Apparently three men, friends, had just been home. One of those men had been Edgar Andrews, a great, great, great grandfather to Eliza Andrews. He hadn’t been the Rebel killed. That had been Darby Walton, and Darby had been killed because Taron Engle, a Yankee soldier, had shot him when he’d fallen, and his rifle had gone off.
It sounded as if it had been a truly tragic incident. But it had been Edgar Andrews who had risked himself, stepping unarmed out before the remaining Northern soldiers, begging them to bury their fellows and to accept that there needed to be peace.
Apparently no one else wanted to chance dying.
They were near a tiny church that had served sometimes as a hospital during the war; both men were buried. Taron Engle’s burial was well-marked so that his family could move his remains after the war if they wished, but Engle remained where he was. His father and brother had been killed during the war; his mother had died of a fever. And so he remained.
Jackson kept reading and leaned back with a sigh. It just didn’t sound as if anyone involved might be seeking revenge. And if so, they wouldn’t be seeking it against a descendant of Edgar Andrews.
The baskets that were arriving . . .
They weren’t coming from the church. They sounded like good baskets. Everyone in the nation and beyond now needed gloves and hand sanitizer!
But . . .
There was a tap at the open door to Angela’s office. He looked up to see that Brodie, one of the three McFadden brothers who had joined the Krewe a few years back, had arrived.
All three were capable field agents, and none minded having to take the reins while some preferred the field. They were also able to easily work as a tag-team trio, one taking over when hours stretched out too long or something else was needed.
They’d discovered their special gifts when they’d been haunted by two special ghosts—their parents. Other Krewe members liked to tease their wives—nothing like having the in-laws dropping in all the time. But their mom and dad had been feisty and beloved actors, and Jackson knew the family, both living and dead, was close.
“Are you taking off on a case?” Brodie asked him.
“Strange case. And hopefully, nothing. But an older friend of Angela’s is seeing faces at her windows and strange deliveries of Easter baskets. She’s frightened, and you know Angela, and . . . and well, I’d like the three of you in charge. I wasn’t going to head up until the last minute for Easter day, but I’d like to go ahead and get up there.”
“Okay by me,” Brodie told him. “You can leave now. Want to share, get me up to speed on this one in case you need anything?”
“I’ll text you the exact address,” Jackson told him. “Strange story. Eliza Andrews, good friend of Angela’s, keeps seeing faces at the window. Then someone is delivering baskets to her.”
“Chocolate eggs? That doesn’t seem so bad unless they’re poisoned or something,” Brodie said. “She hasn’t eaten anything from the baskets, has she?”
“No chocolate eggs. Hand sanitizer, gloves.”
“Uh, that doesn’t sound too evil at this time,” Brodie commented, looking at him curiously.
“No. But we’ll find out what’s going on,” Jackson said.
His cell phone rang and he looked at it. Angela was calling him.Could she be there yet? Traffic was down, but they were in the D.C. area.
Traffic did not go away here.
“Hey! Are you there? That would be a miracle,” he said.
“No, but I’m getting close. Jackson, Eliza called me again. I guess she’s so nervous or anxious she looked out the window again.”
“And?”
“Jackson, she saw a giant rabbit hopping away.”
“A rabbit?” he said. “A giant rabbit? Angela, the giant rabbit is a man or woman, probably trying to be the Easter bunny.”
“Okay, yes, of course, that’s what I think. But I wanted to keep you up on things.”
“The rabbit didn’t do anything, right?”
“No. Just left another basket.”
“All right. I’ll see you soon. Brodie is here and I’m going to go home and get Corby and then we’ll follow you up.”
“Great! Except if something is going on—”
“We’re not going to let Corby out of the house.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
He hung up. Brodie was staring at him. “Rabbits!” he said.
“Right! You had a case with a large white rabbit just a year ago at Christmas,” Jackson said.
“A man dressed as a large white rabbit needed help, and in turn, helped us solve a major crime. But honestly, Jackson, it is almost Easter. So, you need to find out what’s going on with ghosts, I take it, and the Easter bunny?”
“Something like that.”
Brodie offered him a grimace. “It’s almost Easter. Peace—and hope. Let’s hope for the best.”
“I always hope for the best,” Jackson assured him. “And a large white rabbit is going to prove to be—in my mind--a man. Not even in Virginia do they grow rabbits that big.”
“But you’re afraid that—”
“There’s a story in Angela’s computer. Read it. There was sad action when the Civil War was, for the Army of Northern Virginia anyway, over.”
“Jackson, we’ve never seen a ghost—”
“Once in New Orleans, there was a bit of evil that remained. That was when the Krewe began, years ago, back in NOLA. We always . . .”
“Hope for the best. Go. I’m here. My brothers are in the vicinity; we all know we’re on when you’re out of town. What about Adam Harrison? Have you told him anything?”
“Adam, being in his eighties, has stayed in. But I am going to report to him.”
“Go,” Brodie told him.
Jackson nodded, grabbed his jacket, and turned back.
“Thank you.”
“Privilege, boss,” Brodie told him. “Go!”
The Krewe had its own building. The elevator was empty as he headed to the parking garage where there were only a handful of cars.
As he walked to his own, he called Adam Harrison and explained what he was doing.
“Eliza Andrews,” Adam said.
“You know her?” Jackson asked.
“I do. Lovely woman. She was involved in a ‘Feed the Children’ program with me years ago.”
“Did you know she was friends with Angela?”
“I did; anytime I’ve talked with her in the last years, she’s raved about Angela. She loves her; has since she was a little girl. Hm. Hopefully all is benign. But keep me posted on this, please.”
“I will; you stay in and stay safe.”
“Yes, Field Director Crow!”
Jackson smiled and ended the call. He then he looked up the sheriff for the small town where Eliza lived and put through a call to him.
“Sheriff Ely Carter, please,” he asked the officer who entered.
“Name and business please?” she said.
He used his title; sometimes, it caused people to pick up a call. Of course sometimes, it caused them to run, too. He said he was calling about Eliza Andrews.
A man came on the phone, sounding tired.
“Sheriff Carter,” he said.
“Sheriff Carter, I’m heading your way—”
“Well, fine, sir. You can deal with Eliza. Baskets! On her porch. And ghostly faces in the window—please. You know they bring—or they used to bring—tour buses up here from the big cities. Ghosts. Yeah, we’ve got them. What city or town in Virginia doesn’t? I’m sorry to say Eliza has just been shut up alone too long. And I’m going a little crazy running around breaking up parties. Young people home from college or sent back from wherever think it’s okay if they meet with beer and picnic baskets in the graveyards or some of the copses in our forest. And I’m dealing with a case of looting in our little downtown area and—”
“And?”
“I’ve still got a murder on the books. A fellow from D.C. was killed along a stream,
and we haven’t been able to find a damned thing on it. Well, thank you, sir; yes, you deal with Eliza. I don’t see this as being of federal concern, but . . . hell, yes, you come on down here!”
The sheriff ended the call abruptly.
Small town.
Unsolved murder case.
He put through another call.
He didn’t know much, and he’d have to put Brodie on it.
Angela needed to know the face in the window might be more than ghostly.
Chapter 3
It was a good thing Eliza had been living alone, and Angela had been extremely careful when it came to a mask, hand sanitizer, and gloves.
Eliza didn’t practice six-feet away when Angela arrived.
She hugged her like a long-lost child who had been found.
“Hey! Eliza, it’s going to be okay,” Angela assured her.
“I’m just so grateful that you’re here,” Eliza said, stepping back and grimacing.
“Jackson is coming up with Corby. You haven’t met him yet.”
“You told me. He’s a great kid, you said, and the adoption has gone through, and you and Jackson are legitimate parents.”
“We are. He’s all set up with his own room, he’s enrolled in school, he’s a great student—even as a pupil online. And he has already made friends. Of course, he hasn’t seen any of them in weeks now, but . . . he never complains. He knows about the baby; he’s excited and he is so careful. For me!” She paused. “It will be a few hours before they get here. Jackson was leaving work, but he’ll have to go home for Corby, get a few things, and then make the drive. So, tell me exactly what’s going on. And where are these baskets? Did you bring them in?”
Eliza nodded strenuously, hands on her hips as she looked at Angela.
“I’m already feeling stronger and better. You’re here!” she said.
They weren’t blood-related, but Eliza had always been the great-aunt every kid wanted and loved. She had taken Angela on all kinds of adventures, to museums, water parks, and more. She would put on ridiculous make-up with the kids, play dress-up, and jump into any pool of water. She was, of course, older now, but she still had a straight, slim, and athletic build, and could move like a bat out of hell. She looked much younger than her years with bright blue eyes and iron-gray hair that was cut short to curve around her face in attractive angles.
“I’m glad. Let me start out by seeing the baskets. You brought the last one in, right?” Angela asked her. “I didn’t see it on the porch.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have; I did go out. There was nothing . . . no one, anywhere near here. Not that I could see.”
Eliza led the way to the kitchen. The baskets were on the kitchen table; there were four of them. One contained a hundred disposable gloves, sanitizers, masks, and a canned ham. Another held canned goods, a gallon of water, and hand sanitizer. A third basket held household cleaners as prescribed by medical professionals, and factory wrapped chocolate—along with hand sanitizer. The fourth came with more gloves, canned energy drinks, and sealed vitamin C.
“Eliza, it looks as if someone just wants to see that you’re okay,” she said.
But then she remembered what Jackson had told her; there was an unsolved murder that had occurred about a mile from Eliza’s house. Someone could be toying with her, delivering gifts to tease or torment or even gain her trust.
“Okay,” Angela said. “I’m going to take a walk. I’m going to see if I can find anything that suggests whoever it is who is looking through the windows.”
“Do you think they are—real?” Eliza asked.
Angela hesitated. She’d never told Eliza exactly what the Krewe did. Eliza seemed to know, she had a talent herself.
“I think you’re really seeing something, yes,” Angela said cheerfully. “I won’t wander far. I’ll wear protective gear.”
“And you’re armed, right?”
“Eliza, I’ve been in law enforcement years now—”
“Right. You’re armed.”
Angela managed to get out of the house. The town was great; people seemed to be obeying the “stay at home” rule as much as possible. There was a small hospital, and she knew it was up and running along with the two pharmacies and three grocery stores in the town and nearby.
Places here were far apart, and the ground leading toward the mountains was often hilly. The house next to Eliza’s sat high. Angela had often wondered how the owners managed in winter.
Across the road was a forested area. Down the street was the old church, deconsecrated years ago when a larger house of worship had been built but kept up for meeting space. The church also had a caretaker and a grounds keeper. The graveyard remained, and every now and then someone was still buried or interred there—joining ancestors who had arrived when the first settlers had pushed inward from the shores of Virginia.
As she walked down the street, she looked across the road; there was a car parked just by the edge of the trees. She automatically looked for the license plate, but it was covered in sludge. There was someone sitting in the driver’s seat and she hurried to cross the pavement—not a problem because barely a car was out. But as she approached the car, it took off.
She swore softly, knowing she hadn’t a prayer of catching it. She wasn’t even sure of the make and model. A blue sedan of some kind.
Driven by someone who dressed up as an Easter bunny?
She headed back toward the area of the old church and graveyard, but as she neared it, she heard laughter coming from the other side of the road.
Once again, she headed across the road. She heard several voices and felt herself growing angry--so much for social distancing.
There was a path through the trees; she took it, feeling her irritation grow. Yes, she’d seen families—moms, dad, kids—out together on their bikes or just walking around a block, taking care to avoid others. When you lived with people, you lived with them. But people had been told time and time again not to congregate, and this sounded like a party in the woods. She was going to come upon a group of teenagers or young adults, drinking beer and hanging out.
“You know!” she cried out, her voice hard, “you may be young and think that hey, what the heck, I might be sick a week or two! Spreading it can kill older people, yes, but guess what? Young people have died, too. We’re trying to contain it!”
Yep, she was going to burst out into a teenage or young adult party.
Except that she didn’t.
She burst into the clearing where the laughter had originated.
There was a group there; six men. Two wore Confederate uniforms, one was in Union blue, and the other three were dressed as businessmen except . . .
Their business attire was not in the least modern. They ranged in age from late twenties to the one fellow who had to have been in his sixties or seventies, at least. He had a head of long white hair, white beard, and a white mustache. He was wearing a waistcoat and an ascot and held a handsome cane or walking stick and . . .
“Good evening, Miss,” the man said, staring at her curiously.
Angela was stunned—and silent.
“She sees, us, doesn’t she, Beau?” one of the men asked.
The man nodded. “I do believe she does. Quite amazing. Well, my dear, we’ve been heartbroken, we have, watching what’s going on. But it’s quite safe for us to gather; we can spread disease to no one. I’m Beauregard Clinton, and I’d love you to meet my friends, Gregory Milton, Levi Bergman, Edgar Andrews, Taron Engle, and Darby Walton.”
She looked at Edgar Andrews. Surely the man wasn’t haunting his own great-great-granddaughter.
And Taron Engle, the Yankee who had been killed . . .
And Darby Walton. All together here. She realized that Taron and Darby were in their uniforms—as was Edgar Andrews.
But Edgar hadn’t died when the others had died; he had survived the war.
“You do haunt the town,” Angela whispered.
“Miss, we’re careful.
We look out for the town,” Edgar said, stepping forward. “The lot of us are buried in the old churchyard—”
“We’re not at the churchyard,” she murmured.
“They keep it up beautifully, but I find it rather depressing to hang there,” Edgar said, stepping forward.
“My favorite place to wander is O’Hara’s Pub on Main Street,” Darby said. “Laughter and music—except, of course, not so much these days.”
“The forest is beautiful and always welcoming,” Edgar said.
He was tall and thin, and it was almost uncanny—he looked so much like Eliza.
Or, rather, Eliza looked like him.
And she knew that while the dead might sometimes be found in cemeteries and graveyards, they might not. Many preferred places where there was light and music and . . . life.
The men had been seated on several tree stumps but had all risen when she’d arrived. Now they all looked at her, studying her, as if she was something quite unusual.
“She does see us,” Beau whispered.
“I have heard of such folks,” Levi murmured. “You don’t just feel a chill or . . . no, I guess not, you’re talking to us, responding to us.”
“And I apologize,” Angela said quickly. “I just didn’t expect . . . you.”
“You know us?” Edgar asked.
“I think I know three of you. Edgar, of course. And Lieutenant Taron Engle, United States Army, and Darby Walton, Army of Northern Virginia. I’m afraid, sir,” she said, addressing Beauregard, “that I don’t know you, nor do I know anything about Mr. Milton or Mr. Bergman.”
“Levi, please,” Bergman said. He had died at about the age of forty, but Angela wasn’t at all sure what year that had been.
She smiled. “Levi.”
“And for me, please, I’m Greg,” Milton told her. He was an exceptionally handsome man, tall with coffee-colored flesh, dark eyes, and a charming smile.
Easter, the Krewe and Another Large White Rabbit Page 2
