Fade To Black

Yeah, they’d been damned decent.

“Please!” Maeve wheedled.

“She’ll torment you to tears, son,” Hamish reminded him.

“This girl doesn’t even know she wants help,” Bryan protested. “And there are police out there, and...” He sighed. “Miss Davante has no idea she needs my help.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Maeve said.

“And why not?”

“Cara will let her know.”

“Cara is dead.”

Maeve smiled. “Yes, she is. But she’s still hanging around, too. Because, of course, she is worried about Marnie, so...not to worry! She will let her know.”

He paused and looked at his mother curiously, frowning. “And just how do you know all this?”

“Oh, I talked to Cara, of course.”

“How?”

“Well, your father and I saw the news, even if you didn’t. I was horrified, of course, and then I saw Cara was trying to get through on the computer.”

“You can use a computer?” he asked his mother, incredulous—and somewhat disgusted with himself.

“She does—I don’t,” his father said. “Your mom has always been the family communicator.”

“A new ghost managed to contact an old ghost?” he asked.

“It’s difficult to explain, but it’s like we Skyped,” his mother said.

“But how—Never mind. Never mind. I’m not sure I even want to know. So, Cara has shown herself to this young lady, this Marnie Davante?”

“If she hasn’t, she will,” Maeve said.

“I really hope so. And I hope, Mom, I can even get near her.”

“Of course—you’re our son. You can go just about anywhere, using the name,” Maeve assured him.

“I believe she is right on that,” his father said.

Bryan set down his ax and headed for the cabin.

“Where are you going?” Maeve asked him.

He turned to look at her wearily. “I’m going to go check out flights to LA. God knows you haunt me enough that I spend more time with the dead than the living.”

He saw the look of relief and pleasure on his mother’s face.

And his father’s approving nod.

Oh, hell.

Hollywood.

Well, he did have a bit of time on his hands. He’d spent enough time fishing and splitting logs and wondering if he and his brothers should form an agency.

Or if he should go ahead and look into the position that had been offered.

If he should join the FBI.

With the unit known unofficially as the Krewe of Hunters.

But his mother and father had come to him, and he wasn’t committed to any path as yet.

He was going to LA.

* * *

Marnie had definitely spent too much of her life in Hollywood.

It was impossible to grasp the fact that what happened was reality.

Someone was going to yell, “Cut!” Then the director was going to step forward and tell them what a great job they had all done; they had gotten the scene in one take.

And then Cara Barton would get up. She would straighten her shoulders and look at Marnie and say, “Of course! I’m a pro. I really was great, wasn’t I?”

And Marnie would laugh. Cara had been ambitious; she had even been obnoxious at times. But from the get-go, she had been good to Marnie, and they had been true friends.

And now Marnie had held someone she loved as she had died.

Even then, even as reality reared its ugly head, she expected everything would happen as it did in the movies or on television. The detectives would look like Josh Hartnett or maybe Ice T, and within an hour, they’d know who had killed Cara Barton.

That hadn’t happened. It had taken them way more than an hour just to sequester Marnie and her fellow surviving cast members, and to begin to round up all the Blood-bones who filled the convention hall.

The day had been a nightmare, endless. Filled with scores of police. With sirens, with medical personnel, with a medical examiner, with crime scene techs.

In the end, though, there were two detectives assigned to the case. One was an older man who, to be honest, in Marnie’s mind, would have been perfect for the movies.

For being a homicide detective, his voice was bizarrely soft and gentle. He was tall and thin, clean-shaven, and possessed a full head of silver-gray hair. His eyes were a powdery blue, as soft and gentle as his voice. His name was Grant Vining.

His partner was his total opposite. She was young, and when she spoke, it was apparent that she was not to be taken lightly. She was a tiny blonde with brown eyes and a powerful voice that apparently made up for her size—she had no problem being heard over any amount of chatter or noise. She seemed to do the corralling and instructing while Detective Vining did more of the intimate interviews. Her name was Detective Sophie Manning. She wasn’t mean—she was just blunt. She started a bit harshly with Marnie. But then Marnie had been holding Cara Barton as she had died.

Good cop, bad cop? Did cops really play it all out that way? Marnie didn’t know.

In the midst of it all, Detective Manning turned to her and said, “We’ve got your statement. I’m going to take you to the station. We’re going to need your clothing. Yes, I know you’re thinking this is horrible and the blood on you belonged to your friend. But the killer might have cut himself. His—or her—blood could be on you, too.”

“The killer was wearing black gloves,” Marnie told the detective.

“Yes, still, we need what you’re wearing. It will be returned.”

Marnie looked around. A group had gathered by Malcolm Dangerfield’s booth; the actor was just beyond the crime scene tape surrounding the Dark Harbor booth.

Close and yet oh, so far away! Marnie thought. To his credit, he appeared to be stunned and horrified.

Malcolm Dangerfield wasn’t paying attention to any of his fans. He was staring at Marnie and the police as if he were in shock. Someone spoke to him. He didn’t seem to notice. His publicist waved the person away.

Detective Grant Vining was speaking to Jeremy Highsmith, asking him about the numbers on the table. Jeremy shrugged and told him he imagined that it had to do with five of them being there—five chairs. What could the numbers mean other than that? Had they been there all day? Yes, they’d been at the table when they’d arrived, just as their nameplates had been there. It was all set up by the comic con people. Did they change anything around?

Jeremy looked at everyone else. No one seemed to have an answer.

“Who knows?” he replied, his voice sounding broken. “We just...sat. We’re all friends. We wouldn’t have cared where we sat. When we get together...we talk.” He swallowed and then said, “It makes these things bearable. For me, at least.”

“I think we more or less sat where our names were,” Roberta Alan said. “I have personally never seen numbers before, and we’re all friends. We don’t care where we sit, and I just honestly don’t remember if we sat by number. Oh, maybe Marnie and Cara switched around... I’m not sure. It’s honestly like I said—I don’t remember. It never mattered to us. We even sometimes play musical chairs. That way, we all got to talk to each other. Oh, yeah, and after these things, at least one of the nights, we’d head out for a meal together.”

“She loved those dinners we’d have,” Jeremy said. When he spoke, he looked old. He wasn’t a spring chicken, but he usually appeared like a very handsome and distinguished older gentleman with his thick iron gray hair and straight and elegant posture.

Now, he just looked old.

“Tonight,” Marnie said softly. “We were all supposed to be together tonight.”

“We really were her family!” Jeremy said.

There was a little more conversation, none of it really helpful toward finding out why a Blood-bone-costumed killer would have singled them out.

“God knows, maybe it was random!” Sophie Manning murmured to Grant Vining.

“No, no. It wasn’t random. Trust me,” Vining said.

Finally, Marnie found herself being led out by Detective Manning. She went to the police station, she turned over her clothing and she was given a strange rough outfit to wear—it made her feel as if she had been arrested herself.

Detective Manning wasn’t so bad; she asked Marnie if there was someone she should call.

Marnie’s parents were going to hear about what happened, but they were off on a dream trip to Australia and New Zealand. She would just text them that she was fine, and she was going to be home and trying to sleep, and she would talk to them in the morning.

She had friends, of course.

But no one that she wanted to talk to at that moment.

Her cousin Bridget lived in the other half of her duplex. She would hear about this soon, but Bridget was down in San Diego for the weekend, visiting one of her friends from college who was there for a writers’ retreat. There was no way she could have gotten home yet.

“I just want to go home,” she told Manning.

“All right, of course. But you know, I can take you to a hospital if you wish. You might not want to be alone. You might be suffering a form of shock.”

“I just want to go home.”

“Of course.”

The detective didn’t call for a patrol officer. She brought Marnie home herself. She checked out the duplex off Barham Boulevard where Marnie lived and declared it safe.

“Do you have an alarm system?” Manning asked.

“No, but I do have a camera that watches my living room, and it’s connected to my phone, so in a way...it’s kind of an alarm system.”

“No, it’s not,” Manning told her. “It’s bizarre. Just your living room?”

“I played with the idea of getting a dog.”

“I see. Well, a dog would have been good. When I leave, just make sure that you lock yourself in.”

Marnie looked at her, startled. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might be in danger.

She’d only known that Cara was dead.

That Cara had stared up at her while the light had gone out of her eyes.

She shook off the notion of fear. Really. She just wanted to be alone. She did have good locks on her windows and on the front and back doors. She had bought the duplex; she shared it with Bridget. She had made sure they had windows and doors that were up to code—thinking more about earthquakes than home invaders—but whatever the thought, her place was solid.

“I’m good. Really. Quality locks on the windows. My doors would need a battering ram if someone wished to break them down, and I have three bolts on each.”

“All right, then. We’ll be in touch. Oh, my card—” Manning paused, digging around in her suit pocket “—and my partner’s card.” She shrugged. “People tend to like him more. If he’s easier to call and you do need help or you think of anything, call him, or call me.”

“You will find out who did this?” Marnie whispered. She winced. Oh, Lord. It sounded like such a Hollywood line.

Manning smiled. “We’re good, Miss Davante. My partner and I are good together. We’re going to do our best. But...if there’s anything, call us. There’s one thing that Grant Vining taught me right off the bat—if you can get help from somewhere that will solve a murder—take it. So...”

“I wish I had something to tell you. I wish I had something to say,” Marnie assured her.

“Lock up.”

Manning left, and Marnie did so. She headed to the bathroom and turned on the hot water.

She must have stayed beneath the showerhead for an hour.

When she came out of the bathroom, she got in bed and turned on the television. She didn’t seem able to find a channel that did anything but talk about the murder of Cara Barton that day.

Finally she found the Three Stooges.

And still...

She stared up at the ceiling. So exhausted...

And so unable to sleep. Eventually, she closed her eyes. She could still faintly hear Moe, Larry and Curly as they taunted and teased one another.

Her phone rang; it was her mother. Naturally, her mom was hysterical. Her parents had known Cara Barton. They had visited the set. But not only that, it could have been Marnie who had been killed.

It hadn’t been.

The only way to get her mother to calm down was to remind her that sometimes in life, Cara Barton had been a wee bit...obnoxious. She might have offended someone.

It took her twenty minutes to convince her mother not to cut short her dream vacation. She was okay. Not hurt at all. She wasn’t alone in the city.

So Marnie had a nice long conversation, calming down her mother.

Then she had to talk to her dad.

When she hung up, she found herself talking to the air.

“I’m sorry, Cara, I hope I didn’t sound uncaring. I had to get my mom to be okay.”

Sleep...

Watch Moe, Larry and Curly, and be grateful for the channels that kept old classics alive.

Yes, sleep.

She drifted. And as she did so, she thought that she felt a gentle touch on her face and heard a soft whisper beneath the canned laughter on the TV.

“Darling, I know you. I know you didn’t mean anything evil at all. Not to worry. I’m here. I’m with you. Get some rest, sweet Marnie. You really were a friend.”

It was nice; it was kind. As if Cara were trying to help Marnie accept what had happened.

Marnie couldn’t forget that day.

I’m not a bad person, am I? Cara had asked her.

And that had made Marnie smile. Nope. Not bad. Ambitious, trying to get by and just loving it when you did get the limelight!

“You were never a bad person!” Marnie murmured aloud, half-asleep.

And she could feel those gentle fingers touch her hair in what she assumed were her dreams.

“Such a good friend, Marnie. And now... I’m so afraid for you!”

Marnie frowned, jerked from sleep. She leaped from her bed, running through the duplex, turning on lights.

Maybe not the smartest thing to do if there was a prowler in the house!

But there wasn’t.

A check through the window by her front door showed no one at all in the yard.

She looked through the peephole. No one was there.

It was probably about five in the morning.

And she was afraid of darkness and afraid of sleep.

Maybe she’d stay in the living room.

Eventually, she fell asleep on the couch.

As she drifted off, she could almost swear that she smelled the slightly sweet scent of Cara Barton’s perfume.

* * *

He didn’t go in; he looked at the house in the dark, and he marveled at how he had enjoyed the day. Never—in a thousand years—could he have imagined what this would feel like.

Perfect. Everything perfect.

Using Blood-bone—pure genius.

The police were clueless, asking, questioning...and getting nothing.

There was nothing to get. And they just might understand why when the time came.

But for now...

It was delicious. It was the movies, all over again. Marnie was inside her home—the beautiful young heroine—terrified. Waiting...

For the killer to strike.

It was...

Euphoria!

2

There had been something about Marnie Davante in her role as Madam Zeta that had been magical. The show had been cast well. It was one of those in which the chemistry between the players was just right on, and because of it, the show was incredibly watchable, and it was still doing very well in syndication.

Bryan had downloaded a number of episodes to watch on his phone during the cross-continental flight. After a few, he felt he knew Scarlet Zeta—except, of course, who he had come to know wasn’t a real person—he had come to know a character.

His first stop was with the major crimes detectives who were handling the case. The detective he’d finally managed to speak with over the phone before his arrival—Sophie Manning—was still confused as to why he was coming out from Virginia.

That was all right. In a way, he was still confused himself.

He was asked to wait by the desk sergeant, and soon a small woman with a purposeful gait came toward him. She assessed him quickly, apparently noting that he’d probably hold his own in a fight since she gave him a sort of approving nod. While she was a tiny thing, Bryan figured she’d had some training herself, and while she might not be able to throw much weight around, she’d be damned good throwing around what she did have.

“Mr. McFadden?” she asked, offering him a hand. She had a good grip.

“Bryan McFadden, yes. And you’re Detective Manning.”

“I am. If you’ll come with me, my partner is upstairs in one of our conference rooms.”

Upstairs, he met Grant Vining; once again, he was impressed. Vining didn’t appear to be at all intimidated, nor did he seem to resent Bryan’s presence there. If anything, he was curious—something that he voiced almost immediately.

“You’re out here from Virginia?” he said.

“Yes, sir. Virginia is my home. At the moment.”

“Military brat?”

“Military myself for a few years—a few years back. My parents, no. They were actors.”

“I see,” Vining said. Then he scratched his graying head. “No, no, frankly, I don’t see at all. You’re a private eye?”

“Yes, recently licensed.”

“And you’ve been hired by someone out here? You’re acting for someone? I can assure you, we really are a competent operation. Hollywood is our jurisdiction, which might seem cushy. But in many ways, that makes our work harder—under a spotlight, we have to be better.”

Manning—the respectful junior in the duo—stood quietly, watching the exchange.

“I have absolutely no doubt that you’re exceptionally fine detectives and that this is a crack unit,” Bryan said.

“But then—”

“I’m acting for the deceased,” he said quietly.

“For—for Cara Barton?” Vining asked.

Bryan nodded. “I was actually born out here. My parents were Hamish and Maeve McFadden. If you’re a fan of AMC or any of the TV channels that keep old movies afloat, you might have seen them. They were, however, working in theater the last decade or so of their lives.”

“And?”

“Cara Barton is—was—a dear friend of my mother’s,” Bryan explained.

“The chandelier!” Manning suddenly exclaimed.

Vining and Bryan both looked at her. She flushed but went on enthusiastically. “I know who your parents were now! Your mother—wow! She was stunning. And your dad, too. I actually told my mom when I was little that I was going to grow up and marry him, and, of course, she told me that he was already married, and then later, she told me that he was...”

“Dead,” Bryan finished for her.

She flushed again. “Yes. I’m so sorry.”

“So...this is in your mom’s memory then, kind of. Or do you have a client?” Vining asked.

“That would be me. I am my own client on this.”

Vining studied him for a long moment and then nodded. “All right, fine. Let us bring you up to speed—and remind you that we are the police here. If you make any pertinent discoveries—that is to say, any discoveries at all—they will be shared with us immediately.”

“Absolutely,” Bryan promised.

“We have had all kinds of meetings, bringing in every precinct in the county and sending information out far beyond. We’ve shared what we have with the FBI, the state police and the US Marshals Service. What we have is very little, but I will see that you receive copies of the files. On the one hand, it is an extremely bizarre case—a woman was killed by a person wearing a comic costume and wielding a sword. Apparently, such light-up swords have become extremely popular toys and costume items, making it a daunting task for police and security on hand at the convention at the time of the murder. Such a sword—a real one, with a killing blade—was not found. And while precisely thirty-six persons wearing a Blood-bone costume were stopped and questioned by the same officers, not one was found with a speck of blood upon them or their weapon. In other words, someone wore this costume with a sword that appeared as harmless as the hundreds—perhaps thousands—on sale at the convention. No blood other than the victim’s was found anywhere near the victim or on those around her. No fingerprints were found other than those belonging to the cast and crew. We are, at this moment, relying on good old investigative work, searching through the victim’s past acquaintances and anyone who might have had a grudge against her. Oh, on that—well, people don’t like to speak ill of the dead, do they? Getting the truth out of cast and crew isn’t easy. Also, remember, anyone pertinent to the investigation has already been grilled by police. They will not look upon you kindly.”

“I don’t intend to grill anyone,” Bryan said.

“Ah, well, then...” Vining just stared at him.

“My most sincere thanks,” Bryan said. “I appreciate you allowing me to work in your jurisdiction, and I’m grateful that you’re willing to share information.”

“We did investigate you, of course,” Vining told him.

“I’d expect no less. I will be in touch.” He hesitated. “As far as the comic con goes, are there markers at the table that suggest who sits where?”

“Yes, there were numbers on the table. Along with their nameplates,” Vining said.

“Were they in order?” Bryan asked.

“In order?” Vining frowned. “What order would that be? We believed the numbers to have been set out by the organizers. Along with the nameplates.”

“Were such numbers available on other tables?” Bryan asked.

“They were between a descendant of a famous German shepherd and Malcolm Dangerfield,” Vining said. “Just one dog. And in Malcolm’s case—just one man. Oh, yes, and his publicity manager and reporters and God alone might know who else during the day. Dangerfield is what might be a called an ‘It boy’ this year. You think that the numbers mean something?” he asked.

Bryan shook his head. “I’ve seen the news. That’s about it. I don’t think anything as of yet. And even if someone had been offended by Miss Barton, this was one drastic method of showing displeasure.”

“Yes,” Vining said. “You have contact info for the comic con organizer and his secretary for operations there. I can’t tell you how many people are involved. There are some closed-circuit cameras around the convention floor. But not enough to cover the entire area. I’m willing to bet, however, that there are tons of cell phone videos of the event out there, videos we have yet to see here, though we did pick up many. If you find any...”

“If I find more video, I’ll let you know.”

“Precisely,” Vining said.

Sophie Manning cleared her throat.

“The funeral is tomorrow afternoon. The medical examiner released the body, and... I guess everyone wanted it to happen. She was just killed on Friday. We’re frankly surprised that the ME did release the body so quickly, but he has extensive notes—”

“I know,” Bryan said.

“You’ve been to see Dr. Collier already?” Vining asked a little sharply.

“No. I just know of him,” Bryan said. “And he is top-notch.”

“There will be a reception following, but I can’t help you get access.”

“That’s fine. I’ll manage,” Bryan assured him. “And thank you again.”

“You just keep in touch,” Vining said firmly.

“It’s a promise,” Bryan assured him.

Before he’d actually reached the street, Bryan had received a digital folder. Vining clearly meant to keep his word.

A glance at his email showed him that he’d received the autopsy notes, as well. He could have told Vining that Dr. Edward Collier had been a medic on Bryan’s ship during his first two years in the United States Navy. Maybe he should have done so, but that wasn’t pertinent to the case.

He headed on out for his third stop that day.

He wanted to see where Marnie Davante lived.

Just to observe. It was a day for gathering information.