Cara gasped. “You mean the bastard who did this to me might not have even had the balls to do it him—or her—self?”
“I’m thinking aloud, Cara. Give me a break. I just got out here.”
“You got out here yesterday.”
“Doing my best,” he said.
She harrumphed.
Loudly.
Bryan noted that Marnie had heard the sound. And she turned. At her side, Roberta Alan turned to see what Marnie was looking at, and both of them stared at him.
Maybe it was time.
He pocketed his earbuds and walked up to the group, extending a hand to introduce himself.
Marnie looked at his hand as if he had offered up a snake.
But Roberta Alan took it, staring at him curiously, a smile on her lips. “Well, hello, gorgeous!” she said, her voice and tone an excellent mimic of that used by Barbra Streisand as Fanny Brice in Funny Girl.
He grinned. He could play the game.
“Hello, gorgeous, yourself,” he told her. “My name is Bryan McFadden. My parents—”
“Oh!” Roberta exclaimed. “I know—yes, you’re so like your father. And your mother, really, and they both were truly gorgeous. Well, your dad, of course, was very manly. You’re manly, too, naturally, and I...I’m just making a fool out of myself here. Mr. McFadden, may I introduce you to my costars? Grayson Adair, our brother. Jeremy Highsmith, good old dad. And Marnie Davante—”
“Scarlet Zeta, Madam Zeta,” he said.
Marnie forced a stiff smile. “How do you do, Mr. McFadden?”
“Nice to meet you, son. I knew your parents. I was so sorry when they...died,” Jeremy Highsmith told him, wincing a little.
“Thank you, sir.”
“And they say that Hollywood is murder. Well, in this case... Oh, hell, I can’t get out of this one.”
Malcolm Dangerfield suddenly cut between Jeremy and Marnie, offering his hand. “Malcolm Dangerfield,” he said. “Are you looking for work out here? Acting?”
“No. I’m not an actor. I’m actually a private investigator,” Bryan replied curtly.
“Hey, let me tell you—bodyguards are in high demand right now. You know, after what I witnessed, I’d take on another. Call me if you’re interested in anything like that.”
“Actually, I’m out here to work the case of Cara Barton’s murder,” Bryan said.
Marnie stared at him, startled.
And wary.
Very wary. She obviously didn’t trust him. At the moment, he was sure, she didn’t trust herself. Why should she trust a man claiming that he could see a dead woman, too?
“Well, nice to meet you,” Malcolm said.
“You sure you’re not trying to get into the movies?” Jeremy asked him. “Names and nepotism have been known to open doors. Are you...looking for a role?”
“I assure you—I’m not looking for a role,” Bryan told him.
They all continued to stare at him suspiciously. Except for Roberta. She remained curious and intrigued. “You’re here because your family knew Cara, I imagine. But...the cops are trying everything. They’re looking at every angle,” Roberta told him.
Jeremy Highsmith cleared his throat. “Every angle. They’ve told all of us to keep special care, to keep our doors locked and to watch out for strangers. Oh, yeah. They’ve suggested we all avoid comic cons for the time being, and any place that a man or woman could dress up in a costume that would make them totally anonymous. Just in case Cara isn’t the only target.”
“They do say that it could have just been random,” Malcolm said. “That the guy—or woman, but the dude was pretty big, so I think it was a man—was just out to kill. Someone, anyone, a guest or a celebrity.”
“You know, like it might have been some kind of an exhibitionist,” Roberta supplied.
“Marnie was going along with the show,” Jeremy said. “And Cara—Cara was never to be outdone. She hopped up and got right into it.”
“Miss Davante,” a male voice said softly, interrupting them.
They all swiveled around to see who had spoken.
Bryan had seen the man before—in the cell phone footage of the killing that had gone viral around the world. Most of the news stations had shown the footage with some respect. Many social media sites had posted it in all its graphic detail—until the pure horror of it had been caught and taken down by whatever powers that be, those with some common decency.
The man had been standing at the booth when it had happened. He’d been speaking with Marnie, or so it appeared. A fan?
“Miss Davante, David Neal. I was there... I just wanted to say I’m so sorry. I... We...we have an appointment tomorrow. I wasn’t sure... Anyway, I wish you luck with your future,” he said. He backed away awkwardly, looking at all of them. “I’m truly sorry—all of you. She was a great talent. She was...a talent. Yes. I’m sorry. Miss Davante, I hope that... I hope that you won’t hold this against me when...when you’re looking to hire again.”
He nodded uncomfortably to all of them and then moved on.
“Rude,” Malcolm said. “We’re at a funeral, and he’s worried about a job.”
“He was just apologizing,” Marnie said in the man’s defense.
“As he should have been,” Roberta murmured.
“We’re here for you,” Jeremy said. “We’re all here for each other. Oh, look, there’s Vince Carlton. I’m sure he’s hurting, too. He’d been in talks with Cara for a while,” he said to Bryan. “I’m going to say hello again. Excuse me.”
“And excuse me,” Marnie said. She stared straight at Bryan, and he knew that he was the reason she wanted to be excused.
But he couldn’t stop her. And he wasn’t sure that he should, not at that moment.
“Miss Davante,” he said, lowering his head as she stepped by.
“So,” Roberta said as Marnie walked away, “may I get you a drink? I suppose you used your family connection to get in here today. Because though we had help from a few others, we were Cara’s family, and we pretty much put the guest list together. Naughty, naughty, Mr. McFadden—you weren’t on it! Then again, neither was that young man, David Neal. You have a connection. How did he manage it, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Bryan told her. “But it would be interesting to find out.”
* * *
There was someone in her house. But that wasn’t unexpected.
Marnie had driven herself to the service, though she could have gone to the funeral and the reception in the cast limo.
She had chosen not to, explaining that she might not want to stay long at the reception, and she’d really like to have her own car available.
She pulled up to her duplex. Her home was in a perfect location—close to Universal Studios, a hop on the I-5 to either Hollywood or to places up north. She wasn’t far from Burbank and the airport there.
Also, she had just loved the home when she had first seen it. The yard was surrounded by a white picket fence. There were three gates—one at the walkway from the sidewalk, and one on each side for her and