Fade To Black

Tomorrow would be time enough to put some of it to use.

* * *

Marnie Davante stood quietly by the graveside and listened while the priest spoke about life and death, and his certainty that while they buried the mortal remains of Cara Barton, her soul went on to a better place, one where there was no pain and no fear, and where love reigned.

Marnie hoped it was true.

For a moment, she thought she saw Cara there, dressed beautifully in the red-and-black tailored suit she’d been dressed in for her viewing, enjoying the attention her funeral was receiving.

Marnie had truly loved Cara, but she knew as well that years of fighting to maintain a career had left Cara jaded and weary. She had dated many a heartthrob, but she had never married. Her parents had long ago departed their mortal coil, and she’d had no siblings. So she left behind no one with very close ties to her. But in Marnie’s mind, there had been many wonderful things about her friend. Cara had cared deeply about animals—she had raised money and awareness for humane societies and no-kill shelters. She had given what she could to children’s charities.

And Marnie had had a chance to talk about all the good in Cara lately—she’d been interviewed right and left, almost to a point of embarrassment.

Cara would have been happy.

In death, she was incredibly famous.

So much was being written about her. Every celebrity and pop culture magazine out there was doing an article on her.

Marnie was somehow the golden girl in most interviews, and it was very uncomfortable. She had remained friends with her fellow castmates from Dark Harbor, and she hoped to God that they knew she had never mentioned herself as the “success” story from the show while the others had gone on to face less-than-stellar careers.

She wasn’t sure how exactly anyone measured success. It wasn’t as if she’d suddenly been besieged with scripts for blockbusters. She’d just managed to keep working, and a lot of that had been theatrical work.

The priest was going on. He was a good man, Marnie knew. He and Cara had been friends. That was one thing people hadn’t known about her. Cara had been a regular churchgoer.

A cloud shifted in the sky.

Marnie thought that the late-afternoon sun must be playing tricks on her; she could have sworn that Cara—or someone dressed similarly, wearing one of the ridiculous giant black hats Cara had worn—had just slipped behind the priest.

Someone was sobbing; it was Roberta Alan, Marnie’s sister from the show. Well, of course. Roberta and Cara had often bickered, but they had been very close. Since Cara had lacked real family, her Dark Harbor fellows were being seen as her closest relations. To be fair, they had been something of a family for a time. Marnie had been so young herself when she’d started—just turned sixteen—she had leaned on the others. While Cara had been huge at emoting—larger than life, more than a bit of a diva—she’d always been kind and something like a very whacky but caring aunt for Marnie.

For a moment, she closed her eyes, wondering if she was still in shock. Marnie had done enough crying herself, the night at the hospital when she realized there had never been a chance for Cara, that doctors had gone through the motions, but there had been nothing they could do.

Since then, she had just been going through the motions. Moving by rote, speaking by rote...

Getting herself here today...she didn’t even recall how.

As Roberta softly sobbed, a spate of flashbulbs went off. Marnie could see them even through her closed eyelids. There was press everywhere. There had been ever since Cara died.

The priest, deep in his reflection, didn’t miss a beat.

Marnie opened her eyes again.

That was when she saw her fully. The woman dressed like Cara.

She was on the other side of the coffin, standing beside one of Hollywood’s hot young leading men and an older, well-respected actor. They didn’t seem to notice the woman.

How the hell they didn’t, Marnie didn’t begin to understand.

She looked just like Cara.

As if completely aware she was being watched, the woman turned to stare at Marnie. She winked, waved and smiled deeply—as if it were a terrific joke, as if she were hiding, as if it were normal that no one else seemed to see her.

It was Cara.

Cara Barton.

It couldn’t be. Of course, it couldn’t be. Marnie had seen her die.

She had seen the sudden surge of blood that had erupted from her friend’s throat.

She could remember staring, frowning, in absolute disbelief and confusion. Because what had happened—Cara being sliced apart by the lighted sword as if it were a real blade—was impossible. It was just a comic con, for God’s sake...

But it had been real. The blade had been real.

And she had screamed and screamed, and hunkered down by her fallen friend, trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood. Everyone had been screaming, people had been running. Some—even more confused than she had been—had applauded!

Not at death, no, not the horror of death.

They had thought themselves privy to a very special show. But then the EMTs had arrived and the police and the crime scene investigators. And she had been inspected and questioned, and then inspected and questioned some more. And she had tried to remember everything there had been to remember about that day: the beautiful German shepherd by them, whining every time his nose got hit with a drip of water from the leaky ceiling. She had spoken to Zane—the old Western star—and been impressed with his charm and humility. They hadn’t met before. She’d had her picture taken with at least two dozen guys dressed up as Marvel superheroes, another dozen or so zombies and, of course, because of Dark Harbor, tons of vampires, werewolves and shape-shifters.

And, before that particular Blood-bone had appeared, she’d had her picture taken with a few other people dressed up as the character, as well.

It was highly possible, the police had told her, that one of them had been the killer.

Cara Barton was dead. She had died in Marnie’s arms.

And yet there she was, watching the proceedings, nodding with approval as the priest went on emotionally, as Roberta cried softly, as others followed suit.

The priest’s words came to an end. Marnie remembered that she’d been holding a rose; a number of people, those who had been closest to Cara in life, were stepping forward, dropping their roses onto the coffin. It was almost time to leave. Cara’s coffin would be lowered into the ground.

Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes.

Cara had always known that she would be buried here, in Hollywood’s oldest cemetery, close to so many actors, directors, writers, producers and musicians she had known and loved. She’d adored the place. Marnie had come with her once to see a showing of a black-and-white silent classic on one of the large mausoleum walls; Cara had giggled and said it was like a living cemetery. They could catch a flick—and leave roses on the graves of Rudolph Valentino, Cecille B. DeMille and so many, many more. Sometimes there were concerts in the cemetery. Johnny Ramone would surely love it.

Cara Barton was dead. Cara Barton would soon be lowered into the ground in the cemetery she had always loved so much—where she had always known she wanted to be.

Someday.

It shouldn’t have been so soon...

Marnie blinked. She could still see her.

The woman looked just like Cara. She was grave; she was sad, and then she clapped her hands and wiped her tears, delighted as the hot star of the day stepped forward, casting down a rose and saying, “She was truly an enormous talent! Such a devastating loss!”

Marnie followed Roberta Alan, Jeremy Highsmith and Grayson Adair, all casting their roses over the coffin.

She stopped dead, staring across the coffin.

Cara was there. Cara. Not someone who looked like Cara.

She looked at Marnie and smiled sadly. “Did you see? Oh, Marnie. Everyone is here. Oh, my Lord. I mean everyone who is anyone. This is so wonderful. If only...”

Marnie froze. Obviously, it had all just been too much.

Cara dying in her arms.

The blood.

The EMTs taking Cara’s body from her. She had just sat there. She could still see the blood, feel the blood, smell the blood.

And see the character—Blood-bone.

For what had seemed like an eternity, he had just stood there, staring at them all while those in the crowd went crazy clapping.

Then he had turned and disappeared into the crowd. It had taken forever, so it had seemed, for people to realize that her screams were real, that something terrible had really happened. It had been no performance.

Crazy. So damned crazy.

And every night now, Marnie had nightmares that featured Blood-bone dancing before her, wielding that sword with its array of colors...

Not just a light-up sword. A real sword.

She had made it through the day. Through the comic con being closed down. Through the questioning by the police. Through the hours of smelling her friend’s blood...until she could finally change into the police-issued scrubs.

And she was still moving. She didn’t know if she was or wasn’t in shock. She just kept going through all the right motions.

She had to be in shock. Or the events being so crazy had turned into her being crazy.

“Marnie?” Grayson Adair had turned back to her. He looked at her with sorrowful affection, like a real big brother.

She blinked. She cast down her rose, looking across the coffin to the other side of the grave.

Cara was still standing there. She gave Marnie a thumbs-up.

It was impossible. Apparently, Grayson Adair did not see Cara.

Surely that meant that Cara was not really there. But Grayson not seeing Cara was not the only reason she could not be there. Cara could not be there because Cara was dead. Her poor murdered body lay in the coffin.

Cara wasn’t there—not really. She was just there in Marnie’s worn and tormented mind. Marnie took a deep breath and pretended she wasn’t hallucinating.

It wasn’t going to be easy.

“Marnie?”

Grayson was speaking again, looking back at her and offering her an arm.

Marnie took it. But as they started out, she felt something. Something extremely strange, as if a cool fog had formed into some kind of substance on her other side.

She looked to her left. To her free arm.

It wasn’t free; Cara had come up beside her. She had slipped her arm through Marnie’s and was walking at her side.

“At least it was a sensational funeral,” Cara said. “I’m so grateful. Oh, not for being murdered, though, of course, that does mean that I’ll be famous forever. I’ve seen the headlines—Famous TV Matriarch Brutally Taken by Blood-Bone Character. And they said that I was beautiful and aging gracefully. I’ve seen everything you’ve said, too. You are just such a little doll. Frankly, you’re a little too good and innocent, and you really don’t belong in Hollywood. Where was it you came from originally? Atlanta, right? How rude of me not to really remember, but then again, I was meant to live in the dog-eat-dog and plastic part of Hollywood—I do believe that it is all about me!”

It sounded like Cara Barton; the voice was just a little bit raspy, as if it had been created from the wind or the air. The cadence was all Cara, as was the admission that yes, the world was all about her.

Even when she was dead.

Or especially because she was dead.

Someone called out and Grayson paused, turning to talk to the man. It was another reporter.

“Really. Lovely funeral. I’m sure you had a part in planning it? And if I know you, you made sure that it was more than public notice—that everyone who is anyone would be here,” Cara said approvingly.

“You’re not really here, and I can’t hear you,” Marnie whispered, and she knew that her tone was low, that her words were breathy.

For a moment, she felt that she was going to keel over. No, she couldn’t pass out. That would bring attention to her, away from Cara. And Cara wouldn’t be happy.

Cara was dead.

Yep. Dead.

And yet Cara was still standing next to her.

“Marnie?” It was Grayson speaking again. He was looking at her with dark, concerned eyes.

Grayson had always been known for his good looks. He was tall, and his hair was as dark as his eyes. He was truly concerned for her, Marnie thought.

But he was also extremely aware of the cameras going off all around them. Yes, he was aware of the press and of the possible headlines: Marnie Davante Stumbles from Cemetery in Shock, Held Up by Manly Hands of Former Costar Grayson Adair.

“I’m fine,” she said softly.

“Oh, please, you’re not supposed to be fine!” Cara’s ghost protested. “I’m dead! I was murdered. You’re not fine.”

“No, I’m stone-cold crazy!” Marnie said.

“What?” Grayson asked, twisting around to look at her, a frown creasing his handsome features. “There’s that hot gossip blogger coming toward us. Are you all right? Really?”

“Yes, you’re fine now,” Cara said. “Be sure to tell them how wonderful I was, how much you loved me. I do bask in all this!”

The blogger came forward and brashly shook hands with them both. He apologized for disturbing them then; he was afraid he wouldn’t get near them once they had reached Rodeo, the trendy new restaurant where they’d be having the reception.

Marnie told him how much she had loved Cara; she told him what a wonderful actress she had been in a scene, in an ensemble. She vowed they would hound the police until the killer was found. They would never stop.

“Wonderful,” Cara said.

“Excuse me,” Marnie said, escaping from Grayson’s hold and turning to head back to the grave site. The funeral workers—who had been about to lower the finely carved coffin into the ground—stepped back, obviously surprised and a little annoyed that their time was being taken. They did, however, respectfully move away, allowing her personal and intimate time with her dearly departed loved one.

Marnie stood there for a moment, breathing. And then she spoke softly and firmly. “You are dead, Cara. I cannot see you, I cannot hear you. God help me, I am so, so sorry. I will miss you. Honestly. But you are dead!”

“That isn’t going to help.”

Marnie was so startled by the sound of the deep, masculine voice—so near to her—that she nearly fell over the coffin.

Luckily, she caught herself and looked over it instead.

He was tall—taller even than Grayson Adair. And, if possible, his hair was darker. His eyes, however, weren’t dark, they were green or gold or a startling combination of both, and they sat in a ruggedly masculine face that could well have been the next to grace every pop culture magazine out there. He was well built—he was quite simply both rugged and Hollywood drop-dead gorgeous.

And she was just staring at him.

“Wow,” the specter of Cara murmured, standing close behind Marnie once again. “Did he grow up fine. That’s one of the McFadden boys. Of course, you must understand, the parents were to die for—what an expression. Terrible.”

“You’re not there,” Marnie whispered desperately.

“It’s not going to help,” the man said gently.

Stunned, Marnie realized the truth. Whoever he was—McFadden boy, whatever—he was aware of what was going on.

“You—you—you see her. You hear her, too?” Marnie said.

He nodded. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. My name is Bryan McFadden. I’m...I’m here to help you.”

McFadden.

“No.” Marnie shook her head vehemently. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m having hallucinations and you’re...having the same hallucinations. And you know it... Oh! It’s a sham. You’re from a paper. You’re trying to make me look crazy... I have to go.”

Marnie turned, ready to hurry back to Grayson Adair and the rest of her old cast and crew.

“Miss Davante,” he said.

She bit her lower lip and paused, not turning back but listening. On the one hand, she wanted to run.

Then again...

It was too...too...

Real.

And if he could help her?

She stayed there, wanting to run, afraid that if she did so she’d lose any chance of fighting off whatever was happening.

He didn’t speak again right away. They were too close to the cemetery workers.

He came up behind her. Not too close. He didn’t touch her. But close enough. She was aware of him in a way that she seldom felt, as if he were almost inside her skin, as if his fingers did touch her just as the warmth of his words reached her. He whispered softly, his tone still deep and rich and strangely ringing with truth, “She’s here, Marnie. You are not going crazy. She is right next to you. Trust me, I’ve been through this—too many times now. And here is the thing—she won’t go away. Not until we discover exactly why she’s still with us. Maybe it’s to see that her murder is solved. And maybe it’s to prevent something terrible.”

“She’s already dead. So, prevent something such as?” Marnie demanded harshly, giving herself a fierce mental shake. She stared at him. He might be incredibly gorgeous, but he had to be stone-cold crazy, as well. “Such as?”

“Such as another murder,” he said bluntly. “As in—possibly—yours!”

3

Maybe it wasn’t fair for Bryan to judge the funeral as a carnival with all kinds of acts being performed beneath a big tent. His mother had always assured him that there were many people living in Los Angeles—even those who were deeply enmeshed in the film industry, and despite its reputation for shallowness and ruthless ambition—who were decent and wonderful people. It was true. To be honest, he knew many people who were “Hollywood” all the way and who were fine, decent, caring and more.

Still, the worst of the business seemed to come out when news cameras were rolling.

And everyone, to paraphrase the artist Andy Warhol, wanted their fifteen minutes of fame.

There was no way out of it; in this city, most bartenders, servers and so on were also actors and actresses. Bankers and lawyers handled accounts for directors, producers, screenwriters, actors and costumers, puppeteers—and more.

It seemed as though everyone wound up being involved. But Greater Los Angeles was huge; its population had soared to over ten million people. Many were teachers, electricians, nurses, all the usual—you name it. And yet it all boiled down to the movies in the end. Teachers had actors’ children in their classes. Doctors patched up production assistants and prop managers and all manner of crew amid their other patients.

And while Hollywood might offer up a world of make-believe, it could also be—as his mom had always claimed—a nice place where many people wanted what everyone wanted: a family filled with love and happiness.

Before returning to the theater, Maeve and Hamish McFadden had been part of the Hollywood crowd.

In retrospect, since they had died together onstage, coming back to the theater in the DC area had perhaps not been a good decision. And yet, in those years before the accident, life for the McFadden family had been great.

Bryan had learned that death shouldn’t put a person on a pedestal. Still, when he looked back, they had been really good parents. They had put the needs of their sons above their own. They had left Hollywood.

But they had been a big part of it at one time, which made it possible for Bryan to be where he was now—rubbing shoulders with A-listers at a funeral reception that had become the hottest ticket in town.

It was obvious that Marnie Davante had thought she’d shake him when they reached the reception; there had been all kinds of gawkers and strangers who had managed to get close to the funeral. After all, Cara Barton had been buried at a cemetery often crawling with tourists. But the reception required an ID, to confirm the name on the guest list. Otherwise the masses would have readily joined in the reception that followed such a high-profile funeral.

However, as a McFadden, he’d managed to charm his way onto the list.

He saw Marnie standing with a group of people, Malcolm Dangerfield among them. Hollywood was often fickle—the hottest new star one year could be yesterday’s has-been by the next. At the moment, Malcolm Dangerfield was on the hot list. He would be, Bryan knew, considered to be more of a personality than an actor. He was basically always himself on-screen. But as himself, he was charismatic and it worked. On the other hand, while Jeremy Highsmith had only been cast in supporting roles since Dark Harbor had been canceled, each of those roles had been entirely different. Jeremy Highsmith was—Bryan knew his parents would judge—a true actor. A fine actor. Not a personality.

In their own way, his parents had been snobs. But to be fair, they had both loved their craft. They didn’t have to be performing themselves—they loved a good performance by another actor, singer, musician or even stand-up comic.

Marnie was barely holding it together, Bryan was pretty sure. But she managed to nod and speak now and then as she stood in the group with Malcolm Dangerfield, a producer, some young director and the rest of her castmates: Roberta Alan, Jeremy Highsmith and Grayson Adair. She was five foot nine in stocking feet, and taller here in low heels. She was regal. Despite the way she looked at him, with suspicion and irritation, Bryan couldn’t help but feel a tug of sympathy. She had an aura about her he couldn’t quite place. She was regal, and yet she appeared quick to smile at something said by a friend. Then the sadness would descend over her eyes again.

There was definitely something about her. He couldn’t help but feel the attraction that certainly drew many, many people to her. She was fascinating, charismatic and sensual with each sleek movement.

The perfect actress.

Photographers—authorized ones who were on the guest list—were seizing pictures constantly. It was hard to imagine how anyone could actually mourn in all the hubbub, and yet he remembered his parents’ funeral.

Much like this.

And it had been hard to mourn. Hard to be the eldest of their children; hard to hold it all together and grieve with the carnival atmosphere going on.

“Bringing back memories, eh?”

He didn’t turn; he knew that Cara Barton was standing next to him.

He lowered his head. She knew that he acknowledged her—saw her and heard her.

“So lovely. I mean, it may be terrible, but I am truly grateful to see I did have this many fans—okay, even if some are people using such an occasion for a publicity advantage. A grand funeral, I do say. I do so wish that I could have a sip of that champagne...” She paused, and Bryan knew that she was waiting for his response. While he stood a bit off in the corner of the restaurant, he wasn’t going to allow himself to appear to be speaking to the air.

Cara Barton apparently realized that he wasn’t going to answer her right then. He’d been at the cemetery early, and he had spoken to her. She might have figured out a ghostly way to contact his mother, but maybe she hadn’t really believed that she could get through to the living. She had been thrilled he could see her. She had been trying to torment the cemetery workers and the funeral director, and all she’d managed to do was to get one man to say that the cemetery, even in broad daylight, was incredibly creepy. She’d been ecstatic that Bryan could see her, hear her, because she had something important to say: she’d been murdered. She was afraid for the others.

She wanted the truth.

So right now, she didn’t really expect Bryan to reply.

But she kept talking.

“I remember sitting there that day...the day that I was killed,” she said. “I guess it’s good I don’t remember the pain. I do remember bits and pieces of my life shooting before my eyes...out of order, things when I was a child, things when I was older. And I remember thinking it was horrible, so unfair—that comic con really was, for me, where I’d come to die. And I remember Marnie, of course, holding me, shocked, horrified...such a sweet girl. Better than this world we’re in,” she added softly. “But I just don’t understand. Why in God’s name would anyone want to kill me? I mean, he probably was after Marnie. She was the one who had the most obsessed fans. You know she didn’t really want to have a reboot of Dark Harbor? A comeback, you know. She just loves the theater. She wants to direct. Children. Horrible little snot-nosed beasts, in my opinion, but...the thing is, there was no reason for anyone to kill me!”