heading to David’s favorite historical exhibit. He grinned and said as an introduction, “A story of true love to some—true evil and wickedness to others.”

A few of the young women in the crowd of tourists smiled, as well. David played the part of host well, he thought, and had the right appearance for it. He was tall, dark-haired and in damned decent shape at the moment, thanks to the navy. He wore a top hat and Victorian cape, though why that was the uniform, he wasn’t sure. Many of the women and girls in the crowd were nervous—museums with tableaux often made people nervous, and many of the figures here were so realistic that it did seem they might come to life. David was enjoying himself. It was good to be home, and good to be dealing with the family business for a stint, giving employees time off here and there, even if he wouldn’t be staying for long right now. Finished with the military, he was headed to the University of Florida—a bit old for a freshman, but he’d be going on the “uncle” he’d so recently served, Uncle Sam.

The blonde in the Hog’s Breath Saloon T-shirt and short-shorts was really cute, he thought.

He felt a moment’s guilt; he wasn’t accustomed to feeling free to flirt when he met a lovely young woman. He’d been engaged. He’d had a fiancée he loved, that is until he’d returned home to find out that Tanya had decided that she was moving north with a football player who’d come down to Key West from Ohio State.

It hurt. It still hurt. But his time in the military had driven them apart. They had dated all through high school. It had seemed like real love. But it hadn’t been. Not on Tanya’s part, at least.

But he had been gone often, and for long periods, and maybe it was just natural that she had moved on. Now, he needed to do the same.

He stopped just before his favorite tableau and said, “Carl Tanzler was born in Dresden, Germany, and came to the United States via a circuitous route that took him to Cuba, Zephyrhills, Florida, and finally down to Key West. Here he worked as an X-ray technician at the U.S. Marine Hospital, while, for some reason, his wife remained in Zephyrhills with his family. Now, when he was young, so the story goes, he had visions, and his grandmother encouraged those visions. One was a beautiful dark-haired woman who would prove to be his true love.”

“Typical—his true love wasn’t his wife,” the blonde woman said. David thought one of the college girls with her group had called her Genevieve. She looked like a Genevieve. Really pretty face, beautiful eyes.

“It wasn’t his wife?” Pete’s sister, Sally, said. “His true love wasn’t his wife?”

Her husband, Gerry, laughed and gave her a hug.

“Nope, not his wife,” David agreed. “One day, into the hospital walked a stunning young Cuban woman named Elena de Hoyos. Sadly, the young woman suffered from tuberculosis. Carl—who called himself Count von Cosel—fell instantly in love with her. Problems abounded. He had his wife, and Elena was married, as well. Ah, but that particular problem was quickly solved, because her husband left her as soon as the diagnosis was made. Carl swore to her and her family that he could cure her. At the time, though, there was nothing at all that he could do, even though he ingratiated himself to the family and was a constant guest in their home with his cures. When Elena died on October twenty-fifth in nineteen thirty-one, he offered to build her a beautiful mausoleum, which he did, and he visited it night after night, playing music for her, speaking to her in her grave, giving her gifts.”

“That’s sad and tragic,” an older woman offered. She had zinc on her nose, too. She seemed to be the wife of the fellow with the sunburn. Her shade almost matched his.

“Yes, well, one day, he quit visiting. Now, folks, this is Key West, Florida. For the next several years, Carl Tanzler, Count von Cosel, spent his days buying perfume, mortician’s wax, wire and women’s lingerie and clothing, and no one really seemed to notice. Then one day, Nana, Elena’s sister, heard rumors that Tanzler was sleeping with her sister’s corpse. She accosted Tanzler, and he was soon arrested. Now, legend has it that Nana let him have three days with the body before the police came in to take him, but I’m not sure I believe that bend in the story. Tanzler was taken into custody. He was examined by psychiatrists. Just to prove the rest of the country can be as crazy as folks in Key West, the story became romanticized in papers across America. Eventually, Tanzler was released—the statute of limitations for disturbing a grave had run out. An autopsy suggested that the man had been practicing necrophilia for years. Tanzler’s own memoirs speak of his love for Elena and his belief that they would fly to the stars together as man and wife, since he had married her in a secret and private ceremony. Elena was given a second viewing at the Dean-Lopez Funeral Home. Maybe five or six hundred people attended her first, thousands attended her second. Our next display is one that recalls the famous story of true love—Carl Tanzler stands by the bedside of his bride.”

With those words, David strode into the next room, his arm sweeping out dramatically.

He frowned, startled by the sudden silence.

Then the blonde screamed. It was a tragic and horrible scream, and he was destined to hear that sound over and over again in the years to come.

David turned.

The robotic recreation of Carl Tanzler stood just as usual, a small, thin-faced man with a balding head at the rear of the bed, bending over Elena Milagro de Hoyos.

But the body on the bed was not Elena’s.

He didn’t scream. He felt as if ice washed over him and permeated him, blood and bone.

A woman lay on the bed.

But it was not the model of Elena!

She wasn’t dark; she was blonde. Her hair, long and lustrous, fell over the pillow and curled down the side of the bed. Her eyes, blue and open, stared at the ceiling in frozen horror. She was wearing a sundress, and while stretched out in a natural pose, she might have been getting her beauty sleep had it not been for her eyes, staring sightlessly in terror.

David felt his knees buckle. Only the ice in his veins kept him standing.

Blood and guts! Murder most foul!

There was no blood. But it was murder. Despite the pristine beauty of her body as she lay, dark gray bruises were apparent around her neck.

It was murder. The murder of a beautiful young woman.

Not a stranger. Not just any woman.

It was Tanya, his ex-fiancée.




Chapter One


Now

“Personally, I think you’ve taken on way too much,” Clarinda said, voicing her opinion in a loud whisper next to Katie’s ear. She had to come down to Katie’s ear to be heard so close to the sound system. A drunken frat boy from Omaha was in the midst of a soulful Alice Cooper song, the bar was full and the noise level was high.

Katie shrugged and grinned, looking up at her friend. Maybe she was taking on too much, but an opportunity had come up, and she hadn’t been able to resist.

“It will be wonderful, it will work out—and it will be good for Key West,” Katie said in return.

Clarinda arched a doubtful brow, set down a glass of water with lime on the small table at Katie’s side and shook her head. “I’ll help you, of course,” she said. “And, you know, Danny Zigler will be delighted to come and work for you. He was heartbroken when the place shut down years ago. People say that it’s haunted, of course. You know that, right?”

“So I’ve heard,” Katie said.

“Sweetie, can we get another round over here?” a man shouted above the din.

“Just don’t call me sweetie,” Clarinda said, exhaling a sigh of exasperation. “What is this tonight? We usually get the locals who actually know how to hold their liquor.”

“Gee. We’re in Key West and we’ve been discovered by tourists. Go figure,” Katie said.

“Yeah, well, I wish I were the karaoke hostess and not the waitress,” Clarinda said.

“Hey, I’ve told you that you can work for me—”

“And when the place is slow and the hostess is supposed to sing, I assure you that I’ll clean out not just the bar, but the entire street. No—eventually, I’ll make my fortune doing caricatures on Mallory Square, but until that day, I’ll be your support by helping drunks get drunker and therefore hand out big tips. Okay, that helps both of us.”

“Sweetie!” the man called again. “Another round!”

“He’s going to get the round on top of his head,” Clarinda promised and strode toward the bar.

The Alice Cooper tune was winding down. Next up was a fellow who wanted to do Sinatra. Katie applauded both the man returning to his seat and the one walking up to the microphone.

Stumbling up to the microphone. What was it with tonight? It was true—the strange and totally inebriated seemed to be coming out of the woodwork. Well, it was Key West. Home to some, but mainly a tourist town where the primary activity was drinking too much.

Key West has much more to offer, she thought, defending her native territory. The fishing was excellent, diving was spectacular and many visitors came for the water sports. But it was true as well that young and old flocked from far and wide to Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville for the sheer pleasure of a bachelor party, or just wild nights along Duval. Duval was the hub of nightlife, and it was the main place for cheap hotel rooms.

Her place—or her uncle Jamie’s place, O’Hara’s, where she ran Katie-oke—was off the southern end of Duval while most of the more popular watering holes were at the northern end. She did tend to draw a lot of the locals. Many of the entertainers who worked at the festivals—Fantasy Fest, Pirates in Paradise, art fests, music fests, Hemingway Days and more—came in to practice their newest songs with Katie. She operated Katie-oke four nights a week. She also worked at O’Hara’s when she wasn’t doing karaoke, helping set the sound and stage for performers working on their own music, or doing easy acoustic and vocal numbers on Monday and Tuesday nights.

She had received a degree from Juilliard and taken work with a prestigious theater company in New England, and she had loved New England, but it hadn’t been home. She’d eventually discovered that she couldn’t take snow and sleet, and wanted to make her living in Key West.

She realized that she was good at the heat, good at sweating. She just never learned to layer properly.

And the water! How she missed the water when she was away. Her own home, a small Victorian—one of more than three thousand houses in the area on the state’s historic roster—wasn’t on the water, but on Elizabeth Street. She was in Old Town, and surrounded by tourism. She got her fill of water, however, because one of her best friends, an old high-school mate, Jonas Weston, now dating Clarinda, owned and operated the Salvage Inn, a place on the Gulf side with its own little stretch of manmade beach. She was welcome there, whenever she wanted to go.

“Those fellows are being quite obnoxious. Want me to take one of them out?”

Katie heard the question, but she didn’t even look over at the speaker. Bartholomew knew that he irritated her when he decided to converse in the company of others.

Unaware of Bartholomew casually and handsomely draped upon a bar stool near Katie, Marty Jenkins, local pirate entertainer, came to her side. “Will you play a seashanty disc for me, Katie?”

“Of course, Marty,” she said.

He handed her his disc and she slid it into her system. “No words can come up on the screen, Marty. But you don’t need them, right?”

He grinned. “Gearing up for the next pirate show, my sweet. No words needed. Thanks.”

“I’m sure everyone will love it, Marty.”

“Hey, I heard you bought the old wax museum, Katie,” Marty said.

“Marty, it’s not a wax museum. It’s full of robotics.”

“Isn’t that supposed to mean that they all move?” Marty asked.

“I believe that they all can move. They’re just not operating right now.”

“Actually, none of them work, from what I understand.” Marty wagged a finger at her. “That place has been closed down for five years now. Craig Beckett tried to keep it going after that girl’s body was found, but he threw in the towel. If you can get your money back, young lady, you ought to do it.”

“I want to open it, Marty. I loved the place when I was a little kid,” she told him.

He shook his head. “They say it’s haunted, and not haunted by good. You know what happened there. Murder!”

“It was very sad, and a long time ago, Marty. What happened was tragic—some idiot making use of someone else’s dream for a dramatic effect, but it’s all in the past now. I’ll be all right, Marty.”

“They never caught the killer, missy,” he reminded her.

“And I’m thinking that the killer moved on, Marty. Nothing like it has happened again.”

Still shaking his head, Marty left her.

“I think he must be right. It doesn’t sound like a good place to be,” Bartholomew informed her, leaning near and whispering, though why he whispered, she didn’t know. “Hey! That man is still behaving in a rude and disrespectful way toward Clarinda. Should I do something about it?”

Katie grated her teeth and looked toward the bar and the revenant of the man who stood next to her. She was sure that to the rest of the people present, there was nothing to be seen.

Or heard.

She lowered her head and spoke in an intense whisper. “Bartholomew, if you wish to maintain a mortal friend, I entreat you to cease and desist—shut up! You make me appear unbalanced, talking to myself all the time.”

“That chap is an utter ass,” Bartholomew protested. “Oh, and there she goes again, out on the street.”

Katie looked up. She couldn’t help herself.

It was true. A woman in white was walking along the sidewalk, staring straight ahead. She was in a Victorian white dress, and she knotted a handkerchief in her hands. She looked so sad that Katie felt a pang in her heart, and she bit her lower lip to remind herself that it was a curse seeing ghosts, that she couldn’t become involved with all of them—there were simply too many in Key West—and that the woman was long dead and needed only to discover some kind of inner peace to move on.

“She haunts me so,” Bartholomew said. He grimaced. “No pun intended.”

Katie looked around as Bartholomew chuckled. His long-dead state did not seem to dampen his good spirits. He’d been an adventurer in life—and a privateer, not a pirate!—and his sense of curiosity and longing for new experiences had not deserted him in death. He stared at Katie. “You really don’t know who she is? And she won’t talk to you?”

“She never has,” Katie said.

“Watch it,” Bartholomew warned.

She realized Clarinda was staring at her with concern in her eyes.

Katie knew that thus far in her life, only she seemed to be blessed by Bartholomew’s presence.

He was quite the dandy. His shoes were buckled and bore heels, his hose didn’t display a single knot and his breeches were impeccable. He wore a ruffled shirt, red vest and black jacket. His hair was jet-black and neatly queued beneath his tricornered hat. She knew he was especially fond of the Pirates in Paradise festival himself, and he insisted that they spend their time watching the musicians and joining in with the festivities because he loved to comment on the modern-day pirates roaming Key West.

“Are you all right?” Clarinda asked, coming back up to Katie’s equipment stand and sidling around to stand next to her chair. “You’re talking to yourself again,” she warned. “One of the fellows over there wanted to buy you a drink. He thought you were already well on the way.”

Katie looked over to the group where her would-be admirer was sitting. She frowned, recognizing the man, but not knowing why. “I don’t want a drink—thank him for me. I was singing under my breath to the song, that’s all. Clarinda, who is that guy?”

Clarinda turned and waved a hand. The fellow shrugged. He had tawny-blond hair, a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and appeared to be in his midthirties. He was so familiar, and not anyone she saw on a daily basis.

“He does look—like we should know him, huh?”

“But I don’t think he’s a local,” Katie said.

“Maybe he’s on the news—or a fishing show, or something like that,” Clarinda suggested.

“Well, let’s not make enemies. Tell him thanks for me but no thanks, and that I don’t drink when I work. I was just humming and halfway singing along with the music,” Katie said.

“Of course. And don’t worry. I already told him that you didn’t drink while you were working. He said all karaoke hosts drank. I said you didn’t.”

“Thanks. Just be pleasant to him. I can always take care of myself, honestly,” Katie assured her.

“Indeed! Because I’m at your side,” Bartholomew said. “And I can take my cutlass to any rat bastard’s throat.”

Katie glared at him.

“All right, all right, so I can’t master a sword anymore. I can trip the bastard,” Bartholomew assured her. “I’m quite an accomplished trip artist for a ghost, if I do say so myself.”

“Lovely,” Katie said.

“What’s lovely?” Clarinda asked.

“That it’s finally near closing time. Marty is about to come up. Oh, and it’s thinning out, so…ah! I know what we’ll do.”

“Katie, I do not sing—”

“It will be fine,” Katie assured her. As she walked back to check on the state of her customers, Katie turned to Bartholomew. “Hush until I’m done here tonight, do you hear me? What fun will you have if they lock me up for insanity?”

“Here? In modern-day Key West? Oh, posh. I’ve yet to see an even semisane person living in or visiting the place,” Bartholomew protested.

“Shut up now, and I mean it!” Katie warned.

Of course, what she could possibly do to him—how to really threaten a ghost—she didn’t know herself. She’d been plagued for years and years by…whatever it was that allowed her to see those who had “crossed the veil into the light,” as many seemed to term it.

Bartholomew sniffed indignantly and went to lean against the bar, his sense of humor returning as he crossed his arms over his chest and indulged in eavesdropping on everyone around him.

Soon after, Marty went up to do his new song, the crowd, a mix of locals and tourists, went wild and he invited everyone down for Fantasy Fest. Someone asked him about Fantasy Fest and Marty explained that it was kind of like Mardi Gras—a king and queen were elected—and kind of like Halloween, and kind of like the biggest, wildest party anyone could think of. Costumes, parties and special events all around the city. There was a parade with dressed up pets—and undressed people in body paint. It was fabulous, a feast and pure fantasy for the heart and the imagination.

He was proud of himself for his explanation. The next person asked about Pirates in Paradise, and Marty looked troubled. After thinking he said that it was kind of like Fantasy Fest but not—there were pirate parties, pirate encampments, historical demonstrations—and heck, a lot of swaggering and grog drinking, but people were welcome to wear costumes. They could see a mock trial of Anne Bonny, they could learn so much—and run around, saying arrgh, avast and ahoy all day if they liked.

When the crowd finally began to thin around 3:00 a.m., Katie and Clarinda did a song together from Jekyll and Hyde, despite Clarinda’s objections. Her friend had a lovely, strong voice but didn’t believe it; she would only go up late at night and when it was fairly quiet, and only with Katie.

The bar didn’t close up until 4:00 a.m., but Katie ended her karaoke at three, giving folks time to finish up and pay their bar tabs. After she had secured her equipment for the night—she only had to see that the karaoke computer and all her amps were covered and that her good microphones were locked away—she was ready to head home and to sleep. Clarinda stopped her at the door. “Hey, Jonas is coming by for me in an hour or so. We’ll walk you home. Hang around.”

Katie shook her head. “I’m fine, honestly. I grew up here, remember? I know how to avoid drunks and—”

“We actually get gangs down here now, you know,” Clarinda said firmly.

“I’m going straight home. I’ll take Simonton, I won’t walk on Duval. I’ll be fine.”

Clarinda remained unhappy, but Katie had no intention of being swayed. Her uncle was up in St. Augustine, and Jon Merrillo was managing the bar, so she intended to slip out without being stopped by anyone. On Saturday, she would officially take ownership of the Beckett family’s myth-and-legends museum, and she was tense and wanted to be anywhere but at work. “You watch yourself with those drunks!” she warned.

“Oh, honey, if there’s one thing I learned while you were away at school, it’s how to handle drunks. Oh, wait! We both knew how to manage that before you left. Go. I’ll be fine. And Jonas will be here soon.”

Waving and clutching her carryall, Katie left the bar.

At 3:00 a.m., Duval Street was far from closed down. She wondered with a quirk of humor what DuVal—the first governor of territorial Florida—would have thought of the street named in his honor.

Certainly, it kept the name from being forgotten.

Key West was filled with history that shouldn’t be forgotten. The name itself was a bastardization of Cayo Hueso, Island of Bones, and came from the fact that hueso had sounded like west to the English-speaking British who had claimed the state from the Spaniards. The name fit because it was the most western of the Islands of the Martyrs, which was what the chain of Florida “keys” had been known as to the Spanish. Actually, the Islands of the Dry Tortugas were farther west, but the name had been given, and it had stuck. Street names came from the early Americans—Simonton and his friends, colleagues and their families. Simonton had purchased Key West from a Spaniard named Salas when Florida had become an American territory. Salas had received the island as a gift—or back payment for a debt—from the Spanish governor who had ruled before the American governor. The island had seen British rule as well, and often, no matter who ruled, it wasn’t ruled much at all.

The place was colorful, throughout history, and now.

“You do love this place,” Bartholomew noted as he walked alongside her.

She shrugged. “It’s home. If you’re used to the beautiful fall colors in Massachusetts, that’s home. Down here, it’s the water, and the craziness. Yes, I do love it.”

She stopped walking and stared across Simonton, frowning.

“What?” Bartholomew asked her. “I see nothing. Not even the beauty in white who frets so night after night.”

“Lights.”

“Lights? They’re everywhere, and trust me, I can remember when they weren’t,” Bartholomew told her.

“No! There are lights on in the entry at the old Beckett museum. My museum.”

“You don’t officially own it until Saturday, or so you said.”

“Right, I have a meeting at the bank on Saturday—Liam is going to come and help me—and I sign the final papers, but…”

There shouldn’t have been anyone in the museum. Craig Beckett had passed away at eighty-eight almost a year ago, a dear man, one who might have lived forever. His health had been excellent. But his life had existed around a true love affair. When Leandra, his wife of sixty-plus years had passed away, he had never quite recovered. He hadn’t taken a pistol to his head or an overdose of prescription medication, he had simply lost his love for life. Liam Beckett, a friend of Katie’s since she had come back—they hadn’t been friends before, since Liam had graduated high school before she had started—had been the assumed executor of the estate, and he’d planned to tear the museum down rather than invest in repairing it. The place hadn’t been open in years; Katie had loved it as a child, and she had long dreamed of reopening it. She had talked Liam into agreeing. David Beckett, Liam’s cousin and coexecutor of the estate, hadn’t actually corresponded about the matter yet. He’d been working in Africa, Asia, Australia or somewhere far away for the past few years, and Liam was convinced that David wouldn’t care one way or another what happened to the place. It was unlikely he would remain in the Keys if he actually returned at all. Since David had left, almost ten years ago, he had never wanted to come home.

His former fiancée, the great love of his life at the time, even though she had left him, had been murdered. Strangled. She was left there, in the family museum, posed in position as the legendary Elena Milagro de Hoyos.

He’d been under suspicion. He’d had an alibi—his grandparents. That alibi had made some people suspicious. After all, what would his grandparents say? But he hadn’t run; he had waited through the beginning of the investigation, he had stayed in town until the case had gone cold and then he had left, never to return.

Katie knew that some people thought that he should have been further investigated. She remembered him, but just vaguely. He’d been a big high-school sports star down here. Sean, her brother, had also loved sports. He was older and knew David Beckett better.

Curious, Katie crossed the street. It was quiet; streetlamps illuminated the road itself, but here on Simonton the revelry taking place still on Duval was muted and seemed far away. She stared up at the building that housed the Beckett family museum.

Originally, she knew, it hadn’t been chosen for any historical reason. The house was built in the late eighteen-fifties by Perry Shane. Shane had deserted it to fight for the Federals back in his native New Jersey. For years afterward, the house had just been one of many old places that needed work. The Beckett family had purchased it in the twenties because it had been cheap, a seventy-year-old fixer-upper. Now it was one of the grand dames of the street, mid-Victorian, boasting wraparound porches on both the first and second floors, and around the attic garret, a widow’s walk. Kate didn’t think anyone had ever really been able to see the water and incoming ships from the walk, but it had been a fashionable addition to the house at the time it had been built.

Once, it had offered six bedrooms on the second floor and two in the attic. Downstairs had been the parlor, library, dining room, office and pantry. The kitchen had been out back about twenty feet away. There was also a carriage house. Now, when you entered through the front door, the gate and turnstiles were positioned there. The tour began on the second floor and wound around through the rooms, brought visitors down the servants’ stairway to the first floor and then around once again, back to the front.

“What are you doing?” Bartholomew demanded, following her.

“I want to know why there’s a light on,” Katie said.

“Because someone is in there. And you don’t own it yet. It could be someone dangerous.”

“It could be frat boys on a lark, and I’m getting them out of there before they do damage to the place. Craig Beckett might have closed it down a few years ago, but it still has all of the exhibits in place,” Katie said.

“What if it’s not a frat boy?” Bartholomew protested. “Katie, don’t go in there.”

“You’re with me. I’ll be fine.”

“Katie! Awake and see the sunrise, lass! Me—ghost. I love to remember the days when I was strong and tough and could defend a girl with certainty and vigor. If you get into real trouble because the place is being pilfered or plundered by a criminal—”

“Bartholomew, what thief turns on the lights?” Katie demanded.

Bartholomew groaned. “A drunk one? Katie—!”

Bartholomew groaned. Katie had jumped the low white-picket gate that surrounded the place.

“Katie!”

“What?”

“Murder, murder most foul!” Bartholomew cried.

He’d always been fond of quoting and paraphrasing Shakespeare.

“Murderers do not turn the lights on!” she tossed over her shoulder in return.

“How do you know?” he demanded

She ignored him and walked up the limestone path that led to broad steps to the porch and the door.

She felt him close behind her.

Was she crazy? No! This was about to be her place, and she could speed-dial the police in two seconds. She wasn’t going in with lights blazing; she would see what was going on by lurking in the darkness. She knew the place.

At the door she paused. She reached for the knob and as she did so, the door opened, creaking a bit, as if it had been pushed by a sudden wind.

“I did not do that!” Bartholomew whispered.

She shook her head impatiently and stepped in.

The once beautiful hardwood floors did need work, she noticed. Workmen had been in and out through the years, and their boots had done some damage. The gate area still boasted an old-fashioned cash register, but the mahogany desk, where an attendant sold tickets, was beautiful. It had been bought from an auctioneer and had once been the captain’s desk in an old sailing ship. The swivel chair behind it was equally old, handsome and still comfortable. Katie was familiar with everything; she had walked through with Liam Beckett just a few days earlier.

The light that she had seen from the street had come from the entry. It was the muted light of the foyer’s chandelier, and it cast a gentle glow over the place.

Katie opened her mouth, about to call out, but she didn’t. She chose not to twist the turnstile—the noise here would be like an explosion. She sat atop the old mahogany desk and swung her legs around, then stepped to the other side.

Looking up was eerie. Figures of Papa Hemingway and his second wife, Pauline, were posed coming down the stairway. They had always been a big hit at the museum, with eighty percent of those going through the place having their pictures taken with the pair.

“Don’t you dare go up those stairs,” Bartholomew commanded sternly.

Katie almost smiled, grinning at him. “Bartholomew, you’re scared. A ghost can’t be scared. My God, Bartholomew. You were a pirate.”

“Privateer. My boat was authorized by the government,” Bartholomew corrected irritably. “And don’t be ridiculous, I’m not frightened. Yes, wait, I am frightened for you, foolish girl. What is the matter with you? I know your family taught you better. Innocent young ladies do not wander into dark alleys.”

“This isn’t a dark alley.”

“No, it’s worse. You can get trapped in here.”

“I’m not going upstairs,” she assured him.

She walked to the side, realizing that she was going in the wrong historical order. She wasn’t going up the stairs; she just wanted to see what was going on.

“Katie,” Bartholomew warned, following her.

She turned and stared at him. “What? I’m going to be scared silly? I’m going to see ghosts?”

“Ghosts will seldom hurt you. Living people, bad people, criminals, rapists, murderers and thieves—they will hurt you,” Bartholomew said sternly.

“Just one more minute…We’ll check out the downstairs, and I’ll call the cops. Or Liam. Liam is a cop. All right? I just don’t want to cry wolf.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to create an alarm when there’s no need. Maybe Liam was here earlier and left the light on.”

“And the door open?” Bartholomew said doubtfully.

Katie shrugged.

She walked to the left, where the tour began once visitors reached the first floor. The first room offered one of Key West’s most dramatic tales—the doll story. As a little boy, Robert Eugene Otto had been given a very creepy doll, supposedly cursed by an angry family servant who knew something about voodoo. Robert Eugene Otto became obsessed with the doll, even naming it Robert, after himself. Robert the Doll moved about the house and played pranks. In later years he drove the real Robert’s wife quite crazy.

From the somewhat psychotic, the history in the museum became sad and grimly real with a memorial to the sailors who had died aboard the battleship Maine when it had exploded in Havana Harbor in 1898. The museum’s exhibit showed sailors working on the ship. From there, curtains segued into an area where dancers moved about at the Silver Slipper. World War I came and went. Prohibition arrived, and bootleg alcohol made its way in an easy flow from Havana to Key West.

A pathway through the pantry in back led around to the other side of the house. It was dark, with little light from the glow in the foyer seeping through. Papa Hemingway made another appearance as 1931 rolled in and Pauline’s uncle bought them the house on Whitehead Street as a wedding present.

Katie knew what she was coming up to—the exhibit on Count von Cosel and Elena de Hoyos. Just a small piece of the museum, really, in a curtained sector through an archway. It had always been a popular exhibit. Until, of course, the re-created figure of poor Elena had been replaced by the strangled body of a young Conch woman. The beginning of the end.

People liked the bizarre, the romance and even the tragedy of history, but with this event fear had suddenly come too close. It was one thing to be eccentric in the Keys.

Real violence was not welcome.

There was more, she thought, so much more, to the museum. It was sad, really, that the story got so much attention.

There was fun history. Sloppy Joe moving his entire bar across the street in the middle of the night, angry over a hike in his rent. Tennessee Williams, working away at La Concha Hotel, penning the words of his play A Street-car Named Desire. Another war, soldiers and sailors, the roadblocks that caused Key West to secede and become, if only for hours, the Conch Republic.

The rest of history paled beside the story of von Cosel and Elena. So it had always been.

Morbid curiosity. Had he really slept with the corpse? Ooh, Lord, disgusting! How?

Katie knew the story, of course. She’d heard it all her life. She’d retold it at college a dozen times, with friends denying the truth of it until they looked it up on the Internet. It was tragic, it was sad, it was sick, but it always drew people.

As it had tonight. She put her hand out to draw back the curtain leading to the exhibit.

“Don’t, Katie, don’t!” Bartholomew whispered.

She closed her eyes for a moment.

She was suddenly terrified that she would draw back the curtain—and stumble upon a corpse herself.

And yet…

She had to draw back the curtain.

She did so, and screamed.




Chapter Two


David nearly jumped, he was so startled by the sudden scream.

That irritated him. Greatly. He was thirty-two, a veteran of foreign action and a professional who trekked through the wilds and jungles of the world.

He was not supposed to jump at the sound of a silly girl’s scream.

Of course, it had been stupid to come here. He had thought that he’d come back just to sign whatever papers he needed to settle his grandfather’s estate. But he had come home. And no way out of it—the past had called to him. No matter how far he had gone, he had been haunted by that night. He’d had to come here.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find.

There were no fresh corpses in the old museum.

Elena Milagro de Hoyos rested in robotic finery—as sadly as she had, years ago, at the real funeral parlor.

But he could remember the night they had found Tanya. He could remember it as if it had been yesterday.

She hadn’t been killed here, she had been brought here. She had been positioned for the shock value. It was something certain killers did. This fellow wanted to enjoy his sadistic exploits and wanted his handiwork to be discovered.

The killer had never been caught. No clues, no profile had ever led anyone anywhere, even when the local police had pulled in the FBI. There hadn’t been a fiber, a speck of DNA, not a single skin cell to be analyzed. That meant that the killer had been organized. The Keys had even braced for a wave of such murders, because such killers usually kept killing. But it seemed that Tanya’s murder had been a lone incident. Despite the fact that he had been cleared, he had been the only person ever actually under suspicion, no matter how they worded it.

The Keys hadn’t been crime-free by any means. Accidents occurred far too frequently because people overimbibed and still thought they’d be fine on the highway—often two-lane only—that led back to the mainland. Crosses along the way warned travelers of places where others had died, and the police could be fierce on speeders, but deaths still happened. Gangs were coming in, just as elsewhere, but they were seldom seen in the usual tourist mainstream on Duval Street. Domestic violence was always a problem, and now and then, as Liam seemed to believe, “outsiders” came into the state to commit their crimes.

But there was nothing like the strangulation death and bizarre display of Tanya Barnard. Not in the decade since David had been gone.

When it had happened, Craig Beckett had tried to hold his head high. He knew, of course, that his grandson was innocent because they had been together during the time it had happened—only a small window of opportunity. The museum had closed late on Friday night because there had been a festival in the city—and Craig Beckett had agreed with his fellows in the business association that his museum should remain open until midnight. David had come in with the first tour just after nine the next morning.

And Tanya’s body had been discovered.

David understood that, to many, he might well appear guilty as all hell.

But he had an alibi.

He’d been at the museum the night before, filling in for Danny Zigler then, too. But it was a small museum. It was only open for tours. There had been times between tours, people reckoned, when he might have slipped out. Or, according to others, the coroner might have been wrong. He might have left the museum and gone to quickly kill Tanya before returning home.

Think about it. Just how long did it take for a tall, muscular man to strangle the life out of a small, trusting woman?

Luckily, the coroner wouldn’t be called wrong. He insisted on the time of Tanya’s death.

And there were enough tourists to swear that David couldn’t have gone far in between the tours.

And after? David and his grandfather had stayed up until nearly four, engaged in a chess match. Then they’d even fallen asleep watching a movie in the den; his grandmother had come in to throw blankets over the two of them. By seven in the morning, the family had been engaged in breakfast. David knew many people believed that his grandparents had just been covering for him, but the one thing that gave David strength was the fact that he had been with his grandparents, and they did know that he was innocent.

Craig had tried to maintain the museum. But when everyone coming in had wanted to know about Tanya and little else about the history of the island, he had given it up at last. He had cared for the place, but he had closed its doors to the public. He had dreamed of the right time to reopen it.

Now his grandfather was gone. They would never reopen the museum. Tomorrow, he’d talk to Liam about selling off the characters. He knew many were made with fine craftsmanship and were valuable. Then work could be done to restore the house, and it would definitely be a valuable commodity.

So what the hell was he doing here himself?

He’d had to come. And he’d found himself staring at the exhibit, wishing he remembered more about Tanya and yet aware that the sight of her on Elena’s bed was permanently embedded in his memory. Nothing of the girl herself. Everything about the horror of her death.

And now, this girl, standing there staring at him, her scream just an echo in their minds.

“Who the hell are you and what in hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

The girl flushed. She was an exceptionally attractive young woman, early to midtwenties, with deep auburn hair, long and loose down her back, and, even in the muted light, eyes so startlingly hazel they seemed to be gold. Her features were cleanly cut and beautiful, and her body, clad in jeans and a T-shirt that advertised a local bar, was lean and well formed. There was something familiar about her, but he wasn’t sure what or why.

She stared at him, obviously recovering herself. Her cheeks were red at first, but then she appeared to be angry, as well.

“Who are you, and what the hell are you doing here?” she demanded in return.

“What?” he snapped.

“You heard me—I asked who you are, and what in hell you’re doing here,” she said, an edge of real anger in her voice.

He stared at her incredulously.

“Are you drunk?” he demanded.

“No! Are you?”

He walked around from the rear of the exhibit to accost her. She stepped back warily, as if ready to run out of the room.

Good. He was tempted to come closer and shout, “Boo!”

He didn’t.

“I’m here because I own the place,” he told her. “And you’re trespassing. You have about two seconds to get out of here, and then I’m going to call the police.”

“You are absolutely full of it,” she told him. “I own this place.”

Again, he was startled.

“You’re wrong,” he said harshly, “and I’m tired of the joke. This place is owned by the Beckett family, and it’s not for sale—yet.”

“Beckett!” she gasped.

“Beckett, yes. The name that you see on the marquis outside. B-E-C-K-E-T-T. This museum has been the property of my family for decades. I’m David Beckett. It is four in the morning and I’m wondering what you are doing here at this time. I actually belong here—at any hour. Now, if you please, get out.” He spoke evenly, almost pleasantly. But he meant the get out.

It seemed now, after hearing his name, as if the young woman facing him had changed her attitude suddenly. She seemed to back away. I’m a Beckett. Oh, yeah, David Beckett. Person of interest! he almost shouted.

It had been ten years since he had left, determined that he wouldn’t let the past follow him, not when he was innocent, not when someone else had taken his fiancée’s life, long after she had taken leave of him.

“I’m so sorry; I should have known,” she said. “Actually, we’ve met. It was years ago, but I should have known, you do look a lot like Liam. I’m Katie—”

“I don’t care who you are,” he said, startled by his abrupt rudeness. He shook his head. “Just get out. It’s private property.”

“You don’t understand. I believe that I do own this place. I just have a few last papers to sign on Saturday. Tomorrow. Liam is, after all, Craig’s executor—okay, you both are, if I understand it right, and you’d told him to go ahead and act in his absence. Liam was ready to sell.”

David frowned.

Sell? Never. Not the museum. The museum needed to be dismantled, taken apart. He wasn’t superstitious, he didn’t believe in curses. But this place held a miasma. There was something that appeared to be evil in the robotics. The faces were too lifelike. The ones that moved didn’t jerk about—they looked like the real thing from a distance.

They invited idiots and drunks and psychotics to behave insanely. Commit murder, and leave the corpses behind, far more fragile than the imitations that might survive many decades.

David shook his head, feeling a twinge less hostile. He still couldn’t really figure out who in hell the girl was, but, at least she wasn’t a drunken tourist who had stumbled in. A Northerner, probably. Someone who had come to Key West convinced it was not only a sunny Eden, but a place to make a good few bucks off the spending habits of vacationers. But she’d said that they’d met?

“Whatever you might have thought, whatever you might have come to believe, the museum is not and will never be for sale. If it’s the house you’re interested in, it may come up on the market in a year or so,” David said flatly.

She stared at him steadily. Now it seemed that she was the hostile one. “So, you’re David Beckett, suddenly home and taking interest in the family—and the family property. How nice. Perhaps you should speak with the lawyers. I believe that the sale has gone through.”

“Look, Miss—”

“Katherine O’Hara, and don’t be superior with me, because my family has been down here as long as yours—or longer. I hope that you’re wrong, and that this sale can go through. I love what your family created. This is a beautiful place, and your grandfather and great-grandfather did such a fabulous job showing history, the simple, true and the bizarre. I don’t understand…”

Her voice had trailed as she stared at him. She looked nervous suddenly.

Was she thinking that no matter what the newspapers or police had said, he might be a murderer? A very sick one at that, setting a corpse into an historical tableau?

After all, she had said that her family had been here forever, and yes, he did know of O’Haras who were longtime residents, but…

“Katie O’Hara?” he said sharply.

“Yes, I just introduced myself,” she said with aggravation.

“Sean’s little sister?”

“Sean’s sister, yes,” she said. She left out the “little,” her aggravation apparently growing.

“Sean doesn’t have any part of this, does he?” His tone was sharper than he had intended.

“My brother is working in the South China Sea right now, filming a documentary, and no, he has nothing to do with this. But I don’t see what—”

“Nothing. Look, nothing has anything to do with anything. This place will never be a museum again, and I’m pretty damned sure you just looked at me and remembered why I feel that way.”

She inhaled, as if steeling herself to speak patiently.

“Something terrible happened. You were cleared. Your grandfather closed the place, but he always wanted to reopen it. We will never rid the world of psychos. I intend to have security, and locks and make sure that nothing so terrible could ever happen again,” she assured him.

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and stared at her incredulously. “And a bunch of frat-boy idiots wouldn’t try to put a blonde mannequin in here, ever, or suggest that you do a mock-up tableau of Elena with Tanya’s body? Haven’t you ever watched those horror movies with parts one, two, three, four, five and so on, where the same stupid people keep going to the same stupid, dark woods to wind up dead? What if the psycho who did it is still hanging in the Keys? What do you think of that kind of temptation?”

“I wouldn’t let it happen. All people are not horrible, and it’s a wonderful museum. I’ve worked really long and hard—”

“Right. You must be all of what now, twenty-two, twenty-three?”

“Twenty-four, and that’s hardly relevant. I already have my own business—”

“Katie? Katie O’Hara?” He laughed suddenly. “Katie-oke! That’s your business?”

She stiffened and her face became an ice mask. “For your information, Mr. Beckett, karaoke is big business these days.”

“At your uncle’s bar, of course.”

“You really have matured into a rather insufferable ass, Mr. Beckett,” she said, her tone pleasant. “I will leave. I’ll see you with my attorneys tomorrow.”

“As you choose. Good night, Miss O’Hara. And forgive me. I didn’t mean to laugh at Sean’s little sister.”

She stared at him. “I really don’t care, Mr. Beckett. And neither would Sean. We’ve both worked hard and been responsible, and we make our way quite fine, thank you. And by the way, I never knew you were friends with my brother. Is he aware of the fact?”

He laughed then. He had been an insufferable ass. It was this place. It was the possibility that it might be opened again.

It was him.

He had left here. He never hid his past. People knew about Tanya, about what had happened. But outside of this place, no one assumed that he had done it, that despite his honest and upright alibi, his entire family had lied to save him.

Being back here…

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to be offensive. To you, Miss O’Hara, and not to anyone’s sister, younger or otherwise. However, the place is seriously not for sale. And my reasons are valid. I don’t want to see history repeating itself.”

“We’ll see tomorrow,” she said.

She moved away, but then turned back to him. “I should have known you. Recognized you, I mean. Your grandfather talked about you all the time. Craig Beckett was a wonderful man.”

He was surprised at how her remark seemed to sting. He had loved his grandfather—he didn’t know anyone who hadn’t liked and respected his grandfather. And he had seen him often over the years.

Just not in Key West.

“Thank you,” he said, lowering his head.

“I’m glad you’ve managed to make it back now, since you couldn’t be here for the funeral.”

“If you knew my grandfather, Miss O’Hara, you know that he didn’t believe much in funerals—or in massive monuments to the dead, caskets worth thousands and thousands of dollars or any other such thing. Memories exist in the mind, he always told me. And love was something distance could never quell. So I am fine with my memories, and in my conscience.”

“I’m happy for you. Personally, I find a funeral a special time to remember and honor a loved one, but to each his own, of course. I’ll get out of here, Mr. Beckett. I will see you tomorrow at the bank.”

“My pleasure,” he said with a shrug.

She was near the door. “I take it you’re not planning on staying in town long?”

“No.”

She hesitated again. “Then what do you care?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t answer.

“I would keep it alive with the dignity it deserves,” she told him.

“I apologize for being so rude. You seriously startled me, being here. I really do apologize for any offense given.”

She nodded and turned to leave.

He watched her go. Sean’s little sister. He and Sean had played high-school football together. She didn’t remember, but he had been in her home. She’d sported a head of almost orange-red hair back then, a lot of skinned and bruised knees and freckles that seemed to have faded now. She was definitely a striking young woman. She had unnerved him. He wasn’t customarily such an ass, and didn’t make light of the endeavors of others.

And yet, seriously…Katie-oke?

He started. It was suddenly cold—ice-cold—where he stood in the museum. He thought about the many sayings people had, such as, “It was as if a ghost walked right through me.” It was as if he had been…shoved by something very cold. Well, ghosts didn’t go around shoving people. Oh, and he didn’t believe in ghosts.

He went about turning off the lights and, when he left, he locked the place securely.

“I gave him a good comeuppance,” Bartholomew announced. “A strong right hook, right on the fellow’s jaw. And I could swear he felt it. All right, all right, so he didn’t crash down on the floor in a knockout, but I’d swear he knew he’d been given a licking of one kind or another.”

Katie waved a hand in the air, distracted. “I don’t believe it. No one thought that he’d even come home. He was supposed to stay off in Africa, Asia or Australia, or wherever it was that he was working. Why? Why? He’s got to be wrong on this. Liam was certain that he could go through with the sale, that David despised the place and never intended to come back.”

“You’re welcome. Yes, I would defend you to the death against such an oaf. Oh, wait. I am dead. And still, my dear, I did my best.”

Katie had offended Bartholomew, she realized. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Bartholomew. I’m sure you sprang instantly to my defense, and I deeply appreciate your efforts.”

“I will keep trying. As long as that man is in the city, I swear, I will keep trying,” Bartholomew promised.

“I don’t understand. He doesn’t want to be here. He plans on living elsewhere forever and ever,” Katie said.

She realized that he was silent then.

“What?” she demanded. “He hasn’t been here in ten years, Bartholomew. He doesn’t care about the place, and I don’t care what he said, he showed no respect, not making it home for his grandfather’s funeral.”

“I thought they couldn’t locate him—since he was off somewhere,” Bartholomew said.

“You’re standing up for him?” she asked skeptically.

“No, no…his behavior to a lady was reprehensible, abominable!” Bartholomew said. “Completely unacceptable. Except…”

“Except what?”

Bartholomew looked at her, appeared to take a deep breath and said, “I think, in a way, I understand his feelings.”

“I would never let anything horrible like that happen again,” Katie protested.

“I don’t think they expected it to happen the first time,” Bartholomew told her.

“But they weren’t aware of what might happen. I’d be way ahead. And please, we don’t have murderers crawling through the city, visiting the museums on a daily basis.”

“At the least, though, you should understand his feelings. If I know the story right, he was engaged to the girl. And she was found dead, right where you came upon him tonight.”

“I don’t think they were engaged anymore,” Katie said.

“And there the point. Motive for murder.”

“So you think that he did it.”

“No, actually, I don’t think so. But a ruined romance? That’s a motive for murder.”

“You’re watching too much TV,” Katie said.

“Hmm. TV. Such an amazing and wonderful invention. So vastly entertaining!” Bartholomew agreed. “But it’s true. He was a spurned lover. That’s a motive. She was leaving him. For a brute of a game-playing fellow. That is, by any reckoning, definitely a motive for murder.”

“He was cleared,” Katie said.

“He wasn’t arrested or prosecuted. He had an alibi. His alibi, however, was his family.”

She turned to him sharply. “I thought you just said that you didn’t think that he murdered her?”

“True. No. No, I don’t think he killed her. He was rude, but I know many a fine fellow who can actually be rude. But murder, especially such a crime of passion—he doesn’t look the type. He seems to be the type who easily attracts women, and therefore, he might have been heartbroken, but he would have moved on. I mean, that’s the way I see it. The man is—appears to be, at least—a man’s man. He could completely lose his temper and engage in a rowdy bar fight, maybe, but murder…Ah! But then again, what does the type look like? Now, in my day, many a man looked the part of a cutthroat and a thief—because he was one. But these days…ah, well. We did come upon him at the scene of the crime.”

“It wasn’t actually the scene of the crime. She was strangled, but the police believe she was killed elsewhere and brought to the museum. I was a child when it all happened. Well, a teenager, at any rate, and it was a scandal, and I know it disturbed Sean…I vaguely remember that he and David Beckett were…friends. They both loved sports, football, swim team, diving, fishing…all that. But then David left. And never came back. And the talk died down. Mainly, I believe, because everyone loved Craig Beckett. But if David Beckett is innocent, I really don’t understand his position—or yours. And he’s deserted Key West. So?”

“I have to admit, I rather admire the fact that he’s so determined, especially because he doesn’t want to stay here. He doesn’t want to see anything like it happen again, whether it affects him or not. I’ll still do my best to take him down for you, though!” he vowed.

The streets here were quiet, with only the sound of distant, muted laughter coming to them now and again. Even that was infrequent now. The hour was growing late—or early.

They came to Katie’s house. She’d left lights on in the kitchen, parlor area and porch. The two-seater swing on the porch rocked gently in the breeze. She had a small—very small—patch of ground before the steps to the porch, but her hibiscus bushes were in bloom and they made the entry pretty.

Set in stained glass from the Tiffany era on the double doors, a Victorian lady and her gentleman friend sat properly, immortalized in timeless ovals.

Katie unlocked the door and stepped in. Her world was familiar. Her parents were now boating around the world, her brother would always be off filming another documentary and the house was hers. Certainly, her folks had given her a bargain price. But she had purchased it through a bank, she had come up with the down payment and she had never missed a mortgage payment.

She loved the house. She was delighted that she owned it, that she had kept it in the family.

And yet, as she stood there, she wondered about the years David Beckett had spent away. He had gone to exotic places. He had discovered the entire globe.

She’d gone away, too, she reminded herself.

Right…all the way up the eastern seaboard!

“Katie?” Bartholomew said.

She looked at him.

“What’s the matter now?” he asked.

“Nothing. I just realized that I’ve made an island my world.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“But is it a good thing? Anyway, don’t answer. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”

“We have to be at the bank bright and early.”

She blew him a kiss. “Don’t go watching more television, Bartholomew.”

“It will stunt my growth? Make me die young?” he asked. She groaned and walked up the stairs.



He had been restless that night, all through the night.

That was the only reason he had been out walking.

And when he had been walking, he had seen the lights on at the museum.

And so, he had looked up at the old mansion, and he had stared.

There could only be one person who would be there tonight, only one person who would have gone in, turned on the lights. Someone with a right to be there.

Someone who knew it well. Beckett.

Silently, he cursed Beckett. The man shouldn’t have come back. The past was the past; settled, over, accepted. Some believed it had been David Beckett, but that he was long gone and despicably above the law. Others believed that a psycho had come and was also long gone. It was over. It was part of the myth and legend of Key West.

He shouldn’t have come back.

But he had.

He had seen Katie O’Hara, seen her go in. He’d heard the squeak of her scream, but he hadn’t been alarmed. He’d held his ground. Watched. Waited.

Then, he’d seen her come out, and he’d stepped quickly back into the shadows. He hadn’t intended to be seen that night.

Katie had left in what appeared to be a fury.

She’d thought she owned the place. But Beckett was back.

A few minutes later, Beckett had come out, and he’d headed in the same direction but then turned down the street to the Beckett estate.

When Beckett was gone, he’d followed Katie. He knewwhere she lived. He’d walked, and stood in the shadows, and he’d looked at her house.

He stayed, feeling time go by. No need to be here, staring up at the house in the darkness.

But he stayed, watching.

His fingers itched.

He felt a bizarre fury growing inside of him.

And then he understood.

He felt the sudden temptation to let history repeat itself.




Chapter Three


There was no meeting at the bank.

Liam called her before eight.

Katie had set her alarm, but it wasn’t set to go off for another thirty minutes. She was only a few blocks away from the bank, and she was capable of showering and dressing in less than fifteen minutes—a nice survival technique if you worked nights and wanted to maintain any kind of a daytime existence.

She groaned while she fumbled for her phone. She only kept a cell, but it was sitting on the bedside table and, naturally, she knocked it off as she went to answer it. She had to feel around on the floor to find it and answer it.

It was Liam.

“Liam! I saw your cousin last night. He was in the house. And he said that—”

“Katie, I am so sorry.”

“What?”

“He won’t sell.”

“But—but—I thought you were the executor!”

“Coexecutor.”

“But he was having you make decisions!”

“I was acting solely while we all made an attempt to reach David. He was deep in the jungle. When he wrote, he told me to move along as I saw fit. But as you’ve seen, he’s back. Katie, this is all my fault. I thought that David would certainly be pleased to sell. I didn’t know how he felt about the museum. I made a dozen decisions and he didn’t have a problem with a thing, but…Katie…I’m sorry.”

“But all we needed to do today was sign the last papers,” she said with dismay.

“I know. I’m sorry, so very sorry.”

“No, no, Liam, I know it’s not your fault,” she said.

“It is,” he said. “I mean, it’s not my fault David won’t agree to sell, but I led you on. Katie, it’s…go ahead. Please. Get mad at me.”

She laughed. “Okay. I’m mad at you. But your cousin is a jerk and an ass.”

Liam was silent. She had forgotten that it was a close-knit family, and she understood because she would defend her brother until the stars ceased to shine.

“Now I’m sorry, Liam,” she said.

“No, Katie, no, it’s all right. I know how disappointed you are. And I feel just terrible. Honestly. I can still try to persuade him, but I think I’m going to lay off for a while now. Give him some time to realize that you are never going to make a mockery of anything that happened, sensationalize or make profit off the murder…”

“That’s what he believes?” she asked, astonished.

“I think it’s what he was afraid of at first. I know that he met you last night; he explained it this morning when he said we needed to stop the sale before we wasted everyone’s time. Katie, I think he has a phobia that it could happen again.”

“So he said,” she murmured. “But—every museum down here has an exhibit that’s dedicated to Elena and Count von Cosel. It could happen anywhere. How do we make him see that, and make him understand that…that what happened…Oh, I don’t know. Ten years have gone by. The killer is dead, or living in another state, or in prison for another offense. I loved your grandfather, you know that. He fueled the dream in me, Liam. How do we make your cousin see that?”

“I don’t know. But for now…”

“For now, it’s off,” she said flatly.

“Yes. Forgive me, please. I am unworthy, but forgive me.”

She smiled, running her fingers through the tangle of her hair. She knew that Liam was really sorry, that he had wanted to see the museum opened. “I forgive you. On one condition. As long as he’s here, you help me. Quietly. Maybe he’ll see that I’m for real, and that…Oh, please! Why would the same thing happen again? Tanya was probably a random victim, and if someone had a grudge against the Becketts, well, David doesn’t have an ex-fiancée here anymore. You have to help me. We wait. But you are on my side, right?”

“I am. I love the old museum. I just don’t want to work it, manage it or maintain it. I thought you were perfect as a buyer. So we’ll see, huh?”

He said goodbye and hung up.



David Beckett walked into the police station and was surprised to be hailed by a number of his old classmates and not just his cousin, Liam. They seemed honestly glad to see him, though he would surely be a topic of conversation at their evening meals. He was back.

He greeted old friends warmly, and thanked those who commented on his camerawork for wildlife publications in the past few years. He was surprised that they knew what he did—still photographers rarely received much of the applause. He told friends who asked that there were safe places to photograph wild animals. You just had to develop a skill for knowing those places. “Just like anything,” he said, heading off to find not Liam, but Pete Dryer, the man who had been a fledgling patrolman when he had taken the fateful tour all those years ago.

“David!” Pete was behind a desk now. A lieutenant in the criminal investigation unit, he delved into the streets when serious crime had been committed. Key West had a low murder rate, statistically two persons a year. But Key West was vulnerable to drug runners, and in the past few years, the department had made firm headway against the narcotics invasion. Most of what was really bad in the Keys was related to drugs; big money was at stake, and many of the deaths that had been reported were associated with gangs or drugs.

David had been away, but he’d kept up. Unconsciously, he’d waited to hear about another bizarre murder—or that someone had finally solved what happened to Tanya.

Pete had gained weight. He was stout now, and his blond hair was turning white. He had a smile for David, and a warm embrace, indicating the chair in front of his desk.

David took it.

“Wow. You’re really back here,” Pete said. “Any chance you’re here to stay?”

David shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. But I haven’t accepted any projects for the immediate future, so I’ll be around for a while.”

“That’s great. We’re damned glad to have you here, for whatever time you stay. This is your home, you know.”

“Yeah, it’s my home. I haven’t settled anywhere yet. Pete, I don’t think I can settle anywhere. You know, my grandfather’s death got me thinking about Tanya.”

Pete shook his head sadly and looked down. “David, I wish to God I could give you some kind of closure. We pursued everything we could.”

“Right. The police pursued me,” David said.

“Not fair, David. Your alibi stood up. Craig Beckett was never any kind of a liar, so we all know you were with him—”

“After the museum closed,” David said dryly.

“I believe the coroner—and the dozens of people who said you would not have possibly had the time to leave the museum between your tours. We know Tanya wasn’t killed at the museum, and we all know too that you just weren’t capable of doing that to anyone. Thing is, we just had nowhere to go. I wasn’t in charge, but I remember. We went house-to-house. No one saw anyone go in. There wasn’t a break-in. There was no clue as to where he strangled that girl. Now, if there had been blood, we might have been able to trace something somewhere—” He paused, staring at David. “Well, hell, now I didn’t mean that I wanted that poor girl cut up or tortured, but…strangulation. He left no clues.”

“Pete, I want you to help me. I want to go back over everything.”

Pete stared at him. He groaned. “It was all ten years ago, David.”

“Look, Liam is a cop, a detective now—with the criminal investigation unit. Let him have the paperwork. Assign him to the murder as a cold-case file. Pete, give me something,” David said. “Hell, I’ve made a name for myself in the world. I’m moving on fine. But this haunts me still, every damned day of my life, Pete.”

David heard a noise behind him. He turned and Liam was there. His cousin was two years his junior, his hair was a lighter shade of brown but his eyes were the same color and he knew that most people realized quickly that they were related. David had never known his parents; they’d died together in an automobile accident when he was a year old. He’d lived with his grandparents, but Liam’s mother and father had treated him like their own.

“I can handle it,” Liam said. “Come on, Pete. You know I can take time to reopen the investigation. I can handle my cases, and I can handle an added-on cold case, as well. I’ll keep it low profile.”

“I don’t…Ah, it’s a waste of manpower!” Pete said.

“No. I won’t fail in any way on anything else, and if I do, you pull it back. Pete, what the hell can it hurt?” Liam demanded.

“You may be causing a truckload of trouble down here, you know,” he said.

“Why?” David asked flatly. “We’re looking for truth. Why would the truth disturb anyone?”

“Thing is, this fellow is probably long gone,” Pete said. “David, nothing else has happened. Nothing remotely similar has happened since.”

“How can it hurt? Look, let Liam reopen it as a cold case, and he’ll only use his spare time. We’ll keep it quiet. No other officers need to be involved.”

“Ah, hell, fellows, as long as it’s your time you intend to waste.” Pete wagged a finger at Liam. “Don’t you dare neglect a thing, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Liam said.

“And you—don’t you go doing anything illegal!” Pete charged David.

“Never,” David said, and smiled.

“I’ll see about the files,” Liam said, and left.

“Thanks, Pete,” David told him.

He rose and left the office. He’d intended on getting to the truth, one way or the other. But it was better having the blessing of the local cops.

Heading out, he ran into Liam. His cousin started to speak, but David shook his head slightly and indicated the door.

Outside the station, Liam frowned handing David the files. “What was that all about?”

“I don’t care to talk in front of anyone else,” David told him.

“Why? If you’re on a hunt to solve a murder from the past, you’re going to need lots of help, and we’ll be questioning lots of people.”

“Liam, you’re the cop, yeah, and I’m grateful. I want to keep it low profile. No big announcements that we’re opening up the case again.”

“Okay…but actually reopening the case. Hell, you didn’t even tell me that you were thinking of doing this—didn’t warn me. I would have helped you talk to Pete. You’re a civilian. You know he couldn’t have given you any files.”

“Yeah, I know, which makes it good that you’re a cop—in the right division.”

Liam nodded and looked away. “I know you. You want to investigate on your own. It’s a wild-goose chase, and you’re worried about bringing in our cops. Why?”

“Because someone from this city killed Tanya, I’m sure of it. Cops down here, they all think that they know everyone, and they’ll be blinded to what they should be seeing. And I’m not sure that any of the members of the old-boy network will be happy to discover that I’m coming after one of their own.”



Katie walked down the stairs, trying to swallow down her disappointment.

She’d dreamed about owning the place for years. She’d been sad for a while after talking to Liam but now she was ready to go to battle again.

As she came down the stairs, she was surprised to smell coffee. The timer hadn’t been set to go off for another few minutes.

Bartholomew met her at the foot of the stairs. He looked grave, but as if he was trying not to smile, as well.

“I’m sorry, Katie. I heard you talking. And the bank is off—really, we both knew that it would be—and I’m sorry. But…”

“But what?”

“I did it!” he told her proudly. “I did it!”

“What did you do?”

“Can’t you smell it? Coffee! I—I—managed to push the button on the coffeemaker. Katie, I moved something. Something tangible.”

She wanted to be happy for him.

It was the start button on a coffeemaker!

But it was a start.

“That’s wonderful. Truly wonderful. And thank you. Coffee is excellent right now, and—”

“I think a good grog would have suited me better, but for you—yes, coffee. And it’s ready.”

She continued to congratulate him as she walked to the large kitchen in back. Once it had been a bedroom and the kitchen had been the apartment in back. But now, it was all a kitchen, and a very nice one, state-of-the-art. Her mother had loved to cook.

She caught her reflection in the back of one of the pans hanging from an old ship’s rack above the counter.

Ugh.

She was wearing an old Disney nightshirt tee and her abundant hair was in tangles all about her. Thank God Bartholomew never commented on her morning appearance.

“Next, we need to work on me stepping out for the newspaper,” he said somberly. “Give the neighbors a terrible fright!”

“Hey! And I was just thinking how kind you were, and how much of a gentleman you were proving to be—for a pirate.”

“Privateer!”

“Whatever,” Katie said sweetly.

She opened the front door, coffee cup in hand, and stepped outside. She saw the paper on the little patch of ground to her right and headed to it.

But as she stooped down to retrieve it, she saw a hand ahead of hers.

“Allow me.”

She looked up and stood quickly, staring at the man in her yard. The sudden bane of her existence.

David Beckett.

She stared at him, not sure if she was feeling ill, angry or simply surprised. He’d just ruined her life. Well, that was an exaggeration, but he had destroyed her future plans and the dream she’d harbored for years. And he was in her yard.

“Can I help you?” she said at last.

“Your paper,” he told her.

“Yes, I see that.”

“Don’t worry. I was just walking. I got in last night, and I’m seeing what hasn’t changed and what has. Your house is the same, exactly the same, as I remember it.”

“I’m so glad to give you something familiar, and happy to make you feel right at home,” she said flatly.

He grinned. By day, she was surprised to realize what a fine face he had. He had a look that was intense, as if the world around him was solemn. But when he smiled his grin broke the chiseled structure, and lightened his eyes. Without a smile, he was compelling—tall, well built, lithe, an outdoorsman with bronzed skin, honed muscles and the rugged appeal that went with it all. When he did pause to smile or laugh, there was an added dimension to him that was even more appealing; the man was sensual.

She wasn’t admiring him, she decided. He’d ruined her life, and he remembered her as a little kid. Sean’s much younger sister.

“I really wish you understood what I feel about the museum,” he said. “I’m not out to destroy anyone’s dream.”

“Well, you managed anyway,” she said. She remembered her apparel—and the fact that she looked like Simba on a very bad mane day.

They were both holding the newspaper. She tugged at it. “Thanks for my paper,” she said. He released it immediately.

Behind her, she felt Bartholomew. “Hey, he’s trying to be nice,” Bartholomew said.

She forced a rigid smile.

“You think you can talk him into seeing it all your way, remember?” Bartholomew asked. “Invite him in. I just made coffee!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, not thinking.

David Beckett’s dark brown brows arched high. “Pardon?”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she murmured. She cleared her throat and looked around. It was going to be a beautiful day. Hot, but with a really nice breeze coming through. “I’ve just brewed a pot of coffee, if you’d like to come in.”

He hesitated.

“Seriously, you’re welcome to come in,” she said. “If you don’t mind helping yourself for a moment and letting me run up.”

“You’re going to try to convince me to sell the museum,” he said.

“Well, I won’t be able to if you’re really determined, right?”

“I was actually headed to the Starbucks at La Concha. Sure, I’d love a cup of coffee,” he told her.

“Then, please…” She indicated the steps.

She came in behind him but headed straight for the stairs. “Go ahead, help yourself. I’ll be right down.”

She showered, dressed and brushed her hair with the speed of light and came hurrying back down the stairs. Heading toward the kitchen, she stopped. David Beckett was sitting at the table in the breakfast nook, perusing the paper and sipping coffee.

Bartholomew was sitting across from him, one leg tossed casually over the other, his fingers laced around his knees as he observed David attentively.

David Beckett, of course, was oblivious to him.

“Thus far, he has perpetrated no evil deeds,” Bartholomew said, immediately aware of Katie’s presence and looking up at her.

She ignored him. She had gotten very good—most of the time—at ignoring his comments.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and came striding toward the table. Bartholomew instantly moved over to make room for her. She wasn’t sure what ghosts felt when the living—or inanimate objects—went through them, but Bartholomew wasn’t fond of being sat upon, she knew. A husky fellow at karaoke had sunk down upon his lap once, and Bartholomew’s face had screwed into such an expression of distaste that Katie had quickly lowered her head to hide a laugh.

“So.” She held her cup in both hands and sipped from it. “Lovely day.”

“The kind I remember,” he said.

“What are you doing while you’re here?” she asked him. “You did say you weren’t staying.”

He shrugged. “I don’t like to think of anything as permanent,” he told her. “I don’t have fixed plans at the moment. I’ll spend some time with Liam, and with my great-aunts. Alice and Esther. I believe you know them—everyone always seemed to, anyway.”

Katie nodded. “Of course. They don’t spend much time in town, though.”

“No, at the age of eighty, they still compete over their flowers. Oh, and they both enjoy volunteering at a few of the museums. But will you see them swigging down a pint or two at Sloppy Joe’s? Probably not!”

“The man does seem to have a dry, pleasant and even self-deprecating sense of humor,” Bartholomew commented.

Katie refused to glance his way.

“So, family time, eh?” she queried.

He nodded.

“And dismantling the museum?”

He set his cup down. “Actually, I will get to that. In a month or so.”

“Okay, so, immediately on your agenda? Are you planning on swilling down a few pints at Sloppy Joe’s?”

He laughed. “I may. But that’s not my main intent or purpose.”

“What is?” she asked.

“I want to find out who did kill Tanya,” he told her.

She frowned, so surprised that she just stared at him for long seconds. “I…I don’t see what you can discover now. It happened a decade ago. The police tried—very hard, I’m certain—to find her killer. It’s now ten years after the fact. How could you possibly find out something now that they couldn’t discover then. And why would the killer have hung around?”

“A random killer wasn’t going to bring Tanya’s corpse and leave it in our family museum,” David said.

“Perhaps it had nothing to do with it being your family’s museum. Maybe he had just seen the Elena/Carl Tanzler tableau and decided it was the right place to leave a corpse. God knows, maybe he even thought that the body wouldn’t be discovered.”

“I have the files. Liam is a detective now. He’s been given leave to reopen the case. It’s time that it’s done.”

“They never even had another suspect,” Katie said. She bit her lip. She saw the slight tensing of his features. “I mean, they never had a suspect at all—”

“Other than me.”

“You were never really a suspect, were you?” She flushed slightly, looking away. Of course he’d been a suspect!

“Just a ‘person of interest,’” he told her. “And you’re right—there was never another suspect. And there had to be a reason for that. Either the police continued to believe that I had done it, or they were protecting someone else.”

“Like who?” Katie asked.

“I don’t know. But I intend to find out. Tanya deserves justice.”

“Her family is long gone, you know,” Katie told him.

He nodded, looking away. “I know. Her mother never recovered from what happened, but she came to see me, telling me that she knew I could have never done such a thing. I never saw her father, except at the funeral, and he took Tanya’s mother away the next day. They moved up to St. Augustine, and he had a heart attack a month later and died. Her mother went into psychiatric care, and she died about five years later. Tanya had an older brother—Sam—and to the best of my knowledge, he’s still doing charters out of Key Largo.”

“Oh,” Katie said, surprised. “I thought he had left the state.”

“Just Key West.”

For a moment, they were both silent. To her surprise, it wasn’t an awkward silence, just a sad one. And she did understand why he hated to see the museum reopened.

She reached a hand out to touch his across the table. Sparks seemed to jump into her, and she realized that he was far more tense and vital than she had imagined. “I’m sorry, really sorry,” she told him.

“Well, you see, their lives were destroyed. Our family was torn apart—I couldn’t stay here. I really couldn’t stay here. I might have been running away, but I honestly don’t think so. I just couldn’t stay. The destruction of lives and families was just too much. But now, I know that I will never really be fine with myself if I don’t discover the truth, no matter what it takes.”

“That’s ominous,” Katie told him.

“No, I don’t intend to hold people up at gunpoint or anything of the like. But I’m going to delve until I find something. A young woman was murdered. She had to have fought—Tanya was fond of living, believe me.”

Katie frowned. The case had been years ago. Of course, everyone had been talking about it at the time. It was a small community, especially as far as true conchs—those who were born and bred in Key West—went. Even fresh-water conchs—those who had been in Key West at least seven years—were often rare. Naturally, a scandal, a murder that involved one of the city’s oldest families, was a cause for endless horror and gossip.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember much about the case. I mean, to be honest, we all whispered about it, but our parents would always hush us up. And my brother was upset, of course, and we went to the funeral—everyone in town went to the funeral. But I don’t know a lot about what was discovered. The body was found in a fairly pristine condition. She hadn’t decomposed much…They should have been able to discover some facts regarding the case,” Katie said. She flushed, realizing the things she was saying had to be painful, since he had known Tanya so well. Loved her, at least at some point in his life.

He stared at her a moment. She realized she was holding her breath. But he let out a soft sigh and she was grateful that he didn’t seem angry, or that he hadn’t taken her words as callous.

“Our relationship was over,” David said. “I was sad, maybe enjoying being a bit heartbroken. I wasn’t angry. I’d been gone a long time—military service had seemed like the right course. I know at the time my grandfather had been worried about finances and he was determined that we get to college, so…I figured that would make it easier on him. I had a partial scholarship and the government to back me up. But I was gone way too long for a young woman with little to do down here but bask in the sun. I wasn’t that surprised that she left me. Tanya was a party girl. We’d parted ways—she had written me before I returned home to tell me that time and distance were too much, she felt that we should break off the engagement. We never even fought. I hadn’t seen her since I’d come home—I’d been avoiding her—though I heard she intended to talk to me that evening, to meet me face-to-face to apologize for what she had done. She didn’t mention the other guy in the letter. I’d heard about that through others, but I was hardly surprised. She was supposed to leave in the next few days to live in Ohio but I’d heard from others that she may have decided to stay. Supposedly, she’d had a change of heart. That night. Or maybe it had been brewing. She was trying to get her courage up to come see me. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know. I thought that we were over. I’d helped out at the museum while waiting to head up to school. I loved working in the museum. I’d always loved the Carl Tanzler story—I mean, it’s just too bizarre, even for Key West! I was telling it with relish, I believe. And then, there she was. Tanya—where Elena de Hoyos should have rested.”

“What—what about the fellow from Ohio she fell in love with?” Katie asked. “Did they ever question him?”

“Mike Sanderson. He was in Ohio, or on the road to Ohio,” David said. “He’d left several days earlier. Tanya had actually stayed behind to get herself organized. She also told people that she’d wanted to see me again—without Mike around. She was a party girl, but a very decent human being. As far as I remember. And that’s painful. I remember her dead far better than I remember her alive.”

“So, the new guy was out of state…” Katie murmured.

“It’s easy to see why I appeared to be the perfect suspect,” David said. “Especially because, at times, I was alone in the museum that night. Between tours. We didn’t find her until the following morning, and I thank God for the coroner. He insisted that she had been killed before nine the night before, and there were a number of people who swore that I couldn’t possibly have left the museum with enough time to kill her.”

“Because she wasn’t killed at the museum?”

He nodded. “She had been killed and lain somewhere long enough for lividity to set in—and the way her blood had settled, she’d been on her side for a while after she was killed.” He winced. “You’re thinking that I shouldn’t be able to talk about her this way?”

She looked at him. “No! Actually, I wasn’t thinking that at all,” she said. “I was just wondering how on earth you could begin to go back to find out what did happen.”

He stood. “Well, it’s quite a challenge. I may fail. I have to try.”

She stood, as well. It was obvious that he was leaving.

“What if you find out the truth?” she asked him.

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Say you manage to lay all your ghosts to rest. Will you leave again?”

“Probably.”

“Then, if all was solved, you just might feel differently about the museum.”

She shouldn’t have spoken; she saw a spark of anger in his eyes. “I see where your sympathy for my plight lies, Miss O’Hara,” he said, his words pleasant enough.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, actually, yes, you did.”

“If that’s how you wish to feel, fine. There’s little I can do,” she said with a shrug.

He started toward the door but stopped and turned back. “Thank you for the coffee.” He hesitated. “Do you manage to suck everyone in like this—then irritate them beyond measure?”

“I—I, no! I wasn’t sucking you in. I was listening. And I would dearly love to see the murder solved. It was an injustice all the way around. A killer got away with murder. Lives were ruined. I—and surely everyone else—would like to see that rectified. In fact, and seriously, with no side benefit, I’m more than willing to help you in any way. I just can’t begin to see how.”

He walked back to her. He loomed tall, and she felt a slight tremor touch her, but it wasn’t fear. He was simply a charismatic man, whether talking thoughtfully, or staring at her the way he was now.

Even wagging a finger at her.

“Don’t! No, I mean, don’t! Don’t help me, don’t look into this, don’t be involved in any way. Please, and I mean it. Do you understand me—don’t help, don’t ask questions—just don’t!”

“Hey! All right!” Katie flared. “What—do you have this problem with everyone who attempts to be nice to you?”

He let out a breath. His eyes were an intense blue as he stared at her, and yet they seemed to spark with a different emotion, as well.

“No, I just don’t want anyone involved in any way, all right?”

She lifted her hands. “Hey, you’re on your own. I won’t darken your door, I won’t even speak on your behalf!”

He nodded, turned and headed to the door. Once more, he turned back. “Seriously, thanks for the coffee.” He lingered for a moment. She was surprised to see something of a nostalgic smile on his face.

“What?”

“I don’t know. Remembering times…before, I guess.” He looked at her a long moment. “You don’t remember. I came here one day to see your brother and you were mad at him. You opened the door for me, and then slammed it in my face.”

“I did not!”

“You did.”

She flushed. “Hey, he was quite a bit older, and very superior at times.”

“It’s all right. I knocked again, and Sean came down. He threatened to lock you in your dollhouse.”

“I never had a dollhouse.”

“Then he must not have been all that mad.”

He stepped outside, the door closed and he was gone.

“Well,” Bartholomew exclaimed. “Well, well—well. How touching.”

“Don’t be—a jerk,” Katie said.

“Excuse me,” Bartholomew said indignantly. “I wasn’t being a jerk. I meant it. How touching. I think I do like this fellow after all.”

Katie was thoughtful. “If he is able to find out the truth…”

“Stop right there,” Bartholomew said.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you hear him? He doesn’t want you involved. And, hey—it’s never been proved that he was guilty, but it’s never been proved that he was innocent.”

Katie looked solidly at Bartholomew. “I don’t intend to do anything, seriously. I’m going to hope for the best for him. But if he does find out the truth, he may change his mind, and I may get the museum.”

Bartholomew appeared to shudder. “Katie, if he’s right, the situation is dangerous. Oh, yes, there’s so much more that can be discovered these days than when I was walking the shoreline. DNA, RNA, whichever is which and what. Skin cells, even fingerprints, footprints…genetic markers. Whatever. The thing is, the killer was never caught. David Beckett thinks that it wasn’t a random act or the act of a psycho who moved on. If he’s trying to discover the truth and it was someone from around here who still lives here, that person isn’t going to want anyone knowing the truth.”

“What we want isn’t always what we get—it’s time for a murderer to come to justice,” Katie said.

“Right. Great sentiment,” Bartholomew agreed. “But this person killed once, very cleverly, so it seems. If he’s threatened, he’ll certainly kill again. Katie, look at me—this guy will kill again. Like Beckett said, young woman, you stay the hell out of it. You wouldn’t want to wind up being a tableau in the museum yourself now, would you, Miss Katherine O’Hara?”




Chapter Four


Danny Zigler seemed the right place to start. He knew Key West like the back of his hand. He had been here then—and he’d remained to sometimes tell stories about the night, along with other bits and pieces of Key West myth and legend. He had been something of a friend. He was a legend in his own peculiar way.

At the moment, Danny worked part-time for one of the ghost-tour companies and part-time for an ice-cream parlor on Duval. He had always been a nice guy with an easygoing personality—and not a bit of ambition. Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing, David didn’t know. Sometimes Danny was unemployed, and that would be fine with Danny until he was dead broke, then he’d make the effort to become employed again. He was a fixture in Key West.

It was still early, and not much on or just off Duval Street opened early, except for the chain drugstore, coffee shops and an Internet café. But David knew that the ice-cream shop would be getting ready to open, and it might be the best time to talk to Danny.

When he reached the shop, David could see Danny inside, wiping down one of the milk-shake machines. He rapped on the glass. Danny looked up and over at him, and a broad smile lit up his face. He hurried to the door. David heard the locks being sprung, and then the door opened.

“David Beckett! I heard you were headed back into town. Man, how are you! It’s so damned cool to see you!” Danny declared. His enthusiasm seemed real, and he gave David a hug and stepped back. “Damn, man, and you are looking good!”

Danny was eternally thin. His brown hair, long and worn in a queue at his nape, was now beginning to show threads of gray. His face was pockmarked from a now preventable childhood illness and his features were lean. His eyes, however, were a warm brown, and he did well with people. He excelled at telling stories, and he’d been a wonderful guide years ago, when he had worked at the museum. David wondered if Danny’s life hadn’t been altered by the events at the museum, as well.

“Thanks, Danny,” David said. “So how are you doing?”

Danny shrugged, wiping his hands on the white apron he wore over his jeans and a Metallica tee. “I can’t complain, can’t complain. They’re getting more and more letters on what a great ‘ghost host’ I am for the weekend tours and, hey—I can have all the free ice cream I want. I have a sunset every night, and saltwater and sand between my toes.” He frowned. “Hey, there’s a rumor that you’re refusing to sell the museum to Katie O’Hara. Is that true?”

David nodded. “I’m sorry, Danny.”

“Your museum, your call.”

“It’s not actually my museum. I do have the major interest, but my grandfather left Liam and me in charge of his estate. We have to agree on everything, and I just don’t agree with reopening that place.”

“I understand, man.”

“I’m sorry, Danny. You were the best guide known to man.”

“No skin off my nose, David. Seriously. I just live, and I get by, and that’s what makes me happy,” Danny assured him. “Katie would have done a good job, though. She’s a great little go-getter, good businesswoman. But you know her, right?”

“She was a kid when I left.”

“Hey, we were all kids when you left. So, where have you been? They said you became some kind of a big-shot photographer. A photojournalist.”

“I’m not sure if I’m a big shot. I make a decent living,” David told him.

“I’m sorry you missed Craig’s funeral,” Danny said.

“I saw him when he was alive. He was always the mainstay of my life,” David told him.

“You been to the grave site?”

“Not yet.”

Danny obviously disapproved of that fact, but he didn’t say so. He asked, “So how long do you plan on staying around?”

“I’m not sure yet. I haven’t made any commitments for the near future. We’ll see. Tell me how you’ve been, Danny.”

“Me? I’m fine. I don’t need a lot. Just enough to survive and enjoy myself.”

“Still never married? Is there a special girl?”

Danny laughed. “Well, I know several girls who are special. Girls I like, and girls I see. But they’re not the kind you bring home to Mom, you know what I mean? But, hey, I know the scoop around here. I’m just looking for fun, and they’re just looking for a few bucks. It’s cool, it’s the way I want it.”

“Sure.”

“No commitments, and that’s the way I like it. Don’t be feeling sorry for me, I’m a happy man. Really.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Danny looked at him thoughtfully. “So, what are you up to?”

“Settling affairs.”

“Of course. Hey, I have one of the ghost tours Saturday night. You should come. I’m in rare form, and I really do a good job.”

“Maybe I will.”

Danny hesitated again. He winced. “You know, they usually do mention Tanya now in the tours. They say that she’s a ghost, and that she haunts the museum house.”

“And you tell the story, too, right?” David asked.

“I’m sorry,” Danny said.

“If you’re doing a ghost tour, I’m assuming it makes a good story, and it’s not your fault,” David assured him.

Danny looked around awkwardly for a moment. “Hey, you want some ice cream?”

David shook his head. “No, thanks, Danny. You know, you said that you retell the story on your tours. What do you say?”

Danny looked pale suddenly. “I—I—”

“You say that I was under suspicion, right?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” He was lying; he was lying out of kindness, so it seemed.

“Do you remember what really happened?” David asked.

“What do you mean, what really happened? I wasn’t working either day. You were working for me, don’t you remember?”

“Of course, I remember that. But what do you remember?”

“Not much, man.”

“What did you do the night of her murder with your free time?”

Danny thought a minute. “I had a few drinks at one of the joints on Duval. And I was down at Mallory Square. Then I went home. I woke up the next morning when I heard all the sirens—I was living in an apartment on Elizabeth Street back then. I came outside and saw the cops and the M.E.’s car over at the museum and walked over.”

“Did you see Tanya at all that night?” David asked.

“No…yes! Early. Well, it was late afternoon, I guess. Around five. I saw her down in one of the bars. I talked to her, I think. Yes, I did talk to her. I’d heard she was leaving town, and that things had kind of faded apart between you two. She said she had a few people to see that night, and that she’d be taking a rental up to Miami, and flying out from there the next day.”

“So, five o’clock. Where?”

Danny shook his head. “I think…maybe, yeah! I was toward the south side of Duval. It might even have been Katie’s uncle’s place.”

“Thanks, Danny,” David told him. “Did you tell the cops that at the time?”

“I’m sure that I did,” Danny told him. “Why?”

“Because her killer has never been caught,” David said.

“Right,” Danny said.

“Well, good to see you, and thanks again,” David told him.

“Sure thing. Sure. And I really can’t give you an ice cream?”

“No, but thanks,” David told him.

He waved to Danny and left.

Five o’clock. If Danny was right, Tanya had been at O’Hara’s at five o’clock on the Saturday night she had been murdered.

And Danny hadn’t seen her again.

Important, if it was the truth. If he wasn’t covering up.

For himself.

Or for someone else.

It was Danny’s story then, and it was Danny’s story now. He had seen Tanya at five. Sometime in the next few hours, she’d been murdered, and sometime after that—certainly after midnight, after the museum had closed—she had been laid out in place of Elena de Hoyos.

David had returned for the first tour the following morning.

Had she been laid out just for him to find?

The answer to that question might be the answer to her murder.



“People aren’t really to be found at the cemetery, you know,” Bartholomew said. “Well, most people. The thing is, of course, that most of us move on. And we remain behind only in the memories of those who loved us. Or hated us. Well, usually, people move on. Okay, okay, well, sometimes you can find people wandering around a cemetery, but…Well, that’s because they have to remain because…Wait, why am I remaining? Oh, hmm. I think it may be because of you. But I digress. You will not find Craig Beckett in this cemetery. He was a good man, and his conscience was clean. He’s moved on.”

“I know that he’s not in the cemetery,” Katie said.

“Then…why are we here?” Bartholomew asked.

“You don’t have to be here,” she said.

“No, I don’t have to be here. But you do not behave with the intelligence you were granted at birth. Therefore, I feel it is my cross to bear in life to follow you around,” Bartholomew told her.

“Hey! I am not your cross to bear, and I do behave intelligently,” Katie said, shaking her head and praying for patience. “It’s broad daylight. There are tourists all over the cemetery.”

“But why are we here?”

“Whether the person is here or not—and, of course, I don’t begin to assume that Craig Beckett’s soul would be in his worn and embalmed body in his tomb—I just like to come. It’s beautiful, and it’s a place where I can think. When other people, alive or dead, are not driving me right up the wall.”

“What is it you need to think about?” Bartholomew demanded.

“Craig. I just want to remember him. Could I have a bit of respectful silence?” she asked.

The Key West cemetery was on a high point in the center of the island. In 1846, a massive hurricane had washed up a number of earlier graves and sent bodies down Duval Street in a flood. After that, high ground was chosen. Now, many of the graves were in the ground, but many more were above-ground graves. Tombs, shelves and strange grave sites dotted the cemetery, along with more typical mausoleum-type graves.

It was estimated that there were one-hundred-thousand people interred at the Key West cemetery, in one way or another, triple the actual full-time population of the island.

Katie did love the cemetery. It was just like the island itself, historic and eccentric, full of the old and the new. There were Civil War soldiers buried here, there was a monument to those lost aboard the Maine and there were many graves with curious sentiments, her favorite being, “I told you I was sick!”

Craig Beckett was in a family mausoleum that had been there since the majority of the island’s dead had been moved here. One of the most beautiful angel sculptures in the cemetery stood high atop the roof of the mausoleum, and tourists were frequently near, taking pictures of the sculpture. When the Beckett family had originally purchased their final resting place, the cost had been minimal. Now such a structure, along with the small spit of ground it stood upon, would cost in the mid-to-high hundreds of thousands of dollars.

“There she is!” Bartholomew said suddenly.

“Who? Where?” Katie asked.

“The woman in white,” Bartholomew said. “There, where the oldest graves are.”

Bartholomew was right. She was standing above one of the graves. Her head was lowered, and her hands were folded before her.

“I’m going to talk to her,” Bartholomew said.

“I don’t think she wants to talk,” Katie said. “Bartholomew, you should wait.”

He didn’t want to wait. He left Katie and went striding quickly toward the beautiful ghost figure in long, flowing white. As he neared her, she turned. She saw him.

And then she was gone.

Katie shook her head. Sadly, the world of relationships was always hard. Even for ghosts. Maybe more so for ghosts.

She heard laughter and turned. A group of tourists was coming along; they had just been visiting the area of the monument to the survivors of the Maine; a wrought-iron fence encircled a single bronze sailor who looked out over the markers of his companions.

They were now coming to take pictures of the Beckett tomb with its beautiful, high-rising angel. Katie decided to slip away.

She walked around to an area where graves were stacked mausoleum-style in several rows, and stood where she wouldn’t be seen. The group was a happy one, and she knew that visiting the historic and unusual cemetery was something that people did. Since life was basically a circle and all men died, it seemed a good thing that people enjoyed a walk in the cemetery. But today, for some reason, the laughter irritated her.

Bartholomew remained around the oldest graves. He had gone down on one knee, and she assumed he was trying to read the etching on some of the gravestones.

As she waited and watched, she was surprised to see the woman in white appear again. She was behind Bartholomew. Bartholomew didn’t see her. As Katie watched, the woman started to place a hand on his shoulder.

Again, the group of tourists seemed to issue, in unison, a loud stream of laughter. The woman turned to fog, and she was gone.

But there was someone else there. A girl. She was also in white, but she was wearing a more modern gown, one similar to the famous halter dress in which Marilyn Monroe had been immortalized in dozens of pictures.

She, too, watched Bartholomew.

She looked around, though, and saw Katie. She seemed to panic.

Then she, too, was gone.

Katie frowned; there had been something about that particular ghost—something that seemed to stir inside her. Katie should have recognized her.

But she didn’t. Irritated, Katie dismissed the idea.

Ghosts everywhere! she thought.

Well, she was in a cemetery. But, as Bartholomew had said, ghosts didn’t really linger that often in cemeteries. They haunted the areas where they had been happy, where they had faced trauma or where they searched for something they hadn’t found in life.

“Hiding?”

The very real, solid and almost tangible sound of a deep male voice made her jump. Katie swung around.

David Beckett had come to the cemetery.

“Hiding? No. Just—waiting,” she said.

“I guess it’s a good thing that a cemetery, even an active cemetery, draws the laughter of the living,” David said. He watched as the loud group moved on.

“You came to see your grandfather?” she asked.

“My grandfather isn’t here,” he said.

She smiled. “No. When did you see him last?”

“Right before I headed out to Kenya,” he said, looking toward the mausoleum.

“Oh,” Katie said.

He looked at her with a tight smile. “I didn’t desert my grandfather, Miss O’Hara, though that seems to be the consensus here. I didn’t like my home anymore, and I can’t help it. I like living a life where you don’t stare into faces every day that are speculative—are you or are you not a murderer? I met Craig in Miami often enough, even Key Largo and sometimes Orlando. Imagine. Craig loved theme parks. Here’s the thing of which I am certain—if there is a heaven, Craig is there, and he’s with my grandmother. They had a beautiful love that was quite complete. They will not be misty ghouls running around a graveyard.”

“You know, you sound defensive,” Katie observed.

He shook his head. “Yep. I have a big chip on my shoulder.” He lifted his hands and she saw that he carried a beautiful bouquet of lilacs. “Gram’s favorites,” he said.

The tourists were gone. Katie followed him back to the Beckett mausoleum. He set the bouquet right before the wrought-iron doors.

“Very nice—pretty flowers,” Katie said.

“They seem forlorn,” David said.

She shook her head. “No, that’s forlorn,” she told him, pointing to a family graveyard that was surrounded by an iron fence. Cemetery maintenance was kept up, but no one had been to see the graves in decades. The stones were broken, a stray weed was growing through here and there and all within the site were long forgotten, not even their names remaining legibly upon the stones.

“That’s life,” David said flatly. “Well, I’ll leave you to whatever you were doing,” he told her. But as he turned, he stopped suddenly.

Katie saw that he was looking at a man across from them, in another section of the cemetery, one that was bordered by Olivia Street.

She knew that Tanya Barnard was buried in that section; most people knew that she was buried there, even though her marker wasn’t on her grave. Because of the Carl Tanzler/Elena de Hoyos story, the powers-that-be at the time of her death, along with the family, had determined that no one but Tanya’s parents would know exactly where she had been buried; there would be no grave robbing. In death, Tanya had become a celebrity.

Katie had never seen Tanya’s astral self, soul or haunt.

She had seen Elena de Hoyos frequently. Then again, if anyone had the right to haunt a place, it was poor Elena. Ripped from her grave, her body adored and yet desecrated, she had missed out on the beauty of youth and the sweetness of aging in the midst of normal love.

She didn’t weep when she walked. She did so with her head high. And sometimes, she danced, as if she could return to the dance halls of her day, as if she imagined herself young again, falling in love with her handsome husband—happy days before tuberculosis, desertion and the bizarre adoration of Carl Tanzler.

Would she know Tanya if she saw her? She had heard the story about the woman, of course. It had been Key West’s scandal and horror. Her picture had certainly been in the newspapers. But Katie had never really seen Tanya.

“Damn,” David murmured.

The man across the way seemed to know exactly where he was, and what he was looking for.

Katie stared, squinting against the sun. He was the man who had been in O’Hara’s last night, the man who had appeared to be familiar, who had tried to buy her a drink. He had flowers; he laid them at the foot of a grave.

“Who is it?” she asked.

He didn’t glance her way. “Sam Barnard. Tanya’s brother,” he said.

Katie stared, looking at David, and then at the man again. David left her, striding across the cemetery. He passed the brick vaults and kept going, at last calling out. His voice carried on the breeze. She heard him calling out, “Sam!”

Sam turned slowly. He was clean shaven now, in Dockers and a polo shirt, and she wondered if he had been as drunk as she had thought last night, or if he had been playing the drunk, watching folks at the bar. He had to have been familiar with O’Hara’s—her uncle’s bar had been there for twenty-five years. But her uncle, Jamie O’Hara, had not been there. Jon Merrillo had been on as the manager, and Jon had only been in Key West for five years.

Katie felt her heart thundering. For a moment she thought that she should turn away, that none of this was any of her business. But then she felt a trigger of unease. No, fear. What if the two men were about to go after one another? Maybe Sam Barnard had vengeance on his mind. David Beckett had just returned, and suddenly Sam Barnard was back in the city, as well.

She dug into her handbag for her phone, ready to dial 911.

But she didn’t.

The two men embraced like old friends. They began speaking to one another, and walked toward the grave together.

She felt a strange sensation—not cold, not heat, just a movement in the air. She turned her head slightly. Bartholomew had an arm draped around her. “That’s touching,” he said. “Seriously, you know, I like that fellow. He reminds me of someone I knew years and years ago…” He shrugged. “Hey, it might have been one of his ancestors, come to think of it.”

“I thought he was a jerk and you were going to protect me from him,” Katie said dryly.

Bartholomew shook his head. “He’s redeeming himself. That’s what life is all about, eh? We make mistakes, we earn redemption. So, you want to join up with them?”

“No. No, I want to slip away.”

“Wait.”

“Wait—for what?” Katie asked.

“Maybe Tanya Barnard is hanging around the cemetery.”

“Do you see anyone? I don’t,” Katie said.

“No,” Bartholomew admitted. “Maybe she’s gone on all the way. But she was murdered, and her murder was never solved. You’d think, with her brother and ex-fiancé together, she would make an appearance.”

Katie looked around the cemetery. No ghosts were stirring. None at all.

They were probably unhappy with the laughing tourists.

Every man and woman born came to the end of their lives. Death was the only certainty in life.

But ghosts could be touchy.

“Let’s go. I have to go to work tonight and I want to do some searching online,” Katie said.

“You go on. I’m going to hang around a bit longer,” Bartholomew said.

“Snooping—or looking for your lady in white?” Katie asked.

“A bit of both. I’m looking for my beauty…or waiting for you, my love. But you’re awfully young, so I’d have a long wait.”

“Well, thanks for that vote of encouragement,” Katie said.

She walked quickly, exiting the cemetery from the main gate. Neither of the men, now involved in a deep conversation together, noticed that she left.



Sam Barnard was David’s senior by four years. He’d been in college when David had been in the military, so they hadn’t hung out, but they’d shared many a holiday dinner with one or the other’s family.

“I heard about Craig’s death, and I’d heard they were trying to reach you,” Sam Barnard told David. “To be honest, though, I didn’t come down to pay my respects to anyone. I’d heard a local was trying to buy the museum. It brought everything back. Not just the fact that my kid sister was murdered, but the way she was left…and the fact that her killer was never found. Hell, I didn’t come down to start trouble. I’ve spent the past years not even a hundred miles away, and I haven’t made the trip down here since my folks left. But now…”

“I’m not letting anyone reopen the museum,” David told him.

They sat at a sidewalk bar on Front Street. Sam lifted his beer to David. “Glad to hear it. And I’m not here to hound or harass you, either. I know you didn’t do it.”

“Do you?” David asked.

Sam nodded. “I guess a lot of folks think I’ve followed you down here to pick a fight, beat you to a pulp, something like that.”

“Probably.”

“My folks knew you didn’t do it. I knew you didn’t do it.”

“That means a lot.”

“You know, I knew what was going on. She was my sister, but I never put her on a pedestal. I really loved her, but she was human, you know. Real. From the time she was a little kid, she wanted to live every second of the day. When you left for the military, I had a bad feeling. Tanya was never the kind to wait around. She was never going to find true love with that football jock—he had a roving eye. I told her so. She’d made all her arrangements for college in the north. But she wasn’t leaving until she had talked to you. I’m pretty sure she was going to make a stab at getting back with you. That’s why she was drinking. She needed courage.”

“She never needed courage to see me.”

“You didn’t know—you really didn’t know that she wanted to make up, did you?” Sam asked.

“No. And no matter what, we would have stayed friends,” David said. “I didn’t hate her. Maybe I understood.”

“She’s just a cold, closed case now,” Sam said.

“I hope not. I hope there’s still a way to find the truth,” David said.

“How, after all this time?” Sam demanded. “Hey, you didn’t secretly go off and become some kind of investigator, or medium, eh? What the hell could anyone possibly find now?”

“Actually, cold cases do get solved. Not all of them, no. And no—I can’t conjure up Tanya to find out what happened.”

“So you are a photographer?” Sam said, frowning. “And you film stuff, too, for nature films? Underwater—like Sean.”

“Yep. Oddly enough, yes, Sean and I wound up doing close to the same thing. I do more straight photography than Sean, though.” He waited a minute, but Sam remained silent. “And you—you’re still running charter fishing boats, right?”

Sam nodded, rubbing his thumb down his beer glass. “Yep, I do fishing charters.”

“Is there a Mrs. Sam yet?”

“No. And you—you never married either, huh?”

“I’m all over the globe,” David said.

Sam leaned toward him, his grin lopsided and rueful. “Neither one of us has married because we’re both fucked up. The murderer might as well have strangled my folks right alongside my sister. And let’s see—the girl you thought you were going to marry winds up dead and replacing an automaton, and everyone thinks you did it. Hell, yeah, I can see where you’re pretty screwed up in the head.”





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