Krewe of Hunters 8 The Uninvited (5 page)

Tyler tried to picture the scene as it had been described to
him—the young man seated in the chair, the musket between his legs, the bayonet
through his throat and mouth as if he’d used it to prop himself up. He had bled
out quickly, according to the pathologist who’d first examined him. He hadn’t
appeared distressed and he didn’t appear to have fought with anyone. He had
simply sat down, set his chin upon the bayonet as though to rest on it…and
skewered himself with it.

Who the hell
accidentally
put a
bayonet blade through his own chin?

But he hadn’t cried out. Tourists leaving the premises would
have heard or, at the very least, Allison Leigh would have as she locked up for
the night.

Tyler remained near the entrance to the room, noting its
location. There was the door that opened off the entry hall, and another that
led from the study to the next room. This meant there were two points of access,
as well as a way to exit.

But how did you get someone to die on a bayonet in such a
position and leave no sign of a struggle?
Talk
him
into it?

He looked at the paintings on the wall, which were authentic
period pieces. Two men had been depicted at somewhere between the ages of thirty
and forty. Beneath one, he made out the name Angus Tarleton; the other was
labeled with the description Brian “Beast” Bradley.

The eyes of the latter seemed to have an unusual power. The
artist had managed to depict a handsome man—and also a cruel and cunning one.
He’d read that the Mona Lisa’s eyes seemed to follow her viewers. Bradley’s did
the same, apparently focusing on him as he moved about the room.

He turned to the hallway. Allison Leigh was pale as she stood
next to Adam, who watched and waited for Tyler to take the lead.

“Allison, can you tell me exactly what happened leading up to
your discovery of Julian?” he asked her.

She winced. “I should’ve written it down earlier, I’ve had to
repeat it so many times,” she muttered. She was hostile again, he thought.
Hostile and angry, but that was good. If she’d fallen apart, broken into tears,
she wouldn’t have been much help.

“I didn’t run into a bloodthirsty ghost,” she told him.

“I would’ve been surprised if you had,” Tyler said. “I’m sorry,
but you do want to catch the killer, right?”

She stared back at him with eyes that were as clear and
beautiful as a summer sky.

“I don’t think there was a killer,” she said. “Julian could be
a clown. He was full of himself, an entertainer. He had a tendency to piss the
rest of us off with his unwillingness to accept responsibility, but he also made
us laugh and…he was a friend.” She took a deep breath. “It looked as if he sat
down, started fooling around with the musket and set his head right on the
blade. Yes, we use real muskets and bayonets, and never, ever, have we had a
problem. The costumed interpreters don’t carry bullets or gunpowder and no one’s
ever gone crazy and tried to bayonet a tourist. Who’d imagine that anyone could
die on one?”

“He wasn’t in any way suicidal?” Tyler asked.

“Julian? He was convinced the world was waiting for him,” she
said. “No, I don’t believe he committed suicide.” She hesitated for a moment.
“We were all angry with him, figuring he’d had some kind of great offer and
decided just to disappear.”

“He was supposed to be working—and he wasn’t?”

“Yes. Well, he showed up for the morning tours. He took off
after lunch, probably for an audition.”

“But you found him in his period costume?”

She nodded. “He was with a bar band that had higher
aspirations. They did a lot of auditioning and sometimes they had permits to
play in the historic areas, so it wasn’t uncommon for him to stay in his work
clothing.”

“But none of you saw him after lunch?”

She shook her head.

“Are there places in the house where he could’ve been and you
wouldn’t
see him?” Tyler asked.

She glanced at him. “A closet?” There was a hint of sarcasm in
her voice. “Or,” she said, her tone serious, “the attic. We don’t go up to the
attic with any of the tour groups.”

“May I see it now?”

“If you want.”

“Shall we?” Adam suggested.

Allison seemed to go back into tour-guide mode as she led the
way. She pointed out the ladies’ parlor, the music room and, across the entry,
the dining room and parlor. As they walked up the first flight of stairs she
talked about the owners of the house and the bedrooms used by the family—and by
the British invaders.

Tyler paused at Lucy Tarleton’s bedroom; from the doorway he’d
noticed another painting of Beast Bradley.

It was different from the one in the study. The light of
cruelty wasn’t apparent in the eyes. He’d been depicted in a more thoughtful
mood, his eyes conveying wisdom and strength rather than cruelty.

“One more floor to the attic,” Allison said. “If you’ll—”

“I’m curious about this painting,” he interrupted.

“It’s Beast Bradley. I don’t really know why the painting’s in
here. Bradley took over the master bedroom while he was in residence at the
house.”

“This is a nice painting of him.”

“I’m sure he had friends.”

“It’s interesting that the foundation chose to keep the
painting here, since he moved into the master bedroom,” Tyler commented.

“The house was owned by the family until it was turned into a
nonprofit institution,” Allison said. “That’s where the painting was. The board
determined to keep everything as it was, getting rid of modern additions and
buying a few authentic pieces to bring it back to the Revolutionary period. But
in the 1930s, when the work was being done, the painting was in Lucy’s bedroom
and the board at the time decided to keep it there.”

“Adding insult to injury for poor Lucy. The original family
must be rolling in their graves,” Tyler said. He tried to keep any irony from
his voice.

A derisive sound escaped her. The expression might be a common
one, but in her world, people did not roll in their graves.

Some old houses had stairs that were pulled down for access to
the attic. Not the Tarleton-Dandridge House. At the end of the upper hallway he
saw a staircase leading to the door; a sign on it read Staff Only! He assumed
the door was usually locked, and he was right.

“The front door key opens the attic, as well,” Allison
explained.

He used the key and pushed the door open. It led to a few more
stairs. He climbed them and found himself standing on the attic level of the
house. It was dark up here, but the moonlight and streetlamps offered some
relief from the black shadows as his eyes grew accustomed to the change.

Someone had been there. Someone had tossed the place, rummaging
through the old boxes and trunks and the modern equipment that had sat on a
desk. A computer lay on the floor, along with a printer. Letters and
correspondence were everywhere and, scattered among them, posters for special
events and other paraphernalia.

“My God!” Allison breathed.

Tyler turned to Adam. “We need to get the crime scene techs
back here. I doubt we’ll find fingerprints other than those that belong here,
but you never know.”

Adam nodded and pulled out his cell phone.

Allison continued to stare at the mess. She seemed almost
punch-drunk, as if the day itself had just been way too long. He empathized with
her, even if she considered him an oversize caricature of a slime-seeking ghost
buster.

“They’ll be here shortly,” Adam said.

“Ohhhh.” Moaning, Allison sank down to the floor, her period
dress drifting in a bell around her.

* * *

It was natural that the death of Julian Mitchell drew
headlines across the country.

He had died in a historic home—a “haunted” house, according to
just about everyone—and whether or not people believed in ghosts, it was
undeniably a house riddled with tragic history.

Allison saw the headline minutes after she woke the next
morning. She still had a newspaper delivered each day. She loved flipping
leisurely through real pages while she drank her coffee.

As she picked up the paper, she felt tears stinging her eyes
again. Julian had often been a jerk, but he’d still been a coworker and a
friend. She blinked hard and realized how exhausted she was. She’d spent most of
the night with the police. She was still horrified that they saw Julian’s death
as “suspicious” and knew that any suspicions of murder certainly included her.
After all, she’d found him. She couldn’t believe the number of hours she’d spent
at the station and then at the house when the crime scene techs had arrived
again.

She glanced over at the clock—it was already eleven, and she
still felt exhausted. It was a good thing the house was closed down until it had
been “investigated.” She couldn’t begin to offer a tour today, and she was glad
she didn’t have a crowded schedule in the coming semester, just a few lectures.
She felt numb about history, even though it was the love of her life. Rich and
giving and…

Taking. It had somehow taken Julian’s life. She didn’t
understand how or why, but she sensed that the past had something to do with it.
She’d claimed that his death
had
to be an accident.
And yet…

Allison set the paper on the counter of her small house on
Chestnut Street and walked over to the coffee machine, popping a pod in place
and waiting the few seconds for it to brew.

The coffee tasted delicious. She figured she needed about a
gallon of it. She’d been at the Tarleton-Dandridge until nearly 3:00 a.m., when
one of the officers had driven her home.

She wished she could’ve slept the entire day, and then thought
she should just be grateful she hadn’t had horrible dreams, considering how
Julian had looked....

A shower seemed in order, although she’d taken one the night
before. A psychiatrist would probably tell her she was trying to wash away what
she’d seen but she didn’t care. It might make her feel more human. Or at least
more awake.

While the water streamed over her, she thought about Julian and
let her tears flow. She thought about the many times they’d been ready to smack
him for his lack of responsibility or for leaving one of them in the lurch. It
didn’t matter. He’d still been a friend. Worse, it was such a
ridiculous
way to die.

When she’d first found him, after the initial horror and
disbelief, she wondered if he’d sat there to play a prank on her, maybe planning
to apologize for disappearing. Maybe he’d tell her he’d gotten the gig of a
lifetime because he’d taken off that afternoon.

It had never occurred to her that anyone had
killed
him. His death had looked like a tragic, stupid
accident. And that was terrible enough, but…

Why would anyone kill Julian Mitchell, and why would that
person go up to the attic and trash everything there?

And how had it happened with her and Jason in the house, not to
mention the thirty or so people in their tour groups?

She’d barely dressed and her hair was still dripping when her
doorbell rang. She cringed, not wanting to see anyone, but curiosity got the
better of her and she walked to the door to look through the peephole.

It was the Texas ghost buster.

She watched him as she ignored the buzzer. He rang again.

He didn’t go away.

She considered it bizarre that the police had called in the
FBI—and that they’d called in
this
unit. Allison had
to admit she didn’t know that much about the FBI or the “Krewe of Hunters,” but
she’d checked the internet when she first met Adam Harrison and read that they
were a special unit sent in when circumstances were
unusual.
Unusual meant that something paranormal might be going on,
or seemed to be going on, and it appalled Allison that a historic property like
the Tarleton-Dandridge House could be turned into a supernatural oddity. Of
course, the ghost tours in the city loved the house and the tales that went with
it, but those tours were for fun.
And that kind of
fun was great as long as it didn’t detract from the real wonders of
Philadelphia.

All the information she could find about Adam—or his
Krewes—seemed to have plenty of read-between-the-lines suggestions that there
was something out of the ordinary about them. From what she could gather, the
Krewes
were well acquainted with the paranormal
and made use of strange communications in solving crimes. No way could she buy
into that!

Peering out at Tyler Montague seemed to make it all the more
ludicrous. He looked as if he should be in a barbarian movie; he was tall as a
house and built with pure, lean muscle. How could such a man believe in
ghosts?

He had waited a respectable amount of time. He rang the bell
again.

With a sigh, Allison threw the door open. “What?” she
demanded.

“I need your help.”

She turned and walked back through her house toward the counter
that divided the kitchen from the living area. “With what? Do you need a cup of
coffee? That I have. Do you want to know about the Tarleton ghosts? Can’t help
you there. I’ve never seen them. Oh, and I suppose I should mention this—I don’t
believe they exist. We have a shot at life, then we die. Period. I believe in
God as an entity seen by different people in different ways, but I don’t think
He has an open-door policy in heaven, saying, Hey, come and go as you please.
But coffee? I’ve got that.”

“I could use a cup,” he said mildly, following her inside and
closing the door. He walked to the counter as she placed another pod in her
coffeemaker. She turned to look at him, hoping—to her surprise—that her house
was clean and neat. She had the feeling that, ghost hunter or no, he was
observant and perhaps judging her character through her living space.