Heather Graham - Fade To Black

Cara Barton apparently realized that he wasn’t going to answer her right then. He’d been at the cemetery early, and he had spoken to her. She might have figured out a ghostly way to contact his mother, but maybe she hadn’t really believed that she could get through to the living. She had been thrilled he could see her. She had been trying to torment the cemetery workers and the funeral director, and all she’d managed to do was to get one man to say that the cemetery, even in broad daylight, was incredibly creepy. She’d been ecstatic that Bryan could see her, hear her, because she had something important to say: she’d been murdered. She was afraid for the others.

She wanted the truth.

So right now, she didn’t really expect Bryan to reply.

But she kept talking.

“I remember sitting there that day...the day that I was killed,” she said. “I guess it’s good I don’t remember the pain. I do remember bits and pieces of my life shooting before my eyes...out of order, things when I was a child, things when I was older. And I remember thinking it was horrible, so unfair—that comic con really was, for me, where I’d come to die. And I remember Marnie, of course, holding me, shocked, horrified...such a sweet girl. Better than this world we’re in,” she added softly. “But I just don’t understand. Why in God’s name would anyone want to kill me? I mean, he probably was after Marnie. She was the one who had the most obsessed fans. You know she didn’t really want to have a reboot of Dark Harbor ? A comeback, you know. She just loves the theater. She wants to direct. Children. Horrible little snot-nosed beasts, in my opinion, but...the thing is, there was no reason for anyone to kill me!”

He turned briefly, making a pretense of studying a painting above the bar.

“We’ll talk later,” he said.

Right now, he was trying to watch anyone who spent too much time with the four remaining actors from Dark Harbor .

Golden boy Malcolm Dangerfield seemed very interested in Marnie and her friends. But then again, the photographers where milling around them that day. It was the center of the action.

He also noted another man.

“That’s Vince Carlton,” Cara said. “He’s the one who wants to revamp Dark Harbor . I was so thrilled. I mean, that would have been a whole new life for all of us! On the top again. Okay, so not all shows make it. But we would have had a pilot and at least a season, I’m sure of it. Vince is a nice guy. But, of course, I’m dead now. So...”

Vince Carlton appeared to be in his early forties. He was known for having produced a number of successful fantasy and sci-fi projects. He appeared sympathetic and respectful as he spoke with the group.

And Malcolm Dangerfield, who had determinedly remained with them throughout the afternoon. Maybe that was natural; he had been standing close to Cara when she was killed.

He had watched her be cut down in cold blood.

“What does a comic creature like Blood-bone have to do with a show like Dark Harbor ?” Bryan wondered softly aloud.

“Nothing—nothing that I know of, anyway. And the thing is, Blood-bone is like Darth Vader—that kind of a costume. Just about anyone could be in it. Well, it works best with a certain height and size, but...it could be anyone.”

There had to be some kind of a relationship. Either that or the killer had chosen the costume because there would be so many people dressed up the same, making a getaway easy.

Which it had apparently been, according to Detective Vining. Dozens of Blood-bones had been stopped and searched and questioned. And each had been the wrong Blood-bone.

“Anonymous,” he murmured.

“What?” Cara asked.

Bryan pulled a set of earbuds out of his pocket and inserted them into his ears. While he found it incredibly rude that people seemed to be talking on the phone everywhere and through any occasion these days, the cell-phone-earbuds craze was a good thing—for a man who talked to the dead.

“Anonymous,” he repeated softly. “Such a costume means that it could be anyone inside. Do you remember anything about the killer, a scent, the way he moved, the size of his hands...anything that felt familiar?”

“I’ve racked my brain,” Cara replied, “but I can’t imagine who it was in that costume.”

“So not necessarily someone you knew. If there was a specific target, the murder could have been perpetrated by the person who wanted them dead, or because of the costume, a killer could have even been hired.”

Cara gasped. “You mean the bastard who did this to me might not have even had the balls to do it him—or her—self?”

“I’m thinking aloud, Cara. Give me a break. I just got out here.”

“You got out here yesterday.”

“Doing my best,” he said.

She harrumphed.

Loudly.

Bryan noted that Marnie had heard the sound. And she turned. At her side, Roberta Alan turned to see what Marnie was looking at, and both of them stared at him.

Maybe it was time.

He pocketed his earbuds and walked up to the group, extending a hand to introduce himself.

Marnie looked at his hand as if he had offered up a snake.

But Roberta Alan took it, staring at him curiously, a smile on her lips. “Well, hello, gorgeous!” she said, her voice and tone an excellent mimic of that used by Barbra Streisand as Fanny Brice in Funny Girl .

He grinned. He could play the game.

“Hello, gorgeous, yourself,” he told her. “My name is Bryan McFadden. My parents—”

“Oh!” Roberta exclaimed. “I know—yes, you’re so like your father. And your mother, really, and they both were truly gorgeous. Well, your dad, of course, was very manly. You’re manly, too, naturally, and I...I’m just making a fool out of myself here. Mr. McFadden, may I introduce you to my costars? Grayson Adair, our brother. Jeremy Highsmith, good old dad. And Marnie Davante—”

“Scarlet Zeta, Madam Zeta,” he said.

Marnie forced a stiff smile. “How do you do, Mr. McFadden?”

“Nice to meet you, son. I knew your parents. I was so sorry when they...died,” Jeremy Highsmith told him, wincing a little.

“Thank you, sir.”

“And they say that Hollywood is murder. Well, in this case... Oh, hell, I can’t get out of this one.”

Malcolm Dangerfield suddenly cut between Jeremy and Marnie, offering his hand. “Malcolm Dangerfield,” he said. “Are you looking for work out here? Acting?”

“No. I’m not an actor. I’m actually a private investigator,” Bryan replied curtly.

“Hey, let me tell you—bodyguards are in high demand right now. You know, after what I witnessed, I’d take on another. Call me if you’re interested in anything like that.”

“Actually, I’m out here to work the case of Cara Barton’s murder,” Bryan said.

Marnie stared at him, startled.

And wary.

Very wary. She obviously didn’t trust him. At the moment, he was sure, she didn’t trust herself. Why should she trust a man claiming that he could see a dead woman, too?

“Well, nice to meet you,” Malcolm said.

“You sure you’re not trying to get into the movies?” Jeremy asked him. “Names and nepotism have been known to open doors. Are you...looking for a role?”

“I assure you—I’m not looking for a role,” Bryan told him.

They all continued to stare at him suspiciously. Except for Roberta. She remained curious and intrigued. “You’re here because your family knew Cara, I imagine. But...the cops are trying everything. They’re looking at every angle,” Roberta told him.

Jeremy Highsmith cleared his throat. “Every angle. They’ve told all of us to keep special care, to keep our doors locked and to watch out for strangers. Oh, yeah. They’ve suggested we all avoid comic cons for the time being, and any place that a man or woman could dress up in a costume that would make them totally anonymous. Just in case Cara isn’t the only target.”