who had managed to get close to the funeral. After all, Cara Barton had been buried at a cemetery often crawling with tourists. But the reception required an ID, to confirm the name on the guest list. Otherwise the masses would have readily joined in the reception that followed such a high-profile funeral.
However, as a McFadden, he’d managed to charm his way onto the list.
He saw Marnie standing with a group of people, Malcolm Dangerfield among them. Hollywood was often fickle—the hottest new star one year could be yesterday’s has-been by the next. At the moment, Malcolm Dangerfield was on the hot list. He would be, Bryan knew, considered to be more of a personality than an actor. He was basically always himself on-screen. But as himself, he was charismatic and it worked. On the other hand, while Jeremy Highsmith had only been cast in supporting roles since Dark Harbor had been canceled, each of those roles had been entirely different. Jeremy Highsmith was—Bryan knew his parents would judge—a true actor. A fine actor. Not a personality.
In their own way, his parents had been snobs. But to be fair, they had both loved their craft. They didn’t have to be performing themselves—they loved a good performance by another actor, singer, musician or even stand-up comic.
Marnie was barely holding it together, Bryan was pretty sure. But she managed to nod and speak now and then as she stood in the group with Malcolm Dangerfield, a producer, some young director and the rest of her castmates: Roberta Alan, Jeremy Highsmith and Grayson Adair. She was five foot nine in stocking feet, and taller here in low heels. She was regal. Despite the way she looked at him, with suspicion and irritation, Bryan couldn’t help but feel a tug of sympathy. She had an aura about her he couldn’t quite place. She was regal, and yet she appeared quick to smile at something said by a friend. Then the sadness would descend over her eyes again.
There was definitely something about her. He couldn’t help but feel the attraction that certainly drew many, many people to her. She was fascinating, charismatic and sensual with each sleek movement.
The perfect actress.
Photographers—authorized ones who were on the guest list—were seizing pictures constantly. It was hard to imagine how anyone could actually mourn in all the hubbub, and yet he remembered his parents’ funeral.
Much like this.
And it had been hard to mourn. Hard to be the eldest of their children; hard to hold it all together and grieve with the carnival atmosphere going on.
“Bringing back memories, eh?”
He didn’t turn; he knew that Cara Barton was standing next to him.
He lowered his head. She knew that he acknowledged her—saw her and heard her.
“So lovely. I mean, it may be terrible, but I am truly grateful to see I did have this many fans—okay, even if some are people using such an occasion for a publicity advantage. A grand funeral, I do say. I do so wish that I could have a sip of that champagne...” She paused, and Bryan knew that she was waiting for his response. While he stood a bit off in the corner of the restaurant, he wasn’t going to allow himself to appear to be speaking to the air.
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
