Admit One (21 page)

He lifted a handful of soil, let it sift through his fingers. Grave dirt. Some people believed there was power in it.

Will wasn’t one of them, but he did believe in the power of the almighty dollar.

“Was any dirt removed from the scene?”

“Not enough so that we noticed.  Didn’t seem like any bones were removed or anything, either, least not from what the coroner could tell. Just the clothes and whatnot. Now, there were some were speculating on it being devil worshippers. Hell, some people even suggested they might be zombies, but that’s just a bunch of hogwash from people who watch too much TV. I considered it might be some other kind of occult ritual – and I know from speakin’ with you that you’re familiar with what I’m talking about. But this looked a little too clinical for that, if you know what I mean. No evidence of ritual that I could see.”

“You think it’s relic hunters,” Will said.

“Don’t see how it could be otherwise. I’ve heard of that sort of thing before, know that there are people – collectors – who’ll pay a pretty penny for historical memorabilia. Can’t imagine who’d want something as had been taken from a nearly two hundred year old corpse, but then I guess those pyramids in Egypt are a hell of a lot older than that, and people didn’t seem to suffer any compunction about picking them clean. Course, those artifacts were made of gold, I guess, and here we’re talking about rotted cloth and buttons. Maybe some sort of personal mementoes. Anyway, I’m hoping that eventually whoever did this will try to sell an item to the wrong person, but so far they haven’t been dumb enough to advertise on eBay. I’ve got my people watching, we’ve got alerts set up, but like I said – so far, no luck.”

Will glanced up, noted the rays of the sun were fading where they shone through the canopy. It would be dark soon. He needed to head back, help Harlan get their father settled for the night.

Or as settled as they could, anyway.

“I appreciate you taking the time to show me,” Will said as he stood up, brushed his hands on his pants.

Burke shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I’m old enough to believe that sometimes it helps to put eyes on something rather than just looking at photos or reading case notes or looking something up on the damn internet.”

Will’s answering smile was wry. “Youngsters these days just don’t know how much fun it is to get your hands dirty” 

Burke’s laugh sounded like rusty nails rattling around in a can.

When they were back at the gates and Burke was locking up behind them, Will considered one last thing. “You didn’t happen to find any sort of ribbon near the gravesites, did you?”

“Ribbon?” Burke paused in the act of turning the key. “What sort of ribbon?”

“Black, about half an inch wide. Little loopy things along the edges.”

“Can’t say that we did.” He put the keys in his pocket. “You think this is connected to what you got going on down in Sweetwater?”

“I don’t have any evidence – nothing concrete, anyway – to connect them.” But the fact that Jimmy Owen had lived in Burke County for a spell had his instincts twitching.

Burke might be getting older, but his gaze was still razor sharp. “You and me, we both know that you wouldn’t have driven all this way if you didn’t have your suspicions.”

“Oh, I have them. And if I can find anything to back them up, I’ll be sure to keep you in the loop. That way you can calm that bee in your bonnet before you’re tempted to swat it.”

“That’s a plan,” the older man smiled, teeth flashing white in his ebony face.

Thunder rumbled and they both glanced at the darkening sky. “Looks like we got another storm coming,” Burke observed.

“Seems that way,” Will agreed, shaking the other man’s hand. “I better get on home.”

MASON’S
hands slipped along the leather steering wheel, and he looked down at them in surprise. His palms were sweating.

He checked the dashboard controls, held his fingertips to the vent to ensure that cool air was indeed blowing. The brief storm that had blown through a short while ago had left behind a sort of sticky residue in the air, like a meteorological version of liquid cement, but the temperature in the car showed a perfectly reasonable seventy-two degrees.

Yet his palms were sweating.

Bloody hell. Was he actually…
nervous?

Mason couldn’t recall the last time he’d been nervous. His first professional stage performance, perhaps?

No, he remembered feeling more excited at that point than anything. Maybe he had been nervous, but it had been subsumed by the thrill of doing what he did best, by the applause, the accolades from the audience. He always experienced one brief, terrifying moment of panic just before he stepped onto the stage, but once he was there, his own fears, his own desires and needs faded. He became the character. He was no longer Mason Armitage.

And that was the problem, he acknowledged, as he held the wheel steady around the bend in the road that led to Allie’s home. He wasn’t playing someone else tonight. There was no script. And he’d never particularly cared for improvisation.

“You’re an idiot,” he told himself aloud. It was a date, a simple date, with a woman that he knew. More, a woman he considered a friend.

Which was what made him nervous, he acknowledged. For all his social acquaintances, for all the camaraderie with the cast and crew of the various productions, the endless amounts of time he’d spent in close quarters on the set, the interaction with fans, Mason – somewhere deep inside his soul – was a loner. He did not easily let people in.

Allison… his hands tightened on the wheel. Allison was someone whom he wanted to let in. But the problem was that he wasn’t entirely sure what she would find there.

He wasn’t entirely sure that he knew how to simply be… himself.

Annoyed with himself – whoever that may be – Mason decided that it was time to disembark from the Introspection Train before it totally derailed. It was dinner, for bleeding Christ’s sake. One dined, engaged in small talk, and hoped for a bit of physical interaction afterward.

He could bloody well handle that.

He parked in the circular drive in front of the columned verandah, noting that without electric lights shining in the windows the house looked much as it must have two centuries ago. The odd half-light between dusk and moonrise seemed to make the house glow with a spectral light of its own, so that for a brief instant it appeared to have no more substance than one of the wraiths Allison talked about on her tours. The air seemed to shimmer, causing Mason to blink as he turned off the ignition.

No lights, he thought again, noting the significance for the first time. He hoped their power hadn’t been knocked out by the storm. He checked his cell phone to be sure Allie hadn’t tried to reach him, but there were no missed calls or texts. Not from her, anyway.

Frowning, he retrieved the gift bag containing the necklace from the front seat and headed up the steps to the front door.

His first knock wasn’t answered. Nor was the second. Finally, when he was about to raise his fist for the third time, he found himself facing Branson across the threshold.

“I’ve woken you,” Mason said.

“What?” Bran ran a hand over his rather striking face, which currently bore the imprint of whatever patterned object it had been resting upon. “Oh. Yeah. No problem.” He stepped back, gestured Mason inside. “Here, let me turn on some lights.” He hit a switch, and the mellow glow from several wall sconces brightened the hall. “Sorry. Dad went down early, Harlan went out and I must have crashed while reading on the sofa. No offense to Tucker’s latest book,” he added with a rueful smile. “Just catching up from the sleep I missed over the past week, I guess.”   

“The first week of a new production is always hectic,” Mason agreed.

“Well, it went a lot smoother than it otherwise would have if you hadn’t stepped in to help. I’m indebted to you.”

Mason waived that away, nodding toward the light fixtures. “I’m relieved to see that your power wasn’t affected by the storm.”

“Storm?” Bran looked blank. “Wow, I must have been more tired than I thought.” He shook his head, then glanced around. “I’m surprised Allie didn’t turn some lights on though, since she knew you were coming. Uh, can I offer you a glass of wine or something while you wait for her to come down?” 

Mason started to demur, then considered his sweaty palms. “That would be brilliant. Thank you.”

Bran, coming back to himself a little as they made their way to the bar tucked into the corner of the parlor, raised a brow at Mason’s attire. “I do believe this is the first time I’ve seen you looking decidedly British,” he said, approval in his tone. “You wear it very well.”

“Yes, well, I’ve generally tried to blend in before. While in Rome and all.”

Bran sighed as he poured the wine. “And God knows the men here aren’t exactly fashionistas. Not that I don’t approve of a really good pair of worn jeans.” He waggled his eyebrows. “But it
is
nice to see a man who knows an ascot from a bandana.”

“You’re a bit out of your element here, aren’t you?” Mason said as he laid the gift bag on the bar and accepted the glass Bran offered in toast.

“I used to think so,” Bran said, sipping his own wine. “That’s why I ran off to Europe the minute I had access to my trust fund. But you know, since starting up the Playhouse again, being here with my family, I’ve realized more that I was running away than running toward. And that’s not something I’m particularly proud of. I guess your element is where you make it, and for now, I intend to make it here.”

“Noble of you,” Mason said.

“More stubborn,” Bran clarified. “I am who I am, and I’m no longer willing to let anyone convince me that’s something I should be ashamed of. Plus, it’s been rather amusing to shock the sensibilities of some of the stuffier denizens of the town. Imagine, a gay man residing among them and still no horsemen of the apocalypse in sight.”

“Dogs and cats, living together…”

Bran chuckled, and then winked. “It’s just a shame Allie saw you first. Speaking of Al.” He glanced toward the doorway. “I thought she would have realized that you’re here seeing as her room is right over the front door, but maybe she was drying her hair or something and didn’t hear you knock. Hang on.” He moved over toward a panel on the wall. “Intercom,” he explained. “Makes it easier to communicate in this place. Allie, my treasure?” he said as he pushed a button. “Your knight in shining Burberry is here.”

He waited a few moments, but didn’t get a response. “Allie?” he said as he pushed the button again. 

“Perhaps she’s changed her mind,” Mason suggested.

“And give people something else to talk about? I doubt it.”

“People are talking about… right, right. Of course,” Mason said when Bran gave him a look. “How silly of me.”

“Just as an FYI, you may want to skip making reservations in the future, unless you want your plans to become public knowledge. Or hell, drive over to Savannah. People are still crazy over there, but there are a lot more of them to keep the gossips busy.”

“I’ll remember that for future reference.” A grandfather clock somewhere chimed the hour, and Mason shifted on the stool. “Perhaps she’s waiting to make a dramatic entrance.”

Bran rolled his eyes. “Allie’s version of a dramatic entrance is to trip over her own feet. Let me just run up, see what’s keeping her.”

Mason looked about the parlor while he waited. Exquisitely furnished with antiques, a number of which Mason gathered were probably original to the house, the small signs of habitation – a pair of shoes that had been discarded beneath a wing chair, the wrapper from some sort of snack food crumpled into a carnival glass dish – nonetheless lent it a comfortable air. It wasn’t too unlike his mother’s parlor, though his mum would have taken one glance at the discarded wrapper and given him and his father one of her infamous looks – as effective as a cracking whip.

Not unlike the old woman, Josie. Mason could only assume that she was no longer in residence here, as he’d noticed the way the Hawbaker men, in particular, danced to her tune like especially well trained circus elephants. Judging by what he’d seen of her immaculate kitchen at the Dust Jacket, he doubted that she would tolerate even minor displays of slovenliness.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs pulled Mason’s attention back to the present moment. Branson rounded the corner, his brows drawn tightly together.

“Are you sure you didn’t get your wires crossed, maybe Allie thought she was supposed to meet you at the restaurant?”

“No,” Mason said slowly. “We actually had a rather pointed discussion on the matter. She knew I was to pick her up. Why?” he said, and the first finger of uneasiness tickled his chest. “Was she not in her room?”

“Not in her room, not in Dad’s room. Not asleep in Dad’s chair in the library, which is where I usually find her. I tried dialing her phone, but it went straight to voicemail. Was her car in the drive?”

“No,” Mason said. “Nor was it at the store. I saw her leaving there around five o’clock, as I was on the porch with Tucker at the time.”

Bran chewed his lower lip. “Let me call Sarah, she if she’s heard from her.”