Bone Island 01 - Ghost Shadow (6 page)

He stepped outside, the door closed and he was gone.

“Well,” Bartholomew exclaimed. “Well, well-well. How touching.”

“Don’t be-a jerk,” Katie said.

“Excuse me,” Bartholomew said indignantly. “I wasn’t being a jerk. I meant it. How touching. I think I do like this fellow after all.”

Katie was thoughtful. “If he is able to find out the truth…”

“Stop right there,” Bartholomew said.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you hear him? He doesn’t want you involved. And, hey-it’s never been proved that he was guilty, but it’s never been proved that he was innocent.”

Katie looked solidly at Bartholomew. “I don’t intend to do anything, seriously. I’m going to hope for the best for him. But if he does find out the truth, he may change his mind, and I may get the museum.”

Bartholomew appeared to shudder. “Katie, if he’s right, the situation is dangerous. Oh, yes, there’s so much more that can be discovered these days than when I was walking the shoreline. DNA, RNA, whichever is which and what. Skin cells, even fingerprints, footprints…genetic markers. Whatever. The thing is, the killer was never caught. David Beckett thinks that it wasn’t a random act or the act of a psycho who moved on. If he’s trying to discover the truth and it was someone from around here who still lives here, that person isn’t going to want anyone knowing the truth.”

“What we want isn’t always what we get-it’s time for a murderer to come to justice,” Katie said.

“Right. Great sentiment,” Bartholomew agreed. “But this person killed once, very cleverly, so it seems. If he’s threatened, he’ll certainly kill again. Katie, look at me-this guy will kill again. Like Beckett said, young woman, you stay the hell out of it. You wouldn’t want to wind up being a tableau in the museum yourself now, would you, Miss Katherine O’Hara?”

Danny Zigler seemed the right place to start. He knew Key West like the back of his hand. He had been here then-and he’d remained to sometimes tell stories about the night, along with other bits and pieces of Key West myth and legend. He had been something of a friend. He was a legend in his own peculiar way.

At the moment, Danny worked part-time for one of the ghost-tour companies and part-time for an ice-cream parlor on Duval. He had always been a nice guy with an easygoing personality-and not a bit of ambition. Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing, David didn’t know. Sometimes Danny was unemployed, and that would be fine with Danny until he was dead broke, then he’d make the effort to become employed again. He was a fixture in Key West.

It was still early, and not much on or just off Duval Street opened early, except for the chain drugstore, coffee shops and an Internet café. But David knew that the ice-cream shop would be getting ready to open, and it might be the best time to talk to Danny.

When he reached the shop, David could see Danny inside, wiping down one of the milk-shake machines. He rapped on the glass. Danny looked up and over at him, and a broad smile lit up his face. He hurried to the door. David heard the locks being sprung, and then the door opened.

“David Beckett! I heard you were headed back into town. Man, how are you! It’s so damned cool to see you!” Danny declared. His enthusiasm seemed real, and he gave David a hug and stepped back. “Damn, man, and you are looking good!”

Danny was eternally thin. His brown hair, long and worn in a queue at his nape, was now beginning to show threads of gray. His face was pockmarked from a now preventable childhood illness and his features were lean. His eyes, however, were a warm brown, and he did well with people. He excelled at telling stories, and he’d been a wonderful guide years ago, when he had worked at the museum. David wondered if Danny’s life hadn’t been altered by the events at the museum, as well.

“Thanks, Danny,” David said. “So how are you doing?”

Danny shrugged, wiping his hands on the white apron he wore over his jeans and a Metallica tee. “I can’t complain, can’t complain. They’re getting more and more letters on what a great ‘ghost host’ I am for the weekend tours and, hey-I can have all the free ice cream I want. I have a sunset every night, and saltwater and sand between my toes.” He frowned. “Hey, there’s a rumor that you’re refusing to sell the museum to Katie O’Hara. Is that true?”

David nodded. “I’m sorry, Danny.”

“Your museum, your call.”

“It’s not actually my museum. I do have the major interest, but my grandfather left Liam and me in charge of his estate. We have to agree on everything, and I just don’t agree with reopening that place.”

“I understand, man.”

“I’m sorry, Danny. You were the best guide known to man.”

“No skin off my nose, David. Seriously. I just live, and I get by, and that’s what makes me happy,” Danny assured him. “Katie would have done a good job, though. She’s a great little go-getter, good businesswoman. But you know her, right?”

“She was a kid when I left.”

“Hey, we were all kids when you left. So, where have you been? They said you became some kind of a big-shot photographer. A photojournalist.”

“I’m not sure if I’m a big shot. I make a decent living,” David told him.

“I’m sorry you missed Craig’s funeral,” Danny said.

“I saw him when he was alive. He was always the mainstay of my life,” David told him.

“You been to the grave site?”

“Not yet.”

Danny obviously disapproved of that fact, but he didn’t say so. He asked, “So how long do you plan on staying around?”

“I’m not sure yet. I haven’t made any commitments for the near future. We’ll see. Tell me how you’ve been, Danny.”

“Me? I’m fine. I don’t need a lot. Just enough to survive and enjoy myself.”

“Still never married? Is there a special girl?”

Danny laughed. “Well, I know several girls who are special. Girls I like, and girls I see. But they’re not the kind you bring home to Mom, you know what I mean? But, hey, I know the scoop around here. I’m just looking for fun, and they’re just looking for a few bucks. It’s cool, it’s the way I want it.”

“Sure.”

“No commitments, and that’s the way I like it. Don’t be feeling sorry for me, I’m a happy man. Really.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Danny looked at him thoughtfully. “So, what are you up to?”

“Settling affairs.”

“Of course. Hey, I have one of the ghost tours Saturday night. You should come. I’m in rare form, and I really do a good job.”

“Maybe I will.”

Danny hesitated again. He winced. “You know, they usually do mention Tanya now in the tours. They say that she’s a ghost, and that she haunts the museum house.”

“And you tell the story, too, right?” David asked.

“I’m sorry,” Danny said.

“If you’re doing a ghost tour, I’m assuming it makes a good story, and it’s not your fault,” David assured him.

Danny looked around awkwardly for a moment. “Hey, you want some ice cream?”

David shook his head. “No, thanks, Danny. You know, you said that you retell the story on your tours. What do you say?”

Danny looked pale suddenly. “I-I-”

“You say that I was under suspicion, right?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” He was lying; he was lying out of kindness, so it seemed.

“Do you remember what really happened?” David asked.

“What do you mean, what really happened? I wasn’t working either day. You were working for me, don’t you remember?”

“Of course, I remember that. But what do you remember?”

“Not much, man.”

“What did you do the night of her murder with your free time?”

Danny thought a minute. “I had a few drinks at one of the joints on Duval. And I was down at Mallory Square. Then I went home. I woke up the next morning when I heard all the sirens-I was living in an apartment on Elizabeth Street back then. I came outside and saw the cops and the M.E.’s car over at the museum and walked over.”

“Did you see Tanya at all that night?” David asked.

“No…yes! Early. Well, it was late afternoon, I guess. Around five. I saw her down in one of the bars. I talked to her, I think. Yes, I did talk to her. I’d heard she was leaving town, and that things had kind of faded apart between you two. She said she had a few people to see that night, and that she’d be taking a rental up to Miami, and flying out from there the next day.”

“So, five o’clock. Where?”

Danny shook his head. “I think…maybe, yeah! I was toward the south side of Duval. It might even have been Katie’s uncle’s place.”

“Thanks, Danny,” David told him. “Did you tell the cops that at the time?”

“I’m sure that I did,” Danny told him. “Why?”

“Because her killer has never been caught,” David said.

“Right,” Danny said.

“Well, good to see you, and thanks again,” David told him.

“Sure thing. Sure. And I really can’t give you an ice cream?”

“No, but thanks,” David told him.

He waved to Danny and left.

Five o’clock. If Danny was right, Tanya had been at O’Hara’s at five o’clock on the Saturday night she had been murdered.

And Danny hadn’t seen her again.

Important, if it was the truth. If he wasn’t covering up.

For himself.

Or for someone else.

It was Danny’s story then, and it was Danny’s story now. He had seen Tanya at five. Sometime in the next few hours, she’d been murdered, and sometime after that-certainly after midnight, after the museum had closed-she had been laid out in place of Elena de Hoyos.

David had returned for the first tour the following morning.

Had she been laid out just for him to find?

The answer to that question might be the answer to her murder.

“People aren’t really to be found at the cemetery, you know,” Bartholomew said. “Well, most people. The thing is, of course, that most of us move on. And we remain behind only in the memories of those who loved us. Or hated us. Well, usually, people move on. Okay, okay, well, sometimes you can find people wandering around a cemetery, but… Well, that’s because they have to remain because… Wait, why am I remaining? Oh, hmm. I think it may be because of you. But I digress. You will not find Craig Beckett in this cemetery. He was a good man, and his conscience was clean. He’s moved on.”

“I know that he’s not in the cemetery,” Katie said.

“Then…why are we here?” Bartholomew asked.

“You don’t have to be here,” she said.

“No, I don’t have to be here. But you do not behave with the intelligence you were granted at birth. Therefore, I feel it is my cross to bear in life to follow you around,” Bartholomew told her.

“Hey! I am not your cross to bear, and I do behave intelligently,” Katie said, shaking her head and praying for patience. “It’s broad daylight. There are tourists all over the cemetery.”

“But why are we here?”

“Whether the person is here or not-and, of course, I don’t begin to assume that Craig Beckett’s soul would be in his worn and embalmed body in his tomb-I just like to come. It’s beautiful, and it’s a place where I can think. When other people, alive or dead, are not driving me right up the wall.”

“What is it you need to think about?” Bartholomew demanded.

“Craig. I just want to remember him. Could I have a bit of respectful silence?” she asked.

The Key West cemetery was on a high point in the center of the island. In 1846, a massive hurricane had washed up a number of earlier graves and sent bodies down Duval Street in a flood. After that, high ground was chosen. Now, many of the graves were in the ground, but many more were above-ground graves. Tombs, shelves and strange grave sites dotted the cemetery, along with more typical mausoleum-type graves.

It was estimated that there were one-hundred-thousand people interred at the Key West cemetery, in one way or another, triple the actual full-time population of the island.

Katie did love the cemetery. It was just like the island itself, historic and eccentric, full of the old and the new. There were Civil War soldiers buried here, there was a monument to those lost aboard the Maine and there were many graves with curious sentiments, her favorite being, “I told you I was sick!”

Craig Beckett was in a family mausoleum that had been there since the majority of the island’s dead had been moved here. One of the most beautiful angel sculptures in the cemetery stood high atop the roof of the mausoleum, and tourists were frequently near, taking pictures of the sculpture. When the Beckett family had originally purchased their final resting place, the cost had been minimal. Now such a structure, along with the small spit of ground it stood upon, would cost in the mid-to-high hundreds of thousands of dollars.

“There she is!” Bartholomew said suddenly.

“Who? Where?” Katie asked.

“The woman in white,” Bartholomew said. “There, where the oldest graves are.”

Bartholomew was right. She was standing above one of the graves. Her head was lowered, and her hands were folded before her.

“I’m going to talk to her,” Bartholomew said.

“I don’t think she wants to talk,” Katie said. “Bartholomew, you should wait.”

He didn’t want to wait. He left Katie and went striding quickly toward the beautiful ghost figure in long, flowing white. As he neared her, she turned. She saw him.

And then she was gone.

Katie shook her head. Sadly, the world of relationships was always hard. Even for ghosts. Maybe more so for ghosts.

She heard laughter and turned. A group of tourists was coming along; they had just been visiting the area of the monument to the survivors of the Maine; a wrought-iron fence encircled a single bronze sailor who looked out over the markers of his companions.

They were now coming to take pictures of the Beckett tomb with its beautiful, high-rising angel. Katie decided to slip away.

She walked around to an area where graves were stacked mausoleum-style in several rows, and stood where she wouldn’t be seen. The group was a happy one, and she knew that visiting the historic and unusual cemetery was something that people did. Since life was basically a circle and all men died, it seemed a good thing that people enjoyed a walk in the cemetery. But today, for some reason, the laughter irritated her.

Bartholomew remained around the oldest graves. He had gone down on one knee, and she assumed he was trying to read the etching on some of the gravestones.

As she waited and watched, she was surprised to see the woman in white appear again. She was behind Bartholomew. Bartholomew didn’t see her. As Katie watched, the woman started to place a hand on his shoulder.

Again, the group of tourists seemed to issue, in unison, a loud stream of laughter. The woman turned to fog, and she was gone.

But there was someone else there. A girl. She was also in white, but she was wearing a more modern gown, one similar to the famous halter dress in which Marilyn Monroe had been immortalized in dozens of pictures.

She, too, watched Bartholomew.

She looked around, though, and saw Katie. She seemed to panic.

Then she, too, was gone.

Katie frowned; there had been something about that particular ghost-something that seemed to stir inside her. Katie should have recognized her.

But she didn’t. Irritated, Katie dismissed the idea.

Ghosts everywhere! she thought.

Well, she was in a cemetery. But, as Bartholomew had said, ghosts didn’t really linger that often in cemeteries. They haunted the areas where they had been happy, where they had faced trauma or where they searched for something they hadn’t found in life.

“Hiding?”

The very real, solid and almost tangible sound of a deep male voice made her jump. Katie swung around.

David Beckett had come to the cemetery.

“Hiding? No. Just-waiting,” she said.

“I guess it’s a good thing that a cemetery, even an active cemetery, draws the laughter of the living,” David said. He watched as the loud group moved on.

“You came to see your grandfather?” she asked.