Darkest Journey (Krewe of Hunters #20)(39)

“That’s certainly what it sounds like.”

“Or the killer could be setting things up to look that way,” Ethan said. “It’s possible the murders were motivated by something that has nothing to do with the film or the riverboat. According to the film crew, the bayonet was last seen before the program on the Journey. I can’t figure out a motive, no matter what angle I look at it from—well, not yet, anyway. Farrell Hickory owned a historic plantation, Albion Corley was a professor in Baton Rouge, their paths crossed in multiple ways... There’s got to be something else we’re not seeing yet.”

“Well, with no physical evidence and no real leads or witnesses, questioning and watching anyone who was even tangentially involved with both men seems to be the way to go,” Jackson said.

“Agreed.”

“And that involves the Journey.”

Yes, Ethan thought, it involved the Journey.

And Charlie.

She had been busy, setting all this up and not saying a word to him.

“I’ll go over everything we’ve talked about with Detective Randy Laurent tomorrow and see if the police have come up with anything else themselves. I’ll let him know we’re going to take a closer look at the riverboat.”

“It’s always best to work as closely as possible with local law enforcement. They always know more than we do about the area. Of course, in this instance, you’re familiar with the area, too.”

“But I’ve been gone a long time,” Ethan said, “so Randy is much more aware of what’s going on around here than I am. Things change—people change. The good thing is, people still gossip. And gossip can be the best lead there is.”

“True. We’ll connect again in the morning,” Jackson said. “And if anything new comes up before then, call me.”

“You got it.”

They said good-night, and Ethan hung up.

He was still for a moment—both angry and amused. On the one hand, Charlie had gone behind his back. But on the other, he was only here because of her. So she had faith in him, apparently, but maybe not enough?

He looked at his watch. He’d used what was left of his twenty minutes on the phone. As he left the room he saw that Charlie was just coming out of her own.

He started down first, but near the bottom of the stairs, she tried to push past him. “Told you I’d be ready first!” she cried.

“Hey, no cheating,” he told her, catching her by both arms as they reached the lower landing. He spun her around to face him. For a moment they were looking straight at one another, laughter in their eyes.

And for a moment he felt as if they were caught in time, as if his body were both frozen and searing hot all at once.

“Better get going,” he said huskily, and released her quickly.

As if she had burned him.

Which, in a way, she had.

He smiled, curious as to when she would tell him about the plans she’d made with her friends.

She nodded. “Yes, let’s get going.”

They drove toward the café without speaking, as if neither one of them was quite sure what to say. It was late enough that it was easy to find parking on the street. As he exited the car, he looked up at the old wooden sign that identified the eatery as Mrs. Mama’s. It was the same sign that had been there since he’d been a kid.

The café itself hadn’t really changed, either. The place was still paneled in wood, with tile flooring. The building had originally been a hotel way back in the day, and at a later point it had been a school for young ladies. The Watson family had owned it for over seventy years.

The booths and tables were all solid wood. There was a bar that offered a view into the kitchen, and the lights were relatively bright. The kitchen itself was modern and busy. The café drew both locals and tourists.

It was especially busy whenever the Saints played. Emily Watson had seen to it that there were flat-screen televisions set high on the walls—along with pictures of famous Louisianans, Grace Episcopal Church, the Myrtles and other nearby plantations. There was also a striking picture of the Journey proudly moving down the Mississippi.

There was no Saints game that night, though, and the news was on, the sound muted.

When they entered, Mrs. Mama’s was busy, though the crowd consisted mainly of the film’s cast and crew. Everyone who had been working that day had shown up, from Brad and Mike Thornton to the photographer, Chance Morgan, who quickly came over and promised Ethan that he would get the files to him as soon as possible, but he was hungry and hadn’t been able to resist the lure of a good meal first.

Ethan nodded. There were only two seats left, and they weren’t together. Charlie wound up across the table from him, between Jimmy and George.

He took the remaining chair between Brad and Jennie.

Brad leaned toward him and said, “I heard from your friend Detective Laurent today.” He laughed. “Randy! Whose high school claim to fame was popping beer bottles open with his teeth. But he makes a good detective, strange as that seems. Never acts like he’s lording it over anyone, but he gets the job done.”

“We were all kids once, and then we grew up,” Ethan said. “So, what did Randy tell you?”

“He finally went through all the footage I gave him. Nothing. He said he didn’t expect to see anything, that based on the autopsy, Farrell Hickory was dead and in the ground long before we started filming that day. I guess they’re figuring he was killed the night before. And if Charlie hadn’t found him, he might still be there, buried in a shallow grave.” He was quiet for a moment. “Guess it might have gotten a lot worse if he hadn’t been found. It would have looked like the North against the South all over again. Of course, now it looks like someone involved with my movie might be the killer.”