Haunted Be the Holidays, Page 3

  Her phone rang, and she glanced at the caller I.D. before answering it quickly. It was Charly Atwood, who managed the box office.

  “Hey, Charly,” she said.

  “Hey Kody, I just wanted to let you know—we have a full house for our performance this afternoon. We’d been down to a few seats…but I called around and did a little shuffling so people desperate for a pair of tickets might sit together.” He laughed softly. “Seriously, how many theaters would offer that kind of help?”

  “Oh, Charly, that’s wonderful. Thank you so much. I’m almost there. Just coming down the street.”

  “I didn’t call to rush you. Just to let you know. Ginny is here already, checking costumes, and Percy is working on set. Everything is going great.”

  “Thank you so much. I’m almost there anyway. See you soon. And thank you again. That is above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “A labor of love,” he assured her, and hung up.

  Charly Atwood was an amazing man. He’d worked at the theater twenty years ago, before it had been abandoned—for the third or fourth time in its history—for lack of funds and enthusiasm. There were several box office employees, of course, but Charly managed it all and was amazing at numbers and keeping sales going—even arranging for rearranging what had already been purchased.

  Ginny Granger, wardrobe mistress, was equally wonderful. She’d worked several years on Broadway and could keep up with costumes like no one else. And Percy Ainsworth was just about magic—he had a heck of a history, having been on stage himself years before, and made his way up through the ranks with his stagecraft. A gifted man, he managed all areas—props, building, breaking down, saving—he could change sets, repair sets, and even build a new set in the blink of an eye.

  She was grateful for them all.

  Nearing the theater, she paused, surprised to discover she was…

  Looking for ghosts.

  Well, there certainly weren’t any to be seen. What she did see was more children—scores of children. Big ones, little ones—all out for candy. It was Halloween, after all. They were in costumes. Moms and dads or uncles, aunts, cousins, or friends walked with them, sometimes in costume, and sometimes not.

  No other little munchkins ran up to her for treats, but they were an entertaining sight.

  Yep, it was Halloween.

  Kody loved costumes—maybe it was part of loving the theater.

  And that was why she immediately noticed the death’s head costume.

  It was eerily similar to the one that had been designed for their play.

  The costume’s mask resembled a death’s head on a seventeenth-century tombstone. The mouth gaped open, and the figure was wearing—as all evil characters seemed to sport—a black cape and hood.

  The “death’s head” character spun around on the street, delighting kids as they scurried away.

  It did a little dance on the sidewalk right in front of Kody, and the performance was a good one—the costume wearer could dance. He or she was doing a big à la Michael Jackson number, well timed and compelling, even with the cape on.

  Only a Fedora was needed to make it complete.

  Kody hadn’t realized she had paused to watch—until the end of the performance.

  Then the character—with its gaping-mouth death’s head mask—came to a stop. People on the street started to applaud. Kody did the same.

  Then it turned to her, slowly, theatrically, as if knowing she—specifically—was there.

  It bowed deeply, rose, looked at her a long moment, and then walked off into the crowd.

  Kody gave herself a serious mental shake as a wave of coldness ran through her body. She wasn’t easily frightened, and she didn’t know what it was about the performance that had disturbed her. Everyone around her was clapping. And it was Halloween. It was ridiculous to be afraid of a costumed performer on Halloween.

  Except, of course, tonight she was in a show featuring a very similar figure. An evil being out to kidnap and kill her character.

  Was that it?

  Enough. Her children’s theater’s last production of the Halloween show was coming up, and all the costumed characters were filled with fun and made children laugh.

  Her own performance in the night’s production would follow quickly. She needed to move. Forget the strange dance she had just seen—better yet, appreciate it for what it had been, a charming dance by an adult who loved Halloween and wanted to entertain those on the street.

  She hurried on toward the theater.

  But the strange chill that had invaded her remained.

  * * * *

  A shelf full of grisly masks sat to Brodie McFadden’s right, along with zombie costumes—still popular and in high demand—and hanging skeletons and little witches’ cauldrons, guaranteed to stir up some fog with just “a tiny drop of water.”

  At the end of the aisle was a blood-soaked creature wielding a hatchet. It had a sign that promised, “Guaranteed to scare the pants off your friends! Motion-activated!”

  Brodie shook his head, turning to his left.

  These shelves boasted dancing reindeer, a plastic, laughing Santa, ornaments in every color of the rainbow, and a section devoted to different Menorahs.

  It was Halloween—and already, Christmas ornaments and décor were flowing over the shelves.

  Brodie took a moment to note the discrepancy of the offerings, and then turned back to the anxious young clerk, Rebecca Cameron, who stood in front of him.

  “Okay,” he said gently. “You’re convinced the blood was real?”

  “You don’t believe me!” she said indignantly.

  “No, I believe you. I just want you to think carefully. It is Halloween. You don’t think the young woman was in costume, or the blood might have been faked?” he asked.

  The clerk was about twenty-four years old, tiny in height, dark-eyed and dark-haired, with a round, friendly face. Right now, however, her eyes were large, pupils dilated, and she appeared to be frightened.

  “Mr. McFadden,” she said. “I’m telling you, I’ve worked here since I got out of high school. I…I know kids at Halloween—and adults at Halloween. This woman…she was crazed. I think she…that she—she ate someone, somewhere.”

  “Ate them?” he asked carefully.

  “Or drained them of blood. I could smell blood on her—it had that rusting tin kind of smell…”

  He did know the smell. He might be a consultant at the moment, and not officially a Krewe agent yet, but he’d been military, he’d been a private eye—and, unfortunately, he’d already been on more than a few murder investigations.

  “Oh, I don’t know—she ate someone—someone munched on her neck. There was just so much blood.”

  “It could have been fake,” he said gently.

  “Not unless she ordered some ‘Eau de Blood’ to go with it! I know costumes and makeup. We’re right by the theater, and,” she added dryly, “I have witnessed Halloween all my life. And at Halloween, there are always people running around in costume—and not just the players. But this…this was real blood.”

  “All right, you said she was covered in blood. And it could have been hers. Could she have been hurt somehow?” Brodie asked. “Was there any kind of an injury you could see?”

  “Oh, God!” the young clerk said. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe she was in real pain. But she was obnoxious—threatening. She wanted opioids. Yes, I mean, I guess that would mean she might be hurt. Her neck was all red—but the blood was all over the costume, too. At a distance, I thought maybe she was doing a just-enjoyed-dinner vampire or something. But when she got closer…there was that smell!”

  “And when she got belligerent at the pharmacy counter, you heard her—and walked up and warned her you were going to call the police?” Brodie asked.

  Rebecca nodded solemnly.

  He glanced quickly at the notes on his cellphone. The woman was young, but as she said, she’d been there several years. She was a clerk, and an assist
ant store manager, and she had called in the incident—which might have been a non-incident, not something that would normally involve the FBI.

  Except Detective Angus Hilton of the D.C. police was close friends with Jackson Crow, head of the Krewe unit of the bureau. Since Brodie had just picked up Jackson to head to the theater—all who could were gathering for the last children’s and adult Halloween season shows—he had found himself investigating what might have been an addict’s attempt to fulfill a craving.

  Halloween—like a full moon—brought out the crazies.

  But there had been a rash of disappearances in the District of Columbia and surrounding areas, which meant Angus had asked Jackson for help. And, while Brodie spoke with the clerk, Jackson was talking to Angus, getting a better grip on the detective’s concerns.

  Inwardly, he sighed.

  It was supposed to have been a great afternoon and a good night.

  Of course, it would still be a good night and a good afternoon, he was certain. When they finished up here, they’d head for the theater.

  No, no they wouldn’t, he admitted to himself. Not until they had done some investigating themselves, no matter how many law enforcement officers were out on the streets, ready for the craziness of Halloween.

  He glanced quickly across rows of paper towels, plastic cups, and dish detergent. Jackson and Angus were by the front door. A young stock boy was showing them how the bloody woman had run from the store when she’d found out the police were coming.

  “Mr. McFadden,” the clerk told him, “Please believe me. Someone out there is…bleeding—or they made someone else bleed, and they might do it again. Yes, someone out there is definitely bleeding.”

  And possibly dead or dying, he thought.

  “We’ll find her—and find out what happened,” he assured her. “I believe Detective Hilton will want you to go with him to the station to work with a sketch artist. Will that be a problem for you?”

  She shook her head. “This is an independent pharmacy and store,” she told him. “We’ve already put up signs apologizing for being closed and giving people a number to call for emergency pharmacy needs. I’m happy to help him. There was something so…wrong about the woman.”

  “Thank you,” Brodie told her. “And excuse me. An officer will be right with you.”

  He headed toward the front of the store where Angus and Jackson waited.

  They were now standing by a display rack that contained Halloween candy in skeleton form—and chocolate reindeer.

  Angus Hilton was fifty-five, with steely gray hair, steady powder-blue eyes, and a gaunt, somewhat world-weary face.

  Perhaps his look of weariness was not a surprise—he’d worked in D.C. for twenty years.

  The detective noted the way that he was glancing at the sales rack with the oddly mismatched candy.

  “Hey, we’re a capitalist society—you have to make money when making money is good,” he said dryly. “Nothing like some cute little chocolate reindeers to go with skeletons.” He paused, shaking his head, a look of perplexity on his face.

  “What is it?” Jackson asked.

  “No turkeys,” Hilton said.

  “Turkeys?”

  Hilton gave himself a little shake. “Sorry—no turkeys. No cute little turkeys—it’s going right from Halloween to Christmas.”

  “Maybe there will be turkeys when the skeletons are cleared out,” Brodie told him. “I’ve been speaking with Miss Cameron.”

  “Yes, yes, and thank you. What was your take on her distress? Is she just an alarmist—or do you think we have a body or a killer or both out there somewhere?”

  “I believe her distress is real. What did the others say?” Brodie asked.

  “The stock boy was still shaking,” Jackson said. “There was something—something real and worth investigating.”

  “What do you say, Brodie?”

  “I do believe that somewhere out there, a woman with a bloodied face is running around. Miss Cameron is happy to work with a sketch artist. That might help us. Whether she’s dangerous to others or a victim isn’t clear. We have to find her, though.”

  “Yes, thank you. I’ll have a patrolman get her to the station right away and we’ll get a sketch out, add it to the other information I’ve sent out already,” Hilton said. “Local cops are searching.” He sighed. “So this is what we know. She ran back out the front door here—Jackson and I have been looking for any sign of blood drops—nothing so far. But I’ve got a forensic team coming out. I’m sorry for calling you guys. It just sounded…well, up your alley. They do call you guys the ‘weird-stuff squad,’ along with ‘ghostbusters’ and a few other things. All respectfully, of course.”

  “Hey, whatever,” Jackson said casually. “And, my friend, you’ve helped the Krewe out often enough with information and man power in the area, so…no problem.”

  Hilton glanced back toward Rebecca Cameron. “You know, I think I’ll take her down myself to get a sketch going.” He hesitated. “I really wouldn’t have dragged you in on this, except…three people missing, and each time our officers investigated…there were strange blood drops. They belonged to the men and women who were missing, and they might have been from a cut or a minor accident. No blood baths—just specs of blood. So when she said this woman was covered in blood…”

  “We’ll need the files on the missing—anything you have,” Jackson told him.

  “Of course.” Hilton looked at Brodie. “The clerk—Miss Rebecca Cameron…she doesn’t come off as just crazy as all hell, right?”

  “No. She believes something is very wrong. Now, whether this woman was really covered in someone’s blood or not, I don’t know. The opioid problem, as we all know, is out of control. She might have been a dressed-up addict. But what makes me think the woman who came in here was covered in real blood was that Rebecca Cameron said she smelled that tinny smell that goes with real blood. So…”

  “So we’ll all be out looking for a messy-eating vampire. On Halloween,” Hilton said wearily.

  Brodie nodded grimly and looked at Jackson.

  “Or a person dressed up as a vampire attacked by someone else,” he said. “We’ll get on the local area here—it is Halloween. I’d hate for a young child to come upon her…or her to come upon a young child.”

  Jackson Crow seldom betrayed his thoughts. Half Native American, he had a powerful, striking lean face with high cheekbones and level eyes.

  He nodded as Brodie spoke.

  So much for the theater that afternoon.

  Maybe the night could be salvaged.

  He doubted it. He had an uneasy feeling.

  Maybe it was just Halloween.

  Somehow, he doubted that, too.

  Chapter 2

  There were three ten-year-old children performing in Things That Go Bump in the Night, and three adults.

  The kids were great. Robert Appleby, playing the oldest brother, had been seen by a talent scout and offered a role in a movie about to be made from a popular series of young adult novels. He loved acting, and was grateful to her for casting him. And his energy for the show had infused all her performers.

  It was also the last show.

  The “things that went bump in the night” in the show all proved to be benign. The play went through common fears—darkness, kids’ closets, and of course, the possibility of a monster beneath the bed. At the end of the show, Kody always gave a little speech, often inviting in an officer from either the D.C. police or from the neighboring communities in northern Virginia or Maryland to join her.

  That day, Officer England from the Arlington police came in and gave the kids a safety speech. While many things were childhood fears, there were also bad things in life, and kids needed to be kids—but be smart and careful as well.

  He was wonderful, and they ended the children’s portion of the day with Kody thanking him and her cast and all those who had supported her.

  Kody tended to disappear as quickly as possible fr
om the stage. There were always people in the audience who remembered the few times she had performed with her father years before. She liked people, and she was happy to give out autographs or have pictures taken, but at the theater, when she was doing double duty, there just wasn’t time. At least not until after the main stage show.

  The children filed out. Even as they left, the crew, actors, and stage manager—Clara Avery having taken that position for the run of the show, despite her usual run as a show’s soprano and leading lady—walked in.

  Kody was picking up one of the stuffed dogs used by the “Smith” children in the play when Clara reached her, giving her a quick hug.

  “Hey,” Kody told her friend and co-worker. “Boy, you are right on time!”

  “Nope—I’ve been here. Alexi is out front, talking to one of the ushers. We both came to see the last performance of your first show here.”

  “Oh, so nice of you guys. And, hey—the kids’ theater is really Marnie’s—”

  “I’m sure you’ll do more shows,” Clara said.

  Kody smiled her gratitude. Clara was an exceptionally attractive woman with a quick smile and a love for life that made her more so. She was also an amazing soprano—but the score for this show had been written for a lower voice range—something she could have handled fine, but it was a role truly suited to Kody.

  “Hey, this place is incredibly cool for all of us—and so much so for me.”

  “We do well, don’t we?” Clara said. “I saw Angela Hawkins in the audience, too, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to her. She went running out at the end, and—though she manages to be polite and discreet in a theater—I think she was looking at something on her phone. So, since she handles the case load, I’m thinking something happened and she had to head back to work to decide if it was a Krewe case, and if so, who to send where.” Clara shrugged. “I—I didn’t see Brodie.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know what happened. He was supposed to be here. I haven’t had a chance to call him or even check my phone. I’ll do that now.”