Author: Heather Graham
Category: Mystery
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/heather-graham/page,8,468154-haunted_be_the_holidays_a_krewe_of_hunters_novella.html
“We’ll check into every possible circumstance,” he promised Brent.
Brent nodded miserably. “They’re letting me out in a few days. Suggesting rehab, but the show opens. I swear I will not ruin another show.” He winced. “How bad was it? Have I become a liability—will no one come if I’m in a show?”
The misery in his voice was deep.
“It was fine,” Kody quickly assured him.
“Kody pulled it out of the fire,” Clara told him.
Brent looked at Kody with something like adoration. Brodie allowed himself a moment of amusement; he’d be jealous as hell if he didn’t know Brent’s partner.
“How is Nick, by the way?” he asked. “How is he…taking this?”
“Nick is the best,” Brent said. “He believes me. He believes in me.” He looked at Adam. “Am I—fired?”
“I let my theater managers do the hiring and firing,” Adam said. “But my suggestion is no—for the time being.”
Fresh tears ran down Brent’s face. The others started to leave. Kody paused to kiss him on the cheek, and then she followed them across the hall to Barry’s room.
Results were the same—except Barry wasn’t tearful; he was angry. “Was it supposed to be a joke?” he demanded. “Or, worse—were we supposed to die? Doc told me if they hadn’t started stomach-pumping and counteracting the drugs when they did…it could have been bad. As in—all over for us bad.”
“Tell us who was around from your viewpoint,” Brodie suggested.
Barry stared at Jackson, which made sense. Jackson was head of an FBI unit. At the moment, Brodie wasn’t officially authorized to make any kind of arrest. Adam was always low key—in the background. He might not have even known Adam was titular head of the Krewe.
“I sure as hell didn’t do it! I don’t even smoke weed, legal or no. Ask anyone.”
“So who did? Do you think Brent did this?” Jackson asked him.
Barry shrugged. “I don’t…I don’t know. I really like the guy. He’s down to earth, you know? Humble. I’ve worked with a few who think they’ve been assigned indentured servants.”
“Were you with him when he went to his dressing room?” Brodie asked him.
“Yeah, we met in the hall. I was super glad to tell him a mask piece had been fixed. It had been cutting into him. Nothing the audience would notice, but something that must’ve bugged him. He was never a complainer.”
“Did you drink tea?” Jackson asked.
“Sure.”
“Did you see anyone do anything to the tea?” Brodie asked.
“No—the tea was there. Some kind of green tea with a hibiscus twist, or something like that. It didn’t taste like tea to me to begin with, but I like normal tea, you know?”
“Black tea,” Kody murmured.
“Yeah—the normal stuff. If it had been normal tea, I might have tasted something odd.”
“You’re both pretty sure it was the tea?” Clara asked quietly.
“What the hell else?” Barry asked. “I drank the tea. The walls started moving. Brent looked like a giant ape. Things in the room started dancing. Then I was out. I think I knew before I passed out that I’d been drugged, but…no,” he said, staring around at the group of them. “No, I never saw Brent put anything in the teapot. Whatever it was—it was in the room before we got there.”
They thanked Barry and left, pausing in the hall to talk.
“It looks like we had someone in the theater—one of our own or someone who slipped in somehow—do this on purpose,” Adam said. “You two will take appropriate measures?” he asked. “I try to leave the theater to theater people. Marnie…Clara and Alexi. And now Kody. But whatever happened…we have to step in,” he said, glancing at Clara and Kody.
“Of course,” they agreed.
“What about the threat?” Clara asked.
Jackson quickly answered, “Brent was stoned out of his gourd. He said whatever came to his mind, but…”
“But,” Brodie continued. “They might have been words planted in his head.”
“We’ll get a thorough search going of the theater—see if we can find drugs or equipment or anything that might indicate how the tea was spiked,” Jackson said. “Clara—take a break. Kody—”
“I’m going to start hitting the libraries. Library of Congress, Smithsonian, you name it,” Kody told him. “I’m going to know every bit of history that has to do with the theater.”
Adam shook his head. “I wanted more research anyway. But Kody…if you’re worried about what was said on stage, I can send you both on vacation.”
“No,” Kody protested. “I’m not afraid—I want to know. I won’t be alone in any dark alleys.”
“You won’t be alone in the theater,” he said firmly.
Kody grinned at that. “I take it you’re going to do a thorough search. That means lots of cops and tech people. I’m good for a while.”
“I’ll hang with her,” Clara promised. “We’ll be careful.”
“All right. Keep your phones handy—and Angela will have everyone on alert so that we have Krewe everywhere. Speed dial,” he said, shaking a finger at them.
“Speed dial!” they promised in unison.
“All right then,” Adam said. “We’ll head out.”
Brodie looked at Jackson; they’d be headed to the theater. The search would begin now—before anyone else came in. They were lucky -- one season had ended.
The next had yet to begin.
But then again, assuming that Brent was telling the truth, whoever had drugged his tea had already had plenty of time to pick up his—or her—pieces.
And if it was someone connected to the theater…
It was going to be damned hard to prove.
* * * *
Kody looked up from the pile of books in front of her. “It says that ancient Celtic people celebrated Samhain—lit bonfires, wore costumes—all kinds of things,” she told Clara, who was sitting across from her at one of the long tables in the library. “In 609 AD, Pope Gregory III designated November 1st as All Saints Day. By then, Britain was turning to Christianity, and many of the Celtic traditions, therefore, were interwoven with the new beliefs. All Saints Day was preceded by All Saints’ Eve or All Hallows’ Eve, or Halloween.
“In America, at first, it was low—low—key. The Puritans weren’t into that kind of celebrating. But bit by bit, other European influences began. And in 1849, the Irish potato famine brought thousands upon thousands of Irish flooding in, and they had their Jack, who in Ireland ran around with a lit turnip to ward off the darkness. Here, the turnip became a pumpkin, and the jack-o-lantern became big.” She turned the book so that Clara could see the illustrations.
“Continuing onward, in the 1800s,” she went on, “the holiday was religious and also community oriented. People would have dinners, get togethers, perhaps wear costumes. Through the end of the 1900s and into the last century, our leaders tried to tamp down on the witchcraft association—the old Celtic religions being pretty twisted by some—and make Halloween a holiday without mischief, pranks, or the like. There was a population boom in the forties and fifties—baby-boomers—and in that generation, trick-or-treating really took off. After that, adults began having parties. And then card companies stepped into it, and voilà! Major holiday.”
“And this year, thank the Lord, it’s over!” Clara said and shook her head. “Halloween should be a great holiday. I mean, seriously. For one, to think of those we’ve lost, but in general for fun. Kids get to dress up. They have a night where candy is okay. And even for adults—It should be fun. But here’s the thing—truly sadly, people use the holiday to twist and turn what should be fun into something evil. The Krewe has seen it a few times. At least…”
“At least?” Kody asked.
Clara let out a breath. “At least no one was really hurt at the theater. I mean, Brent and Barry are both going to be okay.”
“But if we hadn’t gone running to Brent’s dressing
room, they could have died.” Kody paused. “The thing is—anyone around the theater would know his performance would cause some real anger among his fellows. So I don’t think either was intended to die. In fact, I think Barry was drugged by accident. He just happened to be in Brent’s dressing room.”
“You could be right.”
“Or wrong,” she sighed. “Maybe he needed to be out of the picture, so that whoever did the drugging could be the one to get the mask to Brent while he was on stage. And Halloween was the perfect holiday during which to make it happen.”
Clara looked at her thoughtfully. “So, Halloween. Do you think…that someone wanted Brent to threaten you with his lines—as he did? Seriously, he was out of it—maybe someone just wanted to throw a wrench in the works.”
“That’s possible. But I can’t help but remember the dancer in the mask so much like Brent’s death’s head mask. And…”
“And?”
“A girl died. Helena Oldham. They found her in the Halloween cemetery at the mansion. And she died of a drug overdose.”
Clara nodded. “It’s a whole bunch of maybes, but we have to go with all the maybes. So—”
“Thanksgiving,” Kody said. “I know that most kids in America are taught in school that the first Thanksgiving was celebrated by the Pilgrim settlers and the Wampanoag Indians in 1621. People around the country—as it grew—celebrated a feast day, but on different days until 1863, when in the middle of the Civil War, President Lincoln designated a day in November each year as Thanksgiving Day.” She inhaled thoughtfully, frowning. “We don’t dress up on Thanksgiving. We don’t celebrate it with skeleton decorations or anything like that. But it is our next holiday.”
“No one dies in the Thanksgiving show,” Clara pointed out. “And,” she added, smiling, “you’re not in it.”
“No. But I still think it means something. I’ve got the book on the theater from the beginning—it was designed by Arthur Rutledge, an Englishman, but a naturalized citizen. He had built a few theaters in England—in Liverpool and in Yorkshire. He was also a theater lover, according to what I have here. The building of the structure took place in 1842. The first show was the ‘The Scarlet Letter’ and it went up at the grand opening in October of that year.”
“You stick with the 1800s and I’ll start with the 1900s, seeing what could possibly have happened at the theater. Someone dying in a pool of blood,” Clara murmured.
The two of them went back to work.
The task wasn’t difficult for Kody. She loved delving into the past—and into the lives of the people who lived in different times, and the social mores that dictated their lives.
She read everything she could on Caroline and Judson. He’d been born to wealth in NYC, but he’d signed up for war, and had proven his gallantry and courage on the field. He was admired and loved—and expected to marry the daughter of someone high in society. He’d fallen in love with Caroline when she had been performing in Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet.” She had doubted him at first, but when the stage where she’d been working went down, he had purchased the theater for her. He’d loved her so much that his heart had stopped when he’d found her at the foot of the stairs.
No pools of blood. A sad accident had done them in.
Or had it?
Appearances could be deceptive.
This time…
It had been made to look as if Brent Myerson had fallen off the wagon, delved back into drugs. He might well have died, and no one would have thought any differently than he had given way and dragged Barry down with him.
But…if there was something off with the truth about Caroline and Judson…
What had it been?
Who could have caused something to happen, why and…
If so, how the hell had they covered it up?
Chapter 7
“Don’t you think it would be just fabulous?” Maeve McFadden demanded. “The theater! What elegant staging, what lighting could be achieved—plenty of seating, of course, and…oh, good heavens, maybe your brothers will even get it together by then. A triple wedding—in the theater! So elegant, with music…Oh, there’s an orchestra pit, the music could be so wonderful. Dramatic, yes?”
“Melodramatic, Mom…please, come on!” Brodie McFadden protested. “We’re getting married—not staging an epic. And—”
“Ah, my dear boy,” Hamish McFadden said, indicating Maeve—his wife and Brodie’s mother—and continuing with, “marry an actress, dear son, and life is an epic!” Hamish grinned and mused on his own words for a moment. “Life—and death,” he added softly.
“Mom, it’s not time to talk about the wedding, anyway. Please, we know there is something going on here. If we believe him, someone deliberately tried to either kill Brent Myerson or get him addicted again. Or at the least, ruin the theater. We have a serious situation—”
“You’re always going to have a serious situation, son. You’ve chosen to be FBI, and Krewe of Hunters,” Hamish reminded him gently.
“But this situation is here.”
They were in the audience area of the theater. While heading to the stage and down to the basement below, Brodie had discovered that Maeve and Hamish were there, in the audience, pointing at the stage.
They knew what had happened. And he knew they had spoken with Kody.
He’d hoped maybe they did know something more—perhaps about a crew member or actor they hadn’t remembered.
They didn’t. They might have been discussing the situation before he had arrived, but now they had nothing new to add.
Maeve had focused on their personal lives.
“Mom. We will get married. We will plan it. But what I needed to ask you about—”
“We weren’t here,” Hamish said. “I thought you knew that. I am so sorry.”
“And if we had been,” Maeve said, “we’d have been watching the show. Proud of our almost daughter-in-law, a lovely young lady who does have the good sense to love the theater.”
“I love the theater too—watching it,” Brodie said.
“He’s a law enforcer. He helps people. We need to be very proud of him—and his brothers,” Hamish reminded Maeve.
“Of course,” Maeve said. But she was still disappointed. Three sons—and all of them were going into the FBI.
Not an actor among them.
Brodie shook his head, lowering it slightly. He loved his parents, always had and always would—whether they stayed with him and his brothers long in the sense of “in the spirit,” or if they eventually felt that they were done with the mortal world and moved on.
They had both been actors themselves—icons of stage and screen. They had perished together in an accident when rigging had failed in the middle of a play.
Died together dramatically—maybe fitting. In death, Maeve was, ironically, still larger than life.
“He is marrying an actress!” Maeve reminded her husband.
“Technically, Bryan is marrying an actress. Kody just opened her own museum down in Key West, and research and history are what she loves,” Brodie said. “Right now—”
“She was incredible in that play, and her children’s production was outstanding. She is an actress at heart—she just didn’t know it. Oh, and her father was a rock star! If you were to marry right in the theater…I know she would love the drama,” Maeve said.
All parents wanted to be involved in their children’s weddings. His parents—though dead—were no exception.
“Mother—as far as the theater goes, right now? I have to find out the truth of what is going on—and if someone here is involved with the tragic overdose death of a young woman. Okay? I was hoping to catch you two…hoping you might know something. But you don’t—”
“We’ll be watching now,” Hamish vowed passionately.
“Thank you—now I need to start working with the cast and crew around here,” Brodie said. He started to walk away, and then paused, walking back to his mother. “Mom, we want a sm
all wedding. Kody had enough with real-life drama back in Key West—and as you pointed out, our lives might always be drama. We’re thinking family, a few close friends—and a honeymoon trip somewhere far, far away. And we were actually thinking something staid and traditional—like a church. But please—let’s get through this first, okay?”
“Of course, darling, of course!” Maeve said. “Just as long as you marry the girl—soon.”
“Yes, ma’am. And we’ll keep you apprised all the way.”
That settled, he left them, hurried to the stage, and went down the stairs to the basement.
It was crawling with officers and tech personnel. Brodie found Jackson, who looked at him a bit hopefully. He shook his head.
His parents had nothing.
“Ginny is waiting to talk to you in Brent’s dressing room. I thought that would be a good area for you two and thought it was better for you to do the talking—since Kody was in the play and worked with Brent.”
“Does she think we’re accusing her?” Brodie asked.
“Everyone here seems to be a wreck. I’ve started with the stagecraft personnel and then I’ll get to the townspeople. See what Ginny can tell you.”
“Okay.” He paused, turning back to Jackson. “Have you spoken with Charly Atwood? I’m thinking about the street performer—with the mask like that one used in the show? I don’t know why, but he disturbed Kody. Maybe Charly saw something.”
“I’ll send him back to you,” Jackson said.
Brodie nodded and started through the back.
As he made his way to Brent’s dressing room, Brodie noted that even here, backstage, the theater was really beautiful. He knew the basics—she was a grand old dame that Adam Harrison had purchased, and once he owned it, he had first hired a crew of electricians and plumbers and structural engineers to ensure that the theater was sound and safe for both the players and the audience. Buying and supporting the theater had been part of the many philanthropic works with which he became involved.
It had proven to be damned good, since several of his agents had wound up partnering with or marrying performers. He hadn’t, however, he had to admit, known that Kody would become so involved.