Christmas, the Krewe, and Kenneth

  Christmas, the Krewe, and Kenneth

  Copyright © 2020 by Slush Pile Productions

  All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior express written permission of the author. Unauthorized reproduction of this material, electronic or otherwise, will result in legal action.

  Please report the unauthorized distribution of this publication by contacting the author at theoriginalheathergraham.com, via email at [email protected], or at Heather Graham 103 Estainville Ave., Lafayette, LA 70508. Please help stop internet piracy by alerting the author with the name and web address of any questionable or unauthorized distributor.

  Christmas, the Krewe, and Kenneth is a work of fiction. The people and events in Christmas, the Krewe and Kenneth are entirely fictional. The story is not a reflection of historical or current fact, nor is the story an accurate representation of past or current events. Any resemblance between the characters in this novel and any or all persons living, or dead is entirely coincidental.

  No way out of it—Christmas 2020 was going to be different.

  But Jackson Crow and Angela Hawkins are “home for Christmas.” Other agents are covering the office and they’ve just bought a home with a yard for their baby daughter and adopted son.

  But their neighbor, newly widowed, hears strange noises in the yard, a rustling. She might be a little eccentric, but bodies have been found in the Potomac River. Accident or murder? The deceased couple had left behind an autistic son and fingers are pointing toward the boy.

  Jackson and Angela are not on the case . . .

  Until the “rustling” in the yard brings them into it, and their Christmas will be on hold as they rush to keep the consequences of the events from bringing about another death. But the spirit of the season is with them, and they will do what they can to save lives—and Christmas itself for their family.

  PRAISE FOR New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

  “Graham wields a deftly sexy and convincing pen.”

  --Publishers Weekly

  “The vivid details throughout the story are conveyed with precision and planning…Graham has an amazing way of bringing her worlds to life, and the inclusion of historical lore emphasizes the already exceptional writing.”

  --RT Book Reviews on A Perfect Obsession

  “Graham is a master at world building and her latest is a thrilling, dark, and deadly tale of romantic suspense.”---Booklist, starred review, on Haunted Destiny

  “Graham is the queen of romantic suspense.”

  --RT Book Reviews

  “An incredible storyteller.”

  --Los Angeles Daily News

  “Graham stands at the top of the romantic suspense category.”

  --Publishers Weekly

  For more information check out her website at www.theoriginalheathergraham.com.

  Also by HEATHER GRAHAM

  WICKED DEEDS

  DARK RITES

  DYING BREATH

  A PERFECT OBSESSION

  DARKEST JOURNEY

  DEADLY FATE

  HAUNTED DESTINY

  FLAWLESS

  THE HIDDEN

  THE FORGOTTEN

  THE SILENCED

  THE DEAD PLAY ON

  THE BETRAYED

  THE HEXED

  THE CURSED

  WAKING THE DEAD

  THE NIGHT IS FOREVER

  THE NIGHT IS ALIVE

  THE NIGHT IS WATCHING

  LET THE DEAD SLEEP

  THE UNINVITED

  THE UNSPKEN

  THE UNHOLY

  THE UNSEEN

  AN ANGEL FOR CHRISTMAS

  THE EVIL INSIDE

  SACRED EVIL

  HEART OF EVIL

  PHANTOM EVIL

  NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES

  THE KEEPERS

  GHOST MOON

  GHOST NIGHT

  GHOST SHADOW

  Heather Graham

  Christmas, the Krewe

  and Kenneth

  Christmas, the Krewe and Kenneth

  “Angela! Angela! Come here!”

  The hushed whisper came to Angela Hawkins Crow as she tossed a bag of trash into the bin by the side door from the house.

  She knew, of course, the whisperer was their new neighbor, Sandy Wilson.

  “Do you have your gun?” Sandy whispered.

  “No. It’s locked up in a safe in the house,” Angela told her, her tone equally hushed.

  She and Jackson were home—home for the holiday—meaning off work. And home for the holiday meant time with their almost-six-month-old baby girl, Victoria Sophia, and adopted eleven-year-old son, Corby. And since it had been such a hard year for pretty much so everyone in the country, they were grateful for the time with their children.

  But they were “home for the holiday,” and as such both were fierce about making sure their weapons were in the safe when they were home.

  “He’s here! The killer is here!” Sandy whispered.

  Angela took a deep breath. Sandy was easily scared—and wasn’t very through in her explanations at first try. But she was a pleasant and giving woman, in her late seventies, tiny and thin with snow white hair and bright green eyes and a quick and easy smile.

  “What killer?” Angela asked, deciding to be patient, and then concerned if necessary.

  Sandy had been happy when they’d bought the home next to hers. She loved the idea the FBI agents—even if they were from the ‘weird’ unit—would be next to her thus adding a bit of safety to the neighborhood.

  But Sandy was also fanciful. She had become a widow three years back; and while she was often uncomfortable alone in her house, she had told Angela the memories were wonderful, and she couldn’t part with the house. And the children did come to visit.

  Sandy hadn’t been doing well lately, because the children—adults Margot and Denny with their own families—hadn’t been able to come for a visit. Both were essential workers, and Margot lived in New York City while Denny was down in Florida. And while they both seemed to be loving and caring people, they weren’t coming home for Christmas.

  A vaccine was out there now. And they were waiting their turns and getting the vaccine before taking a chance with their older mom.

  They did do Zoom calls constantly. Angela had gotten to meet both that way along with their mix of young children.

  And she’d done her best to assure Sandy her children loved her enough to want to spend all the holidays with her.

  They lost their father; they wanted their mother alive and well.

  Angela took a deep breath.

  Then Angela said, “Sandy, you know Jackson and I would know if there was a murderer in the area,” she said, whispering as Sandy had done. “I don’t think—”

  “It was just on the news.”

  “When?”

  “Just now. You know! ‘Breaking news!’ It was just on.”

  That was possible. She and Jackson and the kids had been watching an animated Disney movie.

  “And then I heard the rustling again. I can’t tell if it’s coming from your property or mine because our trash cans and recyclers almost match up. Angela, haven’t you heard the rustling around the garbage cans at night? Some people just don’t care it’s the season for peace.”

  “Sandy,” They were still whispering. “Sandy, please explain.”

  “They found bodies in the Potomac, and that’s all they’re saying right now.”

  Angela hadn’t heard anything about bodies in the Potomac. Even if they were out of the off
ice, she and Jackson received briefs constantly.

  But if it had just happened . . .

  “Sandy—”

  “I don’t hear it anymore. The rustling. But it sounded as if . . . as if someone were hanging around in the yards or between the yards. Anyone could jump the fence, . . . well, I couldn’t jump the fence, but younger, spryer people could jump the fence. Could you come over for just a minute? Oh, the baby is inside and Corby, but . . . and the dog? Oh, the dog! The dog would know if someone was in the yard, right?”

  “Trust me, the dogs would know—”

  “Dogs? You got another one?”

  “Dog!” Angela said quickly. There were two dogs, but with Sandy already thinking the Krewe of Hunters was a “weird” unit, she didn’t want to explain their terrier mix, Kelly, had a great friend Sean, who was an Irish wolfhound.

  An Irish wolfhound . . . ghost dog. Not know his name when he was alive or who he belonged to, she named him Sean.

  “Jackson is inside, Sandy. I can come over.”

  The barrier between the two yards was a simple fence. No barbs on top. Angela gripped one of the posts and quickly climbed over. Sandy was standing behind the foliage that circled her garbage and recycling bins and the side door into her house.

  “You didn’t bring your gun!” Sandy said.

  Obvious, of course, since the gun was in the safe; and she hadn’t been back in her own house. But she said softly, “We’ll just see.”

  It seemed bizarre she had crossed over the fence to look for an intruder, a possible murderer. She and Jackson had been playing Christmas music. The baby had just fallen asleep after gurgling and clapping at the pretty lights. “Oh, Holy Night” was sounding faintly from her house right now.

  And alone or not, Sandy set out Christmas lights and a plastic Santa on one side of her yard and her plastic Nativity scene on the other.

  Their neighbors had set out lights. And decorations.

  There was a soft, light snowfall on the ground.

  The season of peace! She thought.

  But of course, Sandy was right. Some people didn’t care. And still, it seemed ridiculous to be prowling at dusk between their yards—unarmed—to look for someone with a heart of evil.

  Even if Sandy could be paranoid, she should have gone back into the house and gotten her Glock. But as she had expected, she found nothing.

  It was true. Kelly—and even Sean—would have been barking up a storm, even if it was only the members of Angela’s household who could hear Sean.

  There was no one there in either yard.

  And there was no sign of anyone having been there.

  Angela checked. Thoroughly.

  “Sandy, what else did they say about the bodies in the Potomac?”

  Angela and Jackson had recently moved in the house. She did have a gun and she was a crack shot with it. Probably, due to what they did, they were always careful. She didn’t want Sandy to be frightened, but she did want to find out what she could about what the woman had seen on the news. That would be the only way to reassure her.

  Of course, she could find out more by calling headquarters. This Christmas, Jon Dickson was manning the office along with Will Chan and Kat Sokolov.

  If something were going on, they would know soon enough. And as to intruders . . .

  The house was always locked. They had an alarm system, something they had decided they were going to get for Sandy Wilson.

  Raccoons? Had the woman heard raccoons, hungry creatures, just hoping to knock over a trash can?

  It was just too absurd to think they were going to have something happen here close to Arlington Cemetery, a family neighborhood, a place where people could count on their neighbors—even if they saw them at a distance wearing their masks because of Covid19.

  They had just purchased the house in Arlington and only been living in it a few weeks.

  But Angela was in love with the place and the area; they had a home, a family home. It was the best Christmas present she and Jackson had ever managed for one another. For years and years now, home had been just being together. But now . . .

  A real home for their family. They had gone so many years together since they’d met on the first “Krewe of Hunters” case as a couple, dedicated to their work and to one another.

  But then just last year, they’d adopted a little boy—now eleven years old—and had their own baby.

  And they were still dedicated to one another and their work, but now they had a family. They had wanted a yard where they could set up swings; in summer they would buy an above-ground pool. Corby could have friends over. The baby could learn to walk and stumble around in real grass.

  It had meant a lot, and they had made a pact they wouldn’t buy one another silly little things; they would buy their dream home.

  Sandy Wilson was even part of what she loved so much—a quirky neighbor who was a little needy but endlessly kind to Corby.

  “I . . . was making cranberry relish and not really paying attention. But then I heard bodies had been found in the Potomac right when I heard the strange rustling sound again, and . . . I don’t know. I mean, you’ll know, won’t you?” Sandy asked her.

  Angela nodded. “I’ll tell you what. Let me go in and see Jackson and find out if we’ve gotten any calls. I’ll send Jackson over to go through the house, make sure you’re safe, and get you locked in for the night. How’s that? And you have our numbers on speed dial, so if you hear anything again, you just give us a call.”

  “That would be great. Thank you,” Sandy said.

  Sandy turned to go back into her house, and Angela climbed over the fence again to return to hers the way she had come.

  Corby was on the floor by the Christmas tree watching an animated Christmas show and scratching Kelly’s ears.

  Kelly, their strange looking mix, a dog that more-or-less resembled a mix of a Scottie and Vietnamese pig, was in seventh heaven getting scratched and curled up against her ghostly companion, Sean.

  The baby was still sleeping in her crib. When Victoria had fallen asleep in her arms; she’d gently placed the baby in the crib.

  Jackson was near the group in one of the big comfortable armchairs they had chosen for the living room, but he was frowning and studying his phone.

  “Bodies in the Potomac?” she asked quietly, coming up behind him.

  He glanced up at her, surprised.

  “You’ve added ESP to your talents?” he asked her. “I received a call on it about five minutes ago. And you’ve been in the yard . . . right! So wait, I’m a trained investigator. Let me reason this out or better yet, guess. Sandy already knows about them.”

  “And she was convinced the murderer was hanging around in her yard.”

  “So, you checked it out?”

  “I did. But I promised you’d go over and search her house and then lock her in. But what about the bodies?”

  He sighed softly. “They aren’t giving out a lot of information yet to the public, though I believe maybe they should be doing so. I talked to Jon Dickson. Two people were found, a husband and wife, both in their late forties.” He paused, shaking his head. “The matter is with the police, but Jon wanted me to know and to know the circumstances. We have good communication with the local authorities, thankfully, and they like us aware of cases even when they don’t involve us. The medical examiner hasn’t gotten to the autopsies yet, but in his initial and preliminary findings and educated estimation, they drowned. They have a son—and neighbors suspect the son.”

  “That a son killed his parents—at Christmas?” Angela asked, shaking her head.

  She’d wanted a quiet Christmas so badly! It had been a hard year, and she knew it had been harder for many people. They had lost friends during the year but not family. They had worked, and so many others were out of work. Despite what she did for a living, she’d wanted to believe in the Christmas spirit, in man’s goodness to man.

  Jackson rose, indicating they should talk in their home of
fice. She nodded and followed him.

  “I believe it’s one of those cases that slipped through the cracks. The son has a severe case of autism. The parents felt saddled with him. They were charged with child endangerment once. They claimed he’d run off; witnesses said they’d seen the pair just put him out of their car on the beltway. The boy has the mind of a two-year-old but the strength of a powerful seventeen-year-old. The police don’t know the boy did it; but apparently—according to neighbors—if he did do it, it was well-deserved. I’m not a judge or a jury, but in my mind it might have been someone else. The couple was known for abusing drugs and for selling. Then there is this—no marks on the bodies. They weren’t beaten; they weren’t held beneath the water. There is the possibility of accidental drowning.”

  “They both accidentally jumped into the river and drowned?” Angela asked.

  “That doesn’t sound plausible. But even if the child is autistic, for people to assume he’s the killer—even if the parents had been brutal to him—doesn’t seem right to me.”

  “And I guess the police have chosen not to say too much because they don’t want a scared person to shoot the boy on sight.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter how you look at it, the situation is sad,” Angela said. “I hope they find the boy.”

  He nodded. “One of the saddest situations I ever worked was similar. The kid did do it. He had been playing with his father, just wrestling around, when the dad fell on a marble floor and . . . well, he just fell wrong. He was in a coma, and we were looking for an intruder, but the kid was hysterical and couldn’t explain, but finally he did. And here’s the good upshot to that case—the dad lived, and the neighbor who had been arrested was released, and he was still kind to the kid and helped out around the place when the dad was released from the hospital.”

  She smiled. “Sometimes, we get to prove that people are good, too.” She frowned.