Convenient place to die. Or be murdered.

But despite the blood that dripped from the body and pooled at the feet, he didn’t believe that the man had been killed here. He had been brought here soon after death, but he hadn’t died here. The body had been put on display. It was evident that whoever had killed the man had done so to be historically accurate—and to make sure that the world knew that a man had been killed just as Marshall Donegal had been killed long ago. Was it an assault on the Donegal family? Or had someone wanted this particular man dead and used the Donegal family history as a means of throwing off suspicion?

“He was so proud to be playing Marshall Donegal!” Ashley whispered.

“Stay here—exactly here,” he told her.

He was afraid that she was going to cling to him, but she didn’t. With him there, she seemed to be finding her own strength.

“I know. It’s a crime scene,” she said woodenly.

Jake, watching where he walked, searched the area surrounding the tomb. There was nothing there. The graveled paths around the tombs certainly didn’t allow much room for footprints, and he didn’t expect to find any. They would have to hope that the forensic team summoned could find fingerprints, hair, fibers, DNA—anything that might tell them who had brought the man to his death, and then here.

They could hear the sirens then, shrieking through the night. And then voices as guests staying in the various rental rooms began to rouse.

“Get to the cemetery gates,” Jake told her. “Make sure no one but the police comes through.”

She nodded jerkily yet didn’t move.

“Ashley!” he said, taking her shoulders. “You don’t want guests wandering in here, and your grandfather will be coming out any minute, worried to death, and he is in his eighties!”

She snapped to finally and nodded, spinning about in a whirl of shimmering white. He watched her go, his insides twisting in a knot of pain. She didn’t need this; she didn’t deserve this. Of course, the dead man hadn’t deserved it, either. As he heard the sirens come closer and closer, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Jackson Crow. It hadn’t been so important before that the team arrive quickly; now, it was.

He looked back at the corpse, and time melted away again.

Someone had reenacted murder.

5

Ashley stood shivering at the gates of the cemetery, trying to compose herself. She had certainly been in something like shock, but Jake was here, and now she was okay. It was bizarre that she was okay because Jake was here, but that was the way that it was; he was in control, and it brought her back to herself.

She had felt that she’d been losing her mind; the dreams had plagued her mercilessly, and Charles had been gone, and she had longed to see Jake.

And Charles was dead—and Jake was here. Really here.

And she had to quit behaving like a “dumb blonde” screamer out of an old movie. She started to move again, thinking that she had to get to her grandfather.

But she didn’t get that far.

The first person to rise and rush out, hearing the wail of the sirens, was Cliff Boudreaux, and he didn’t have far to come, racing out of his quarters in a flannel robe. His graying brown hair was mussed and he was barefoot, as if he had been sleeping. She saw that he first looked back to the house, but then saw her and ran to her instead, gripping her shoulders, his eyes filled with worry.

“Ashley? Ashley, why are you standing here like this? What the hell has happened?”

She stared back at him, suddenly more assured, and she was even angry again, furious. Someone had killed Charles Osgood. He could be petulant; he could be whiney; but he was a good man who, to the best of her knowledge, had never hurt anyone.

She felt all sense of trembling and shaking fade away completely. Yes, Jake had done that for her.

“Charles Osgood is dead. I just found him in the cemetery,” Ashley said. “The police are on their way.”

As she spoke, she saw that people were beginning to emerge from the far stables, where the rental rooms were.

“Cliff, I’m going to get my grandfather. Please make sure no one wanders into the cemetery,” she said.

She turned toward the house, noticing Beth and her grandfather had come out to the riverside porch together and looked as confused as anyone else. She broke into a run, crossing the distance from the graveyard to the steps.

“Ashley!”

Frazier reached out, and she ran straight into his arms. “I’m all right, Grampa, I’m all right. But I found Charles Osgood. He’s…dead.”

Frazier drew away from her, staring into her eyes. Beth let out a soft gasp but said nothing.

Ashley continued, “I thought I heard something in the cemetery.”

“You heard something in a cemetery—and you hurried into it to find out what was going on? Lord, girl!” Beth said.

“I’ve lived my whole life with the family cemetery in full view from my window, Beth,” Ashley reminded her. “And Jake’s here,” she added quickly.

“Jake’s here?” Frazier said, and it seemed to make everything better.

“Yes, yes, Jake’s here,” she said, nodding. It might be best to let them think that Jake had been in the cemetery with her from the beginning.

Two police cars pulled into the front. The driver of the first seemed to hesitate a minute, but then he pulled straight on down by the side of the house, slowly passing the onlookers who had gathered outside. The second car came to a halt by the first. Ashley quickly ran down the steps from the porch to meet the officer who exited the first car. It was Drew Montague, who had been on call when she had reported Charles Osgood as missing.

“Well, Ashley, what’s going on?” Drew Montague asked her. Behind him a uniformed man got out of the car.

“I found Charles Osgood. He’s in the cemetery. Someone bayoneted him and hung him on the family tomb,” she said. She spoke to Drew but kept glancing at the other man who had approached them.

“I’m Detective Mack Colby, Miss Donegal, with the parish sheriff’s office,” he explained. He was so pleasantly nondescript, she wondered whether that was part of his act. “Can you take me to the body and explain, please, how you happened to discover it?”

“I woke up after I’d gone to bed. I thought I saw lights out there, and I went to investigate,” she said.

“You ran into a cemetery in the middle of the night when you thought that someone might be out there?” Mack asked politely. He and Drew exchanged a glance. There was suspicion in his tone, despite the even level.

She let out an exasperated sigh. “I have lived here forever. My dead ancestors are in that cemetery. I’m not afraid of it!” she said. “The worst we’ve ever found before has been potheads and frat boys. I am not afraid of my own property,” she said indignantly.

“Looks like you should be,” Drew Montague murmured.

“Montague,” Mack Colby said, “can you keep people away from the gates? The forensic crew will be here shortly. Miss Donegal, please take me to the body. Did you touch him? Are you quite certain he’s dead?”

“He’s dead. And, no, I didn’t touch him,” Ashley said. By then, her grandfather was by her side.

“Perhaps,” he said icily, “it would be best if you investigated the dead man without giving my granddaughter difficulty?”

“If she’s right, this is a murder investigation,” Colby said, his eyes narrowing. “And you are—?”

“Frazier Donegal. We’ve not met, but you’ve surely known that this property was here and who owns it. My granddaughter insisted we call this man’s disappearance in last night, afraid that something bad had happened. None of you seemed interested at the time.”

More sirens blared in the night; a rescue vehicle came to a halt behind the police cars. Augie Merton, a medical pathologist from the coroner’s office, emerged from the passenger’s seat. He was a nice man; Ashley knew him. He sometimes came out to do lectures on Civil War medicine. Though the former New Yorker had lived in the parish for almost thirty years, he was still affectionately called the Yankee doc.

“Ashley, Frazier, sorry to see you here under unhappy circumstances,” he said, coming forward with his black bag.

“Damn it, let’s get to the corpse,” Mack Colby said. “Lead the way. With any luck, no one has disturbed the crime scene.”

“No one has. Jake Mallory is in the cemetery, watching over the scene,” Ashley said.

Mack Colby stopped walking. “And who the hell is Jake Mallory?”

“An old friend,” Ashley said.

“A good old boy. Great!” Mack Colby muttered.

“He’s with the federal government,” Frazier in formed him.

“Feds have to be asked in. He’d best not be fiddling around in my jurisdiction!” Colby said.

“Frankly, I don’t think he and his team fiddle with cases. I think they solve them,” Ashley said, staring at him. Of course, she didn’t really know much of anything about Jake’s team, but this man was truly patronizing, and she was feeling just as indignant as Frazier.

Before he could respond, she said, “This way.”

“Ashley, they can surely find the body on their own,” Frazier said, worried about her and apparently not at all fond of Detective Mack Colby.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. She mentally drew herself up, though it was difficult to do so with dignity when she was running around in a white nightgown.

She turned quickly, assuming that the men would follow. They did. It was surprising that Beth and Frazier chose to follow as well; she was certain that corpses did not fall into Beth’s usual life. But she didn’t protest; Frazier was proud and would insist on seeing what happened on his property. And there was no stopping Beth when she made up her mind.

When they reached the gate, Mack Colby said, “Stop! Who has touched this gate?” he asked.

Ashley turned to stare at him. “Possibly? Hundreds of people. Maybe thousands. There was a reenactment here yesterday. It was after the reenactment that Charles Osgood disappeared—something that we reported to the police.”