by Laurel Pace
"Call me." Ken had raised his voice to be heard over the distance, echoing his parting comment on Saturday night.
Dani only threw up her hand in a brief wave, but this time, Ken had no doubt he would hear from her.
"LOOKS LIKE WE CAN chalk up another success for Moveable Feast. Home team, one—competition, zero." Ben Carlisle's warm brown eyes swept the milling crowd as he shook out a clean napkin and began to polish glasses.
Dani chuckled at the bartender's complimentary humor. "Just remember that you're the ace forward for my team," she reminded him. All evening, she had been waiting for the party to taper off, giving her a chance to chat with Ben. She nodded cordially to a clutch of guests, waiting for them to pass before she leaned over the bar. "By the way, Ace, I've got a favor to ask."
Ben grinned, holding a champagne flute up for a sharp-eyed inspection. "Shoot, lady."
"Do you know anybody involved with the Ghostwalk?"
Ben's eyes narrowed mysteriously. "Well, as a matter of fact, I happen to be very well acquainted with one of the actors. Why do you ask?"
"I'd like to know more about a vignette they're doing this year, the historical background of the legend and all that. Do you think this friend of yours would be willing to help me with some research? I mean, if you were to ask him."
A pleased smile curved inside Ben's neatly trimmed beard. "Why don't you ask him yourself?" He flourished the napkin and then bowed slightly. "At your service, ma-dame."
"You? But I thought you had sworn off doing fundraisers."
Ben looked slightly offended. "You're a caterer, but you still cook an occasional free meal for your friends, right?" he pointed out.
Dani laughed and shook her head. "I see what you mean. Okay, when can you tell me about one of those ghost legends?"
"Actually, you'd probably do better to talk with the event's stage director," Ben advised her. "I'm only familiar with the Bedstead tomb legend, which I'm acting in, but Kate knows all the stories inside out. I'm sure she'd be glad to answer your questions if you came to rehearsal with me tomorrow."
Dani noted the time and location of the rehearsal on a paper cocktail napkin. As soon as she had checked the desserts arranged on the dining room credenza and made sure Elaine had the coffee service under control, she headed back to the kitchen. She dug her address book out of her handbag and dialed Ken's number, willing him to pick up before Elaine returned.
Ken sounded tired, but happy to hear from her.
"Mark your calendar. I have an appointment with the social director of the yacht club on Friday at noon. And tomorrow afternoon at three, my actor friend is taking us along to a rehearsal of the troupe."
Ken's receiver thumped against a hard surface, and Dani could hear some rustling in the background. "Let's see." Ken's voice sounded as if his mouth was squashed against the telephone's mouthpiece. "Noon on Friday is fine, but I'm afraid I have to meet Derek tomorrow afternoon before he goes out of town."
Dani was surprised by how disappointed she felt, but she did her best to conceal it. "That's too bad."
"Call me tomorrow evening and let me know what you learn."
"I'm catering a retirement banquet, so it may be rather late when I get home." Dani realized she was beginning to sound as if she were dodging his questions again, the last thing she had in mind at this point.
"Then you can fill me in on everything Friday morning," Ken suggested amiably. "I could use a good meaty chunk of solid information. Believe me, I'm starting to get a little numb; digging through this guest list of perfectly decent, upstanding citizens whose criminal connections don't extend beyond traffic court." When he laughed, Dani could imagine the little lines crinkling at the corners of his mouth, relieving for a few seconds the intense cast of his face.
Elaine had just bumped the service cart over the kitchen threshold and was beginning to load the dishwasher. With cups, sauces and cutlery rattling in her ears, Dani hastily promised to phone Ken and then hung up. As she stored leftovers in the hostess's refrigerator and gathered up her own equipment, however, she had to fight a peculiar letdown feeling that had nothing to do with fatigue.
She had really been looking forward to seeing Ken tomorrow afternoon, Dani admitted to herself later that evening, after she had returned home and was preparing for bed. Of course, less than twenty-four hours ago, he had been the object of her darkest suspicions. After discovering his bogus connections in Panama City, she had been ready to believe the worst about him. When she had called to demand a meeting, she had even taken care to arrange it in a well-trafficked public spot. With a murderer on the loose, she hadn't been ready to take any chances.
Her elaborate precautions now seemed amusing. Then, too, Dani was relieved that her mixed impressions of Ken had not been all that unreliable. His ineptitude behind the bar and his persistent questioning at the funeral had raised doubts in her mind, and she had been right. By the same token, perhaps she had judged his motives accurately when he had escorted her home, offered comfort and support in those dark hours. Unfortunately, there was no one she could call to confirm that aspect of his psyche one way or the other.
Nor should it matter how Ken felt about her, she told herself the following day as she waited for Ben in a bookstore not far from the theater. She had enough serious concerns without letting a momentary attraction siphon her concentration.
When Dani joined Ben on the sidewalk, she noticed that his dark face was still coated with a thick layer of Pan-Cake makeup. He caught her bemused expression immediately. "Anything for art," he professed, dabbing at his brow with a tissue. "Or a car-dealership commercial." He grinned as he turned into an alley and then pushed open the theater's creaky stage door.
The air was close in the ill-lighted corridor. Dani pressed against the wall to allow two men lugging a planter of artificial boxwoods to pass and then jogged up the steps after Ben. Groups of actors were scattered around the big, barn-like theater. Some were lolled in the auditorium's red velvet seats, reading from scripts, while others clustered near the stage footlights to watch the scene being rehearsed. As she followed Ben along the front of the pit, Dani was surprised to overhear a few unmistakable lines from A Streetcar Named Desire coming from the stage.
"I didn't know Blanche DuBois and Stanley Kowalski were Charleston ghosts," she whispered.
The actor's well-defined shoulders shook with mirth. "The performers are just one of the troupes sharing this space. Several community-theater groups hold their rehearsals here, too. Hey, Katie!" He threw up his hand in greeting to a woman dressed in jeans and a knee-length turtleneck. "Kate, I'd like for you to meet Dam Blake. Dani, this is Kate McPherson, fairy godmother to this year's Ghostwalk."
Kate's bright blue eyes twinkled behind her large tortoiseshell glasses when she shook Dani's hand."Ben tells me you're interested in learning more about one of the legends we've chosen to enact this year." As Ben loped away to join three actors in Revolutionary War regalia, Kate sauntered toward the wooden steps leading backstage.
Stepping over cables and around backdrops, Dani followed Kate into a tiny cubicle furnished with a gray metal desk, two file cabinets and a threadbare swivel chair. The dingy furniture was relieved by colorful theatrical posters covering the walls from ceiling to floor. "Yes. I'd like to know the story behind the vignette performed at Richardson Whyte's house last Saturday."
The woman's merry smile instantly faded. "What a horrible tragedy! Of course, we've dropped that house for the festival's remaining nights. Although we've given the actors the chance to participate in other vignettes, some of them are still too shaken to go on. Actors are a superstitious lot, you know. I have to admit the thought of what happened to poor Mr. Whyte gives me chills. To think that while the actors were feigning a murder, one was—was actually taking place." Despite her bulky sweater, Kate shivered.
"That's why I'd like to know more about the ghost story." Catching the stage director's dubious expression, Dani realized how morbid her request
must sound, but she was determined not to reveal the clue she had gleaned from Mona Sams. Like Ken, she believed the less they publicized their investigation, the better. "I catered Mr. Whyte's party that evening and was questioned by the police later. I couldn't be sure if some of the screams I heard had come from the actors, but if I knew the story, maybe I could offer the police a clearer account."
Kate folded her arms across her chest, propping one hip against the edge of the desk. "The house was built in 1788, by a wealthy sea captain. He was a self-made man, a new kid on the block, if you will, among his neighbors of longer standing in the city. Joshua Parr—that was the ill-fated gentleman's name—had earned his riches running the profitable rum-and-indigo route from Charleston to Jamaica to England and back. Some say he sweetened the pot with a bit of piracy on the side, but whatever the case, by the latter part of the eighteenth century, he was well-heeled enough to woo Abigail Huntington, the beautiful daughter of a prominent rice planter, and build that big house for her."
Kate gazed up at the ceiling as if she were visualizing the story projected onto the peeling plaster. "Problem was, Joshua had to keep going to sea to ensure the hefty income such an expensive wife and home required. Consequently, Abigail was left alone for months on end. Joshua was accustomed to buying whatever he needed and quite naturally thought he could purchase the necessary diversions to occupy his young wife in his absence. He filled the parlor with exotic birds for her amusement. A harp was imported from Italy, along with a lady to instruct Mrs. Parr in its use. Thanks to her husband's extended voyages and the hobbies he subsidized, Abigail Parr became proficient in water-color, French and the breeding of spaniels. But it was her dance lessons that were to be everyone's downfall. You see, Abigail fell in love with her dance master."
"The murderer in the legend?" Dani interjected.
Kate's smile was enigmatic. "That depends on whose version you believe. Some say the young fellow was so consumed with passion, he challenged Captain Parr to a duel and won. Others claim Abigail had a hand in the plot to murder her sleeping husband in his bed. At any rate, both accounts of the murder agree on one point—whoever killed Joshua Parr covered his nefarious deed by dumping the corpse from the breakwater at the precise point where the Ashley and the Cooper rivers meet to flow out to sea. Just as he himself had in life, Joshua's unquiet spirit now sails a phantom ship, returning regularly from the sea to visit his young wife—or whoever may be occupying the house he built for her."
Dani nodded slowly. Although she needed more time to consider the strange tale from all angles, the ghost's nautical connections seemed to tie in too closely with the tiny ship pin to be strictly coincidental. She would be eager to see if Ken drew the same conclusion. "What about the screams I heard?" she asked, harking back to her professed interest in the story. "Were they from the actual murder or the subsequent haunting?"
"There is quite a bit of shouting while Joshua duels with Abigail's lover. We chose the duel version because the swordplay lends itself well to dramatization and, well, frankly we thought it less sordid than the wife-lover conspiracy," Kate confessed. She pushed away from the desk, giving the hem of her slouchy sweater a tug. "I love delving into the old legends. I only wish this one hadn't acquired such dreadful associations in the present. I hope I've been able to help you clarify your testimony for the police, anything to bring the murderer to justice. You know, if you'd like, I could lend you a videotape of the vignette's dress rehearsal. I don't have one here right now, but..." When the desk phone jingled, she grimaced apologetically. "Hello? Yes, can you hold on a second please?"
"I'd really appreciate a chance to review that videotape," Dani told her.
Kate put a muffling hand over the receiver. "I'll be here around lunch tomorrow, if you can drop by to pick it up."
"I have an appointment at the yacht club tomorrow at noon. Could I arrange to get the tape later?"
"I teach drama classes all afternoon and into the evening. Tell you what. Why don't I give the tape to Ben and you can get it from him?" she whispered loudly, sliding her hand away from the mouthpiece.
Dani lip-synched goodbye and another thank-you to Kate as she turned to go. Ben would be in the middle of rehearsal now; rather than interrupt him, she would phone his apartment and leave an appreciative message on his answering machine. But the first order of business when she got home was to write down every detail of the Joshua Parr legend while it was still fresh in her mind. Kate was an excellent storyteller, and Dani wanted Ken to have the full benefit of her narrative. That they would be able to review the tape of the performance together was an unexpected bonus.
Dani was so wrapped in her thoughts, she almost failed to notice a pair of boots just visible beneath the bottom edge of the partially open office door. Someone was standing close to the door, too close to be simply loitering, close enough to overhear every word of a conversation in the office. Dani halted just inside the doorway and waited to see what the boots would do. She watched as they took a step, hesitated, then took another step. They seemed to be mirroring her motions, anticipating her next move.
Suddenly, Dani stepped through the door. As the man strode away, she could see only his back. The hem of his dark cape furled open to reveal legs encased in knee breeches and leather boots. Over the cape's high collar, she glimpsed the knotted tail of a peruke protruding from beneath a tricorn hat. Dani pulled up short, bridling her initial mistrustful impulses. What proof did she have, really, that the actor had been eavesdropping? More likely, he had only been waiting to talk with Kate McPherson and had grown impatient with the delay.
Dani would have convinced herself that the caped actor hadn't the vaguest interest in her conversation with Kate if his own curiosity had not gotten the best of him. But as he glanced over his shoulder, Dani got a brief yet all-too-clear view of Stephen Lawes's face.
Chapter Six
Ken crossed his legs and refolded his arms across his chest, trying to adjust his rebellious body to the leather armchair's unyielding frame. He had known Derek would want to look over the background material he had gathered on Richardson's guests, but watching the man pore over the copious handwritten notes was grating on his nerves nonetheless. The realization that Dani Blake might at that very moment be garnering useful information from the Ghostwalk's stage director—without him—did nothing to soothe his impatience. Ken lunged forward in the chair when Derek at last looked up from the notes.
The older man couldn't hide his dejection as he ran his fingers through his thinning gray hair. "You've done a very thorough job, Ken," he said.
Ken was out of his seat, unable to curb his nervous energy any longer. "A very thorough job of uncovering nothing. No grudges, no rivalries, not a damn thing that would motivate any of those people to kill Richardson Whyte." He paced the length of the desk, feeling like a wild creature contained in a much too small cage. "I know no investigation is complete without this kind of background work, but since I've drawn a blank in that area, I'd like to try something else."
Derek rolled his chair away from the desk, tipping the seat back on its axis. "What do you have in mind?"
Ken wheeled to study the weary-looking man seated behind the desk. Derek took a conservative approach to investigation; it was anyone's guess how he would react to the revelation that Dani Blake was now aware of the extortion threat and their efforts to thwart it. "I have a lead, through Dani Blake."
Ken was heartened by the interest reflected in Derek's gray eyes. "So you've gained her confidence?"
"Believe me, it wasn't easy. I had to tell her who I am, Derek, and about the blackmail note."
Derek's fingers formed a steeple in front of his pursed lips. "Do you think that was wise?"
"Under the circumstances, yes." Ken planted his hands on the desk to face Derek squarely. "I think there's something to her hunch about that stickpin, that Richardson gave it to her for a reason. Apparently her father and Whyte sailed together. That would tie in with the pin shaped li
ke a boat. Do you know anything about their yacht team?"
Derek's thin cheeks inflated for a moment as he let out a long breath. "That was a long time ago, and I have to confess I never shared their passion for boats. I was a landlubber, and they were the adventurers on the high seas." He chuckled wistfully and then sobered. "After the accident that took Dan, the team disbanded. They felt the boat was cursed, and nobody wanted anything to do with the sport. Especially Richardson."
"Richardson was particularly close to Dan Blake, I suppose." Derek's last remark had aroused Ken's curiosity.
Derek swung the chair upright, suddenly glancing up. "He felt responsible for Dan's death." He paused, waiting for his companion to absorb the full impact of his words.
"Why?" Ken demanded.
Derek focused blankly on the papers strewed across the desk. "I've never told anyone this before..."He hesitated for a lengthy second. When he looked up at Ken, his face was grave. "For all I know, I may be the only person Richardson ever opened up to on the matter. Even now that he's... no longer with us, I feel as if I'm betraying his confidence. You see, Richardson had been drinking on the boat the day of the accident. When the squall came up, he was in no condition to deal with it. Dan insisted he remain below deck, but that left the team a man short. I always counseled Richardson that his presence on deck would not have saved Dan, that he shouldn't blame himself for what happened." His angular shoulders sank heavily. "But who knows, really?"
"Those doubts must have tortured Richardson Whyte for the rest of his life," Ken said. "Did any of Blake's survivors know about this?"
Derek's frown grew skeptical. "I don't think so. Both Dan's widow and his daughter seemed to think highly of Richardson—not the sort of opinion they would have if they held him accountable for their loved one's death. I don't think it would serve any purpose telling Dani Blake at this point," he added carefully.
