one. You’re not a cop. You...” He paused, looking off into the distance.
Charlie loved her father. Her mom had died suddenly the summer after her first year of college. It had been an aneurysm—one day a minor headache she laughed off, the next day...gone. She and her dad had been devastated. Her father was a handsome man, fifty-four years old. But he still hadn’t even gone on a date. When she’d actually tried to get him to go out with one of the entertainers on the riverboat, he’d just smiled and told her, “Maybe one day I’ll be ready for someone, but let’s face it—in my heart and mind, no one can begin to live up to your mom.”
She’d decided to let him be. When he was ready, she would be ready, too. She knew that—right or wrong—if he’d gotten involved with another woman right after her mother had died, she would have been bitter. Now, though, enough time had passed that she could deal with equanimity with the idea of him falling in love again. More than anything, she wanted to see him happy. Of course, she knew he loved her, and she made him happy—as did his work. He loved the old riverboat—the Journey—and he loved talking to people about history. He excelled at it. Still, she thought he would be happier if he had someone in his life. However, finding someone who loved the Mississippi, an old riverboat and being regaled with historical tales at every turn might be a bit of a challenge.
“You’re not a cop,” he repeated softly. “Even if you do play one on TV every now and then,” he added lightly. “Sometimes you know things, but you’re not trained law enforcement. You know how to shoot because I taught you when you were a kid, not so you’d shoot anyone or anything, but because we live out in the sticks, and I wanted you to be able to defend yourself. But snooping around...well, that could be dangerous. So don’t even think about it, okay? No matter what you...know.”
She understood he was talking about what her family called “insight.” It wasn’t really insight at all, of course. Most people called it the “gift” or the “sight.” Her family seemed to think if you referred to seeing ghosts or speaking with the dead as insight, people wouldn’t immediately think you were slightly daft or totally out of your mind.
Her father didn’t see the dead. Her ability had come from her mother’s family. However, Jonathan Moreau didn’t doubt the existence of the insight for a minute. He’d delighted in her mother’s abilities. How else could he possibly have learned some of the historical detail he cherished so much?
“Dad,” Charlie murmured, and then hesitated. She looked at her father. He had deep blue eyes, the color of her own, but now they seemed even darker with concern. He knew what she was going to say, she thought.
Now, that was actually insight.
“He called my name, Dad. The dead man, Farrell Hickory, he called me by name. Or at least I think it was him.” She hesitated; she had never told her father about the Confederate cavalry officer who had led Ethan to her that horrible night ten years ago. She’d told her mom, but her mom was gone now. Her father had been so upset about the entire situation that she’d never told him the whole story. Would it seem strange to him now that she thought a different dead man had called to her for help? “He called my name,” she said again. “That’s how I found him.”
Her father shook his head. “Charlie, I barely knew him. How would he have known your name. Did you know him at all?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, if I’d met him, I didn’t recognize him. I haven’t been around that much in years, so I don’t know how he’d know my name.”
“Farrell Hickory’s family’s owned a sugarcane plantation downriver for over two hundred years,” Jonathan reminded her drily.
“I think I’ve been there once,” Charlie said. She loved history, too; she had to, to survive in her father’s house. But few people had his passion for the past. “Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure he was part of a reenactment I saw that revolved around the Confederate capture of the Journey. That was years ago, though.” She paused, then asked, “Did you see him the day he and Albion Corley worked together?”
“I might have, Charlie. It was a crazy busy day, and I didn’t really have much to do with the reenactors. I just put on my white cotton shirt and period breeches, added a straw hat and a pipe, and stepped ashore to give lectures in the old boathouse at the dock. And while we’re a pretty small parish, I move in a pretty circumscribed orbit, and like a lot of locals, he might not have been around that much. Lots of people hail from here, but head down to New Orleans for the oil business.”
“I doubt he was in the oil business, Dad. Like you were saying, his family has that plantation on the river. I was there with a school group when I was a sophomore in high school. The teachers love taking classes to the Hickory Plantation for a firsthand look at what working a plantation really meant. Mr. Hickory kept his private rooms on the second floor, and the ground floor was open to the public. I know the Hickory Plantation isn’t grand like Oak Alley or San Francisco or some of the others, but I loved the fact that it was all about the way life was and the work people did and still do.”
Her father looked at her, nodding. “Charlie, I know. And I’m sorry he’s gone, even if I can’t say he was a friend or even a close acquaintance. But I’d met the man, and I know a fair amount about the family plantation.” He sighed. “According to the news, he left behind a twenty-four-year-old son. I hope he’ll keep the plantation running, not just the tourist part but the sugarcane business, too. I probably saw his son around sometime over the years, but...”
“I don’t know him,” Charlie said. “He would have been two years behind me in school.” She looked out over the water for a long moment, then said, “It just doesn’t make sense, Dad. At first the press were theorizing that Albion Corley was killed because of some dispute with another reenactor. Something about him getting better parts than someone who’d been part of the group longer. But now, with another reenactor murdered, too... The two of them had nothing in common, other than that they were both reenactors and they were both in that program on the Journey.”
“Don’t forget, both men were born in Louisiana,” her father reminded her. “And both of them were apparently killed with what looks to be a Civil War–era bayonet or a damn good replica.”
“You know how they were killed?” She couldn’t keep the amazement from her voice.
“I heard about Corley on the news yesterday, and I heard a cop theorizing about Hickory at the diner this morning.”
She fell silent, thinking back to everything that had happened after she’d discovered the body. The police had arrived quickly, and she’d told a uniformed officer what had happened. Later a Detective Laurent had shown up, and she’d told him what had happened, too. But she had talked, and the police had listened. She hadn’t thought to ask questions. She’d screamed once when she found the body, but after that she’d become almost numb, unnaturally calm, when she spoke to the police, her usual curiosity tamped down by her shock.
Every member of the crew had been questioned, as well. They’d all been asked if they’d seen any strange people hanging around the set.
In their ghostly makeup, half the actors had looked very strange indeed, but nobody had noticed anyone who might have been the murderer. Brad had told the police he had lots of film of the field, and they were welcome to see the footage. Naturally they’d accepted his offer.
Charlie had heard the medical examiner talking to Detective Laurent, telling him that Mr. Hickory had been dead at least twenty-four hours. But she hadn’t heard anything about how he’d been killed, and it had never occurred to her to ask.
“I
