Ghost Walk

by Laurel Pace

  Much as she disliked Detective Butler, she shouldn't have been surprised to find him at the service, Dani reflected. Hadn't she always heard that a murderer often attends his victim's funeral, as a sort of ritual to confirm his grisly act? No doubt Butler subscribed to that theory and was sizing up the mourners for possible suspects. Now that she thought about it, there was every likelihood that the murderer was sitting somewhere in that room, posing as a grieving friend or acquaintance—just as he had infiltrated Richardson's party.

  Struggling to put aside the abhorrent thought, Dani paused for a moment beside the closed casket and bowed her head. Then she walked to the section reserved for the family.

  "I'm so sorry, Rebecca." Dani leaned forward to briefly lay a hand on the young woman's wrist.

  "Thank you, Dani." Rebecca's lips quivered into a stiff smile. Then she dabbed her flawless peaches-and-cream cheeks with a lace handkerchief. When her hands dropped to her lap, the fingers coiled nervously, twisting the handkerchief into a knot. A solemn light clouded the large blue eyes, giving them a remote, pained expression.

  Dani had never seen Rebecca show much emotion, perhaps because the debutante had led such a sheltered life, protected from harsher realities—until now. Whatever the case, Rebecca Pope was visibly shaken by her uncle's death.

  "Miss Blake, we certainly appreciate your coming today. This has been such a blow to all of us."

  Dani found herself wrenched away from Rebecca by Theo Boynton, who had seized her hand. Everyone in town knew that the younger Boynton had political aspirations. Dani guessed that he had perfected his forceful handshake to that end. Theo was a handsome man, with the same brand of society-page good looks that Rebecca enjoyed, but something in his eager, low voice, in the studiously grieved looks he cast at the bier repelled Dani. She chose the first opportunity to extract her hand from his grasp and move down the row of chairs.

  Pausing, she offered her condolences to Rebecca's mother and nodded politely to the two aged spinsters. Dani was startled when the younger of the Whyte sisters—herself a redoubtable octogenarian—only glared from behind her veil, her face a wrinkled white mask of hostility. The elder sister moved her lips, but as Dani stooped to hear, she realized that the ancient woman was muttering to herself.

  Poor Richardson! Dani thought. She could only imagine what growing up in Adele and Sapphira Whyte's household had been like. Although his wealth and success had made him the envy of most people, Richardson's life had been a hard one in many ways, Dani realized. Orphaned as a small boy only to be left a childless widower in his later years, Richardson Whyte had had his share of loneliness and heartbreak. The thought intensified her sadness as she made her way back to her seat.

  "They're about to begin the service!" a woman whispered hoarsely behind her.

  Dani turned to nod, then suddenly halted in her tracks.

  "Excuse me!" The woman pressed past Dani, giving her an impatient frown.

  But Dani was too intent on a face she had just glimpsed in the crowd to care. Resuming her way to her seat, she strained for a better look, but the generous brim of a woman's black straw hat maddeningly defeated her efforts. Where had she seen that man before? And what about him had stuck in her mind so firmly that she would start at even a fleeting glimpse? Still frowning, Dani edged along the row of chairs.

  "Excuse me, please," she murmured. When she reached her seat, however, she stopped abruptly.

  Ken McCabe lifted her gloves off the chair and motioned for her to sit. "I've been saving your place for you," he told her in a husky whisper.

  But Dani continued to balk. "What are you doing—" she blurted out and then caught herself.

  "Sitting here next to you?" Ken shrugged. "I spotted you when I entered the chapel. Since you were the only person I knew, I thought I might as well sit with you. You don't mind, do you?"

  Dani carefully sank onto the chair. "No, of course not." In fact, if she were to examine her emotions, she suspected she would discover that she was actually pleased to see him again. Instead, she folded her gloves and tucked them into her handbag, busying herself to disguise the peculiar feeling his closeness had stirred to life.

  "I imagine you know a lot of people here?"

  "I remember some faces from the party, recognize a few people I've worked for," she replied. A certain undercurrent in Ken's tone caused her to glance over at him, but his face appeared as guileless as it was sober. Ken's breath brushed her cheek as he leaned to whisper, "I saw our friend Butler." She felt his head jerk slightly toward the chapel door. "I think he's made note of our presence, as well."

  "Regardless of Detective Butler's opinion, Richardson Whyte was a dose friend of my family. I've every right to attend his funeral," she told him, a little sharply.

  "You don't think much of Butler, do you?"

  Dani frowned for a moment before replying. "I think he's ignoring an important clue if he thinks that pin is simply something Richardson latched on to in a struggle."

  "I think you're right. You know, I'd be interested to hear your ideas about that pin."

  Ken shifted in his seat, his shoulder almost touching hers, but Dani pointedly turned her attention to the front of the chapel, grateful that the minister's appearance would silence his probing, at least for the time being. Richardson's murder—in his own home, among people he considered friends—had shaken her previously benign view of the world, leaving her unwilling to trust anyone too readily. That she found Ken McCabe attractive was only more reason to remain on her guard.

  As the minister, a bespectacled man with a cresting shock of white hair, approached the lectern, the organ ceased and a hush fell over the assembly. He was opening his Bible when a loud sob shattered the silence. A chill rippled through Dani, covering her arms with gooseflesh, as the crying grew louder and less controlled. Over the mourners' heads, she could see a woman kneeling beside the bier. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably, her face buried in her hands.

  From the corner of her eye, Dani saw two ushers hesitantly approach the bereft woman. But before they could intercede, a man stepped in front of them. Encircling the woman's heaving shoulders with his arm, the man guided

  her away from the casket. Only when he turned did Dani blink in recognition.

  "That’s him!" she exclaimed under her breath without thinking.

  "Who?" Ken asked, rising slightly in his seat.

  "The fellow I saw in the crowd earlier." Dani hesitated. If she felt foolish sharing an intuitive suspicion with Ken, she would now feel even sillier trying to pass off her interest with that bland remark. "When I was walking back to my seat, I thought I recognized someone. I couldn't place him. You know how it is with a person you've only seen briefly, but something about him stays with you? Well, now I know where I saw this man before—in Richardson Whyte's kitchen. He was talking with one of the maids while I gathered up my supplies. No wonder I had trouble placing his face—he was still wearing his makeup."

  Ken's brow furrowed in interest."Makeup?"

  Dani nodded, her eyes still following the retreating couple. "Apparently, he was one of the actors. Anyway, he was asking the maid a lot of questions about the murder, and—" She broke off.

  "What?" Ken prompted, and Dani felt him move closer to her.

  "Maybe I was just reacting to the situation, but he seemed awfully flippant about Richardson's death, as if it were nothing more serious than another act in the play." When Ken said nothing, she glanced up at him. "I guess I can't expect people who didn't know Richardson personally to take his death as hard as I have."

  "No, maybe not," Ken began slowly. "But I think this guy probably had more than a passing acquaintance with Richardson Wbyte."

  The minister had now begun reading a psalm, prompting Dani to drop her voice even lower."What do you mean?"

  "That hysterical woman was Beatrice Lawes, Richardson's secretary. As I hear it, she worked for him for years with absolute devotion. The guy who stepped in just then, the one you
were talking about, is her son."

  "How do you know all this?" Dani demanded, now looking him square in the eyes. Before she could prod an answer out of Ken, however, the minister enjoined the assembled mourners to join him in prayer. For the remainder of the service, Dani forced herself to put her nagging questions aside. Only when they had filed out of the chapel did she once more confront Ken.

  "How did you learn so much about Richardson's secretary? I thought you said you didn't know anyone here." Dani halted on the sidewalk, pulling Ken out of the stream of mourners.

  "Derek Cannaday told me who she was. He's one of the pallbearers. You remember him, don't you?" Ken nodded toward the procession leaving the chapel.

  Dani's eyes followed his gesture. As Ken had indicated, Cannaday was escorting the casket, walking between Powell Boynton and another man whom she didn't recognize. "Yes, I remember him. Richardson had introduced us before.. .earlier that evening." Dani quickly looked back at Ken. Although she could not specifically say why, she had the funny feeling that he was trying to sidetrack her. "But you really haven't answered my question."

  Ken's even gaze was like a deflective shield. "What do you mean?"

  Dani shook her head, resisting the distraction of those deep blue eyes."You seemed very interested in what I knew about Bea's son."

  "I'm a curious man." A slight smile played on Ken's lips, but looking into Dani Blake's gold-flecked brown eyes, he could tell she was not thrown off one bit. "If I recall correctly, you were the one who got all excited when you recognized Lawes."

  "I told you I had seen him in Richardson's kitchen after the murder." Her low-pitched voice held firm, without a trace of telltale defensiveness.

  "Yeah, but what was so remarkable about that? There must have been close to three hundred people cooped up in that house once the police arrived. So he was in the kitchen. So he was talking about the murder in a less than respectful tone. What does that prove?" He watched her with the anticipation of a tennis pro awaiting a worthy opponent's serve.

  "It proves nothing." She straightened her long neck that in another day would have been called swanlike. When she tossed back her head, the sun caught the fiery glints buried in the dark auburn waves, igniting them to match the sparks in her eyes. "But even you've indicated you think someone at the party committed the murder."

  "If Lawes was one of the actors, wouldn't he have been downstairs in the courtyard when Richardson was murdered?"

  "Yes, but you know how dark it was. Almost anyone who was supposed to be in the yard or on the piazza could have slipped away unnoticed—for instance, an actor who didn't have a speaking part." She hesitated, drawing a deep breath. "Look, I'm not accusing Lawes of murder. But there was something about that man that made me uncomfortable. Of course, if you're like Butler, you'll discount anything less than a smoking gun."

  "I'm not like Butler." Ken was startled by how earnestly he made that contention, by how much he wanted Dam Blake to believe him. "And I think your feeling about the pin is probably on target. Any thoughts on how Lawes and the pin might be linked?"

  Dani regarded him warily. "No."

  "Didn't you say your father and Richardson Whyte sailed together? Maybe the pin—"

  Dani interrupted him abruptly. "Wait, Ken. I haven't drawn any conclusions about anything."

  "No, but your mind is running like a computer at top speed right now. I can tell." The moment he had said that, he knew he had chosen the wrong words. Dani Blake was too intelligent to accept that kind of baiting without protest.

  "Please don't try to manipulate me," she warned him. "I cared very much about Richardson, enough to want to make sure that no stone remains unturned in the investigation of his murder. But I'm afraid I don't quite understand your angle. You're asking an awful lot of questions for a bartender who's just hit town."

  Ken cleared his throat. Although he would normally have offered the first rebuttal that came into his head, he felt compelled to be honest with Dani—as honest as he could afford at this point. "Richardson Whyte was a good man. I didn't know him as well as you did, but I respected him. In my own way, I'm as angry as you are at the thought that the killer might be right under our noses."

  Her full lips quivered, signaling that she recognized his sincerity, but she remained silent.

  "I guess I'm just feeling frustrated with the police. Like you are. I was hoping that you'd share any bits of info you'd picked up, maybe shed some light on this thing." Ken waited, praying that he hadn't pushed his luck too far. He felt his building anticipation sink when she finally shook her head.

  "There's nothing else I can tell you, Ken." She took a couple of steps backward, her lovely face a palette of conflicting emotions. Then she turned and hurried down the walk. Ken could only watch as she climbed into her van and joined the long funeral procession.

  Chapter Four

  "One white chocolate cake, two Huguenot tortes and five dozen assorted fruit tarts." The red-haired woman surveyed the back of the open van, pointing to each of the white boxes carefully anchored between the cases of champagne. "That's everything you ordered for today, isn't it?"

  Dani checked her list before replying. "That'll do it. Thanks again, Meg." As she closed the rear door of the van, she smiled at the friendly bake-shop proprietor.

  Dani climbed behind the wheel of the Aerostar and took another look at her calendar's daily schedule. She had made efficient use of the morning, a miracle considering her nagging preoccupation. She needed to make only two additional stops, to pick up a couple of smoked hams and a fresh supply of premium coffee beans, before heading back to the Moveable Feast's tiny kitchen headquarters. In spite of her efforts to concentrate on the day's tasks, her eyes drifted, unbidden, to the adjacent calendar page with its single entry. "Funeral, St. Paul's Chapel, 10:00 a.m." Dani closed the spiral-bound book and let it drop onto her lap. Recoiling from the memories that solemn calendar notation evoked, she closed her eyes and pressed her cold fingers into her forehead.

  Less than four days ago, she had followed a similar route through the labyrinthine streets of Charleston's old city, stopping at her trusted suppliers of cheese, pastries, produce and prime meats. She had wanted everything to be flawless for Richardson's party—the most complementary wines, the finest smoked salmon, the perfect selection of early-autumn fruits. In the wake of that evening's tragedy, however, such concerns seemed pathetically petty. Only yesterday, they had buried a kindly, generous-hearted man, a loyal friend to her and her family; today, his brutal murderer still walked the streets, free and undetected. Yet she was supposed to resume the mundane activities of everyday life as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn't held Richardson's hand in his dying moments. As if he hadn't given me the pin...

  Three long, sleepless nights had done nothing to weaken her conviction that Richardson had been struggling to tell her something. But what? Dam frowned, frustrated by the persistent question and her own inability to answer it. Unlike Detective Butler, Ken McCabe shared her belief that the pin was the dying man's last attempt to communicate. At the thought of the lean-jawed bartender and his probing questions, a fresh slate of doubts rose in her mind, some as troubling and irreconcilable as her misgivings about the pin.

  Dani straightened herself and then ground the ignition, releasing the clutch so abruptly that the van's tires squealed as it lurched forward. Given her limited contact with Ken McCabe, trying to analyze him and his motives for attending Richardson's funeral was a doomed undertaking at this point. If she hoped to gain any peace of mind, she would do well to concentrate on an area in which she might be able to get some answers.

  At the mouth of the alley, Dani braked to allow an open horse-drawn carriage filled with sightseers to pass before turning out into King Street. With a face as grimly set as her purpose, she piloted the van through the narrow streets. At the sight of the shaded piazza of Richardson's house, her fingers tensed around the steering wheel. Her mouth felt dry, as if her tongue were made of cotton,
as she parked the van and secured its doors. Nothing might come of it, she reminded herself, but she knew she wouldn't rest until she learned more about those dreadfully fateful minutes separating the last two times she had seen Richardson alive.

  As she walked toward the Battery, she had a clear view of the second-story balcony. On impulse, Dani turned into the pedestrian walkway flanking the back courtyard. She had walked only a few feet when the street sounds began to fade, replaced by an almost startling hush. Like most of the historic district's residents, Richardson had probably cherished the privacy of his walled garden. He could not have foreseen that its seclusion would provide his murderer with the perfect concealed escape route.

  Dani was studying the balcony's jutting overhang when the rhythmic brush of a straw broom caught her attention. Through the wrought-iron gate set in the courtyard wall, she spotted Mona Sams, Richardson's housekeeper, sweeping one of the brick paths crisscrossing the garden.

  "Oh!" The broom handle clattered against the moss-covered bricks as the woman started. For a moment, her large eyes widened as if she had glimpsed a ghost hovering behind the ironwork's lacy pattern. When she recognized Dani, she hastened to apologize. "Excuse me, Miss Blake! I wasn't expecting to see you peekin' through that gate. I guess I'm just jittery, what with all the evil that's come to pass...." She broke off, shaking her head as she unlatched the gate.