Haunted Be the Holidays: A Krewe of Hunters Novella

by Heather Graham

  Jackson thanked her.

  “I wish I could tell you more,” she said. “I…I almost didn’t call. I mean, I realize I didn’t give you much of anything—other than suggesting that she was kidnapped by Abraham Lincoln.”

  “No, thank you—we very much appreciate you calling in,” Brodie told her and they left. Out on the museum steps, he looked around. The Smithsonian was fantastic—truly what could be considered one of the country’s greatest treasures. From their vantage point, he could see The Castle, and he smiled inwardly, thinking of the last time he’d been there.

  He’d been with Kody, right after they’d packed up, left Key West, and come north so that he could “consult” until the next Academy class, go through it, and join the Krewe.

  Kody had known all about the museum. She’d told him that James Smithson—who had left his estate for the founding of the museum—was interred in his crypt on the ground floor of The Castle. He’d been born a bastard, Kody had said, and since he’d been an Englishman, she believed that it had been his belief in democratic principles that had led him to bequeath his estate to the museum. Construction of The Castle had begun in 1849 and the doors had opened in 1855. Now there were nineteen museums and more auxiliary buildings and…

  “So it seems our dancing killer went from being Abraham Lincoln to a death’s head,” Jackson said.

  “A dancing Lincoln,” Brodie agreed. “And a dancing death’s head.” He looked at Jackson. “Somehow, what we’ve learned, whoever our person is—they have something to do with the theater. I suggest we get back there.”

  Jackson started to answer him but then his phone rang, and he answered it quickly. When he completed his conversation, he turned to Brodie.

  “That was Detective Hilton. The teams have finished up at the theater.”

  “And?”

  “You know how it goes. They’ve collected a few items. Hilton says they didn’t find any trace of any kind of drug—other than someone’s aspirin—anywhere in the dressing rooms, prop, set room—any rooms. Except for Brent Myerson’s dressing room. Then again, someone could have cleaned up really well. They have some items they’ll test, but you know how it goes with labs. That could take some time.”

  “I say we go back there,” Brodie told him. “I can’t help but think the answers are there—somewhere. With someone associated with the theater.”

  “Who?” Jackson asked. “It could be Brent—he could be an incredible liar. I’ve seen accountants be incredible liars, and Brent is an actor. A damned good one.”

  “I guess it depends on how you look at it.”

  “Acting is, in a way, lying.”

  “Ah, but some introverts make great actors—and some actors make lousy liars when it comes to reality instead of fantasy.”

  “You don’t think it was Brent?” Jackson asked flatly.

  “No, I really don’t. Now, he thought it could have been someone who wanted a job at the theater—and wasn’t cast in the shows,” Brodie said. “I don’t agree with that. I sincerely think our man—our woman—who seems to have a talent with drugs, spiked Brent’s tea, and killed our Miss Oldham—is an insider.”

  “If not Brent—Barry?”

  “No. I think that Barry never made it out of Brent’s dressing room. I think he was passed out—and our killer took his place. He was always hidden—by the mask and by the set. And being behind the curtain, he could easily slip backstage along with anyone else with the right to be there.”

  “So, still, who? Ginny—who served the tea?”

  Brodie shrugged. “Someone who hates the theater, or…” He paused, frowning.

  “What?”

  “Someone who had a grudge against the theater—or against Kody.”

  “Kody is new to the theater—new to the entire D.C. area. And, as far as I know, she didn’t have any enemies back in Key West who would have followed her here,” Jackson said. “Or do you know of something or someone?”

  Brodie shook his head, frustrated. “No—people love Kody. She’s supportive of others…and she could have been so many very bad things. Her dad was a huge rock star at one time. She could have been a spoiled brat. She grew up just the opposite.” He looked at Jackson and shook his head in frustration. “Let’s just get back to the theater. She and Clara might have found something out.”

  “We’re all over the place, you know. Dancing Lincoln, dancing death’s head. The theater, a dead girl on Halloween, a drugged actor…and Kody.”

  “Maybe he was practicing,” Brodie said.

  “Practicing—as a dancing Lincoln, luring, drugging, kidnapping and then killing a young woman on Halloween?”

  “Farfetched,” Brodie said. “But…it’s there. Somewhere. The connection is there—and that’s exactly why the dancing death’s head was out in front of the theater.”

  “To unnerve Kody?”

  “She was the one threatened on stage.”

  “All right, I’m going to get Angela started—we’ll see if anyone connected to the theater has roots that go back to the past at the theater—or if they have any kind of a past that might connect them to Kody. I’ll tell her it’s a priority—and we believe it might connect to the murder of Helena Oldham and the disappearance of the other girls.”

  “Perfect, thanks. I know Kody is researching the theater now.”

  Jackson paused to make his phone call to Angela, his wife, Krewe member, special agent—and magician when it came to computer records.

  Brodie decided it would be a good time for him to put a call through to Kody.

  Her phone rang and rang. He dialed again, and it rang and rang a second time, and went to her voicemail.

  He didn’t leave a message.

  He called Clara’s phone instead.

  “Hey, is everything all right?” he asked when she answered. “I’m trying to reach Kody, and her phone is going straight to voice mail.”

  Clara sounded breathless. “It’s because she’s racing after a scarecrow.”

  “What?”

  “There was a scarecrow in a window display and…Kody burst into the store. The scarecrow disappeared. Kody went after it and”—she paused to gasp in a breath—“and I’m chasing after Kody. I think the scarecrow is gone—pretty sure it escaped.”

  “Where are you?” Brodie asked anxiously.

  “By the theater…maybe a block.”

  “Jackson and I are on the way.”

  “Yeah…Adam is already at the theater.”

  “Get Kody—and get there. Please.”

  “Yep. That’s what I’m trying to do,” Clara told him.

  A greater sense of urgency began to fill Brodie. “We have to go—now,” he said. “And hurry.”

  Words had begun to spin in his head; an unwelcome memory.

  The words spoken by Brent on stage—as the monster he had created of himself.

  Spoken to Kody.

  You, too, will die in a pool of blood.

  Chapter 9

  “Miss!”

  Kody could hear the clerk calling out to her but she didn’t care.

  She’d knocked the entire drape down and made a bit of a mess for someone to have to clean up.

  But so had the scarecrow.

  Who the hell was it? Who in God’s name would be out to get her—or Brent? Or destroy Adam’s theater? It made no sense.

  The scarecrow was out of the window, and though she might not have been the toughest woman on Earth, she didn’t believe the scarecrow would hurt her—not in the middle of a store.

  And while darkness was coming, there was still light in the sky. The streets were filled with people—it was Washington, D.C., for God’s sake—busy, busy, busy. People coming and going and the workday at an end…

  “Kody!”

  It was Clara calling after her. But Kody didn’t respond.

  The scarecrow hadn’t run for the front door. It had headed for the back. There had to be a delivery door back there.

  Clara, of course, wa
s racing after her.

  Kody barely noticed. She almost knocked over a spinning rack of tank tops. She pushed onward, running through aisles that advertised “Halloween sweaters, half off!”

  And onward.

  She plowed into a heavyset woman who swore at her vociferously.

  Kody apologized as she ran—barely aware that Clara, too, flew into the woman, and there was more swearing—and more apologizing.

  She raced to the back, where there were fitting rooms with a clerk at a little desk outside, seated where she could oversee what went in and what went out.

  “The scarecrow—where did the scarecrow go?” Kody demanded.

  The clerk’s brows shot up in surprise. Kody was afraid she was going to say that there was no scarecrow.

  “Uh—that way,” the clerk said, pointing to Kody’s right.

  The directions led to the rear door—and an alley.

  It was stupid—incredibly stupid. But she couldn’t let the scarecrow go. The dancer in the death’s head mask had disappeared.

  A girl had died, Brent had been drugged, and Barry had been left half-dead.

  She couldn’t let the scarecrow go.

  Kody burst out of the store and into the back alley.

  The scarecrow was gone. She stood dead still, looking around.

  But all she could see was the store’s dumpsters. The alley was narrow—long, but narrow. And still, all she could see down the length of it was more dumpsters.

  D.C. was old. There had been no cars when most of these buildings had been built. Dumpsters were on wheels to be brought to the end of each street when it was time for pickup.

  She winced. The scarecrow could have run into the back of several establishments—or run to the end of the alley.

  She felt something slam behind her and she started to scream.

  “Kody!”

  It was Clara, who had been tearing after her so quickly she had collided straight into her back. Clara, gasping, choking, and trying to apologize.

  “No, no, Clara, it was me—I’m so sorry. I just…that damned scarecrow is our death’s head—I know it. And I let it get away. It was there—right there.”

  “We can call Jackson. He can get the Krewe and cops out and they can do a door-to-door canvas,” Clara suggested.

  “For what? He’s gone. I missed him—and he’s gone,” Kody said.

  “Okay, we’re right down the street from the theater. Adam will be there—and some cops or tech people, and maybe some of our group. We’ll tell them about the scarecrow. See what they say—and what we can do.”

  There was a plastic bottle on the ground. Kody kicked it with annoyance.

  “He’ll come back as a giant turkey next time. Thanksgiving—we’re heading to Thanksgiving, and Brent said on stage someone else would die in a pool of blood. And I could have caught the damned scarecrow—and ended it!”

  “Come on, let’s head back,” Clara said.

  Kody nodded, but as Clara walked away, she paused, looking around again, fiercely annoyed with herself.

  Her phone rang and she dug in her bag for it.

  It was Brodie. Wincing, she answered, trying to sound cheerful—and not breathless.

  “Hey.”

  “Kody, don’t go chasing scarecrows.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s gone. Long gone.”

  “He’ll show up again,” Brodie told her quietly. “And you shouldn’t be going after him. Let someone with training—and a gun—do that.”

  “Brodie, he’s going to kill someone else.”

  “We’ll stop him. And yes, we need to do it quickly. We—not you. Kody, we have leagues of police and agents. You don’t need to find him. We do. I believe he intends to kill again. Two young women are still missing—possibly dead already. But if this is all connected…I’m afraid the someone else he really wants to kill may wind up being you.”

  “I just became involved in theater. Why me? But please, Brodie, I’m on to something. I think I found our man who died in a pool of blood. Before Judson Newby bought the theater, it was owned by a man named Bainbridge. Bainbridge had been a pirate—never caught, never arrested. There was a rumor he had sunk a ship—and been injured. The theater went to Newby and he took it over, and it was going to be Caroline’s theater—she would be the reigning diva. But if Bainbridge was just injured, he might have come back. I know I’m speculating, theorizing, but what if Bainbridge came back, furious about his losses? And he killed Judson and Caroline…and someone killed him in turn? Maybe not right then, but…”

  “Kody, will you please get to the theater? Jackson and I are on the way.”

  “Yes, we’re going. Clara and I are on the way, too. Promise. See you there.”

  “Dakota, wait,” Brodie said.

  “What?”

  “I’m curious—think back. At any time, did you have any enemies I might not know about?”

  “Me? Brodie—this has to do with the theater.”

  “You were the one threatened.”

  “You were with me down in Key West. My friend and another man were murdered—but we learned why and brought the wretched killer down. No, I’m a nice person, seriously. I think you know that. You met my friends, the people I know down there—nice people. I—”

  “What about your dad?”

  “My dad? My dad has been dead for years, Brodie.”

  “But did he have any enemies?”

  “I’m sure that, through the years, my father made a few. He was an addict until he met my mom. And he was a rock star. Sure, there had to be people who didn’t like him—probably people he insulted. But he’s been dead for years.”

  “Okay. Just get to the theater. I think your man has dressed up as Abraham Lincoln, the death’s head, and now a scarecrow. Just get out of there. Get to the theater. We don’t have a real face or a real name, but he’ll show himself again. We’ll get him. Jackson and I are almost there. Clara is with you, right?”

  Clara was waiting for her just inside the shop.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, come on, please.”

  “On our way,” Kody said.

  She hung up and slid her phone into her bag. She started to turn, and that’s when she saw him.

  He sprang out of the dumpster as if he were part of a jack-in-the-box rather than a scarecrow. And he was behind her, jumping upon her with a vengeance—a needle in his hand.

  She felt it pierce her skin.

  She felt the asphalt as she landed hard on it. Felt a thunder of pain in her head as her skull hit hard.

  And then she felt no more.

  * * * *

  Brodie ended his call with Kody and looked over at Jackson. “Kody was chasing a scarecrow.”

  “A scarecrow?”

  “Shop-window scarecrow—that came to life. It’s disappeared now.”

  “Lincoln, death’s head, scarecrow—what next?” Jackson asked dryly. “They lost him—a good thing, probably, since neither of them is a cop, marshal, or in any other form of law enforcement. Who knows what this guy might carry—as any person or creation he takes on.”

  “Kody suggested a turkey. Thanksgiving is next,” Brodie said without humor. “She and Clara should be at the theater when we get there or soon after. But I’d like to give Angela another call—and see if she can find out more about a man named Bainbridge—he owned the theater before Judson Newby bought it. The theater went down because Bainbridge disappeared—he was supposedly a pirate.”

  “Lincoln, a death’s head, a scarecrow—has this guy appeared as a pirate?”

  “No. But Kody thinks our theater ghosts—the ones none of us, including my parents, have seen, didn’t die nicely or naturally. She thinks Bainbridge came in and murdered them—and then someone murdered him. In a pool of blood.”

  “She has one heck of an imagination.”

  “Imagination—intuition. I think it’s worth investigating. Most of what we work on is theory. Before we knew about anything happening, the man danc
ing in the death’s head mask alerted something in her. And now we have a dead woman, Brent was drugged—and we know for a fact something is going on at the theater. Have to go with something.”

  Jackson glanced over at him, possibly still doubting the connections, but willing to try all avenues. He put in his call, listened for a minute, and handed the phone to Brodie.

  “She found something,” he said.

  “Bainbridge?”

  Jackson shook his head.

  “A different connection. Or not. But something that might have to do with Kody.”

  * * * *

  “You can hear me, can’t you?” the scarecrow whispered.

  Kody could hear, but it seemed she couldn’t move. She wasn’t paralyzed. She wasn’t even afraid. The world seemed to be a strange place -- it was as if she was watching a three-D movie without her three-D glasses.

  Nothing was right.

  She was being carried by a scarecrow. She was dimly aware of the burlap-covered, pumpkin-shaped head, with its face offering a black-slash mouth. And eye-holes.

  The eyes…

  They glittered, something purely evil within them. They touched on hers.

  But…

  The way she felt. It was so bizarre. Something deep inside warned her she should be terrified. This was a killer. A killer straight from a horror movie.

  But…

  She couldn’t move, felt lighter than air. She willed her hands to reach up to the head, wanting nothing more than to strip away the mask and see who he was.

  She wasn’t afraid. And she should have been. But just as she couldn’t will her hand to reach to the mask, she couldn’t summon what was needed for fear.

  “Ah, Dakota McCoy, beloved, precious person! Born into privilege. Some of us have talent—you must have seen my talent. Some of us have privilege. Ah yes, child of an addict, walking the straight and narrow. Above the earth—every opportunity opened to you. But you just had to open a museum. You didn’t need talent. You didn’t need anything at all—just being you was enough. I could almost bear it—knowing you existed. But then…you came here.”