Prologue

     “There is one thing I should tell you, Miss Kimberly, ‘cause you’re gonna hear it from the neighbors anyway.” Barkley Billingham said, examining her signature on the one-year lease she’d just signed. “My grandmother claims this house has ghosts.”

     Caroline looked at him, sure he was going to follow the statement with some kind of joke. But the guy just stared at her in the same deadpan way he had for the last two hours while she’d looked at the house.

     “Why does she think the house is haunted?”

     “You know how old houses are. They make noises. Creaks and moans, stuff like that. And when the north wind’s blowing it catches the corner by the bedroom and sounds like a woman shrieking.”

     “That’s all?”

     He folded the lease and tapped it against his arm. “Pretty much.”

     Caroline sighed. She could live with that, especially in a grand old house like this one. In fact she couldn’t imagine anyone with the kind of roots Barkley had here ever wanting to live anywhere else. “Are you the owner of the house?”

     “No, it’s still in my grandmother’s name, but she moved to Florida. Lives in one of those places for retired folks. She thought the house was too much work. She talks about selling it all the time, but nobody wants to pay the kind of money she’s asking for it.”

     “Did you move out because you think the house is haunted?”

     “I’d have stayed. I was living free here, but I moved in with my girlfriend. I wouldn’t worry none about the place being haunted if I was you. The house survived the Yanks coming down and destroying half of Georgia. Hell, I figure it can survive a few ghosts.”

     “Is that one of your relatives?” she asked, pointing to a painting that hung on the wall at the top of a winding double staircase that could have come right from the set of Gone With the Wind.

     “That’s Frederick Lee Billingham, my great, great, great grandfather. He’s the one that built the house and my grandmother claims he’s hung in that very spot ever since the house was finished. She says he put a curse on the portrait, and if it’s ever moved, Frederick will come back from the grave and woe unto the one who removed him from his place of honor. My grandmother is kind of nuts like that.”

     “Then I guess I better leave the picture hanging. I’m not looking for any woe.”

     “Suit yourself. You can do whatever you want with it. Same with this furniture up here. You can use it or stick it in the basement with the other old junk.”

     “This isn’t junk. I love the furniture up here, especially the sofa. I think the ghosts and I will get along just fine,” she said, hoping she was right.

     “Good. ‘Cause they’re all yours, as long as you pay the rent on time. How come you moved here to Prentice, anyway? Most people I know who are under the age of ninety are trying to get out.”

     “I took a position with the Prentice Times?”

     “What kind of position?”

     “I’m a reporter.” Well, she wasn’t, but she would be, starting on Monday, August 7. She’d been a teacher in Atlanta until they’d let her go just two weeks before she was to start the year that would have given her tenure. But a job was a job, even one as a grunt reporter. And she loved the house.

     “Don’t see how they even sell those papers. Nothing ever goes on around here to write about unless you’re interested in that dumb historic pageant they do every summer in Cedar Park. Or the Heritage Ball.”

     “I’m sure there’ll be some news. They seemed eager to hire a reporter.”

     She stood at the top of the landing as Barkley let himself out the front door, then turned to the unsmiling face of Frederick Lee Billingham.

     “Glad to meet you, sir. I’ll be living here now, and neither you nor any other Billingham ghosts are running me off.”

     Actually, she couldn’t leave even if she wanted to--not until not until next August. She had a one-year lease. And high hopes for a new life in the quiet, historic town of Prentice, Georgia.

Chapter One

Six months later

      Caroline Kimberly swerved into the first available parking spot she saw, past the news van from the local TV channel and two police cars that showered the park and street with blinking red and blue lights. She grabbed her camera from the back seat, then scooted out from behind the wheel, slammed the door shut and cut across a grassy area. Big mistake, she decided as her high heels sank into the mud.

     She jerked off her dangling earrings and stuffed them in her purse before she reached the cop standing guard over the gate. Unfortunately she couldn’t do anything about the slinky red dress or the shoes. They’d been fine at her friend Becky Simpson’s birthday party, but they were sorely out of place here. A jacket would be nice to cover her cleavage, but it was unseasonably warm for February and she didn’t have one with her.

     “Caroline Kimberly, The Prentice Times,” she said, flashing her press ID.

     The cop shone a beam of light at the card, then looked her over, letting his gaze linger longer than necessary on the low-cut neckline of the dress. “If I were you I’d go back to the party–unless you have a very strong stomach.”

     “What happened?”

     “Somebody caught a touch of full-moon madness. Killed a young woman, cut her throat and gave her a bloody paint job.”      “Full-moon madness?”

     “That’s what I call it. Something about the moon and the blood rush, pushes crazies over the edge.”

     She shuddered and longed to turn around and go back to the party. But she’d worked hard to leave the ranks of grunt reporter and get a chance to cover some real news. Writing about murders had to be more challenging then covering a continuous run of ladies’ auxiliary meetings and garden teas. Of course, she hadn’t expected to run across a freshly butchered body her first week. 

     She scanned the area. No sign of her photographer even though he’d said he’d meet her here. Good thing she always kept her camera in her car. This could be big. She was glad her boss got hold of the story so quickly, though it would have been nice if she’d beaten the TV reporters here.

     “Get these people out of here–now. You can start with the broad on stilts.”

     Caroline spun around to see who was barking orders and singling her out for his scorn. The guy was tall and brawny, dressed in faded jeans and a black tee shirt that had seen a couple thousand washings.     

     “I’m a reporter with The Prentice Times and I have every right to be here,” she shot back.

     “Wrong. It’s a crime scene. You have no rights.” He stormed past her and headed to the spot where the TV camera was rolling.

     “Obnoxious ass,” she murmured, too low for him to hear, but apparently not low enough. Another cop stepped to her side while she stood there debating what to do next.

     “Don’t pay no attention to Sam,” he said. “That’s just his way.”

     “Rude and all bark?”   

     “Hell, no. Sam’s more vicious than a bulldog on speed. I just meant you shouldn’t take it personally. He feels that way ‘bout all reporters.”

     That was just too bad. The TV cameras were running. She had to at least get a story. Someone else came up and started talking to the cop and she slipped away, this time all but running toward the action.

     The cop yelled at her to come back. She ignored him, hoping that wasn’t grounds for arrest. A few yards later she was close enough to see the body. The woman was lying on her back, naked. Her neck was gaping open and giant X’s had been painted in blood across her breasts.

     Caroline’s stomach heaved and she turned away, suddenly so nauseated she could barely stand. Someone told her to get out of the way. This time she did, slinking into the nearby bushes and throwing up everything but the lining of her stomach.  When she finished, the young cop who’d tried to stop her earlier was standing right behind her.

     “Must have been something I ate,” she said.

     “Yeah. I almost did the same thing when I saw the victim.”

     Almost. Meaning he hadn’t. She was obviously green, both literally and figuratively.

     “Are you all right now?” he asked.

     “I will be in a minute.  What’s the story on the dead woman?”

     “There isn’t one yet.”

     “Who found the body?”

     “Not sure, but whoever it was called the TV station. They were here before the cops, which is why Sam’s fit to be tied. Probably the most brutal crime to ever hit Prentice, and his crime scene is compromised.”

     “Is he in charge of the investigation?”

     “He’s the head of homicide. Makes sense he’d head up this one.”

     “What’s his last name?”

     “Turner.”

     Detective Sam Turner. The name seemed familiar, but she was certain she’d never met the man before. He might be irritating, but he wasn’t the kind of man you’d forget. More intimidating than handsome, but rugged–and brawny enough that a woman had to notice.

     “I hate to run you off,” the cop said, “but Sam gave orders to clear the area of reporters.”

     Yeah, especially the “broad in stilts.” She nodded and started back in the direction of the gate. Only, she made a turn at the last minute when she realized no one was watching her, took a deep breath to calm her stomach and rattled nerves, then walked back to the body. This time when she got there, she started snapping pictures, though she imagined they’d be too gory to run in the morning paper.

     Detective Sam Turner appeared from nowhere and stuck his hand in front of her lens. “I hope there’s a very good reason why you’re still here.”

     “I’ll be writing an article for tomorrow’s edition of the local paper, and I have a couple of questions.”

     “Oh, well, let’s just forget the killer and try to get you a story.”

     She ignored the sarcasm. “Do you have any suspects?”

     “Hey, Turner,” someone called from an area beyond the immediate crime scene. “Come take a look at this.”

     “Be right there.” He turned back to her. “I don’t have a suspect or a motive or even an identification of the victim and I don’t give a damn what you write in your little article. I do care that some woman was sliced up like a slab of meat, so if you’ll get out of my way, I’d like to find out who did the carving.”

     “Should the public be concerned that...”

     He turned and walked away as if she were a pesky fly not even worth swatting.

     But he had told her what she needed to know. There were no leads and the victim was as yet unidentified. Slim, but she could stretch it into a front page story, especially if any of the pictures were publishable.

     This was no doubt the most macabre murder to hit quiet little Prentice in a long, long time. Maybe since forever. She’d have to call her boss the minute she got to the car and tell him to hold her a spot on the front page.

     The Prentice Times was a small town paper and John Rhodes, both editor in chief and managing editor, had a very hands-on management style. He’d want to see every word of this story before it went to print.

     According to the lore of reporters, she should be experiencing some kind of rush right now. But all she felt was a queasiness deep in her stomach and a nameless dread that seemed to reach clear to her soul.

     She’d write the article and every parent who picked up the morning paper would feel a knot of fear when they read it. Those who didn’t know where their daughters were would become sick with worry.

     This was some career she’d chosen–or that had chosen her. A frightening, challenging, dubious hell of a career.

     COPS,TV CAMERAS, reporters. What a show. And down to a man–and woman–they’d recoiled at their first glimpse of the body. But they stayed and stared, soaking up the sight of gore as if they couldn’t get enough.

     They were wondering, no doubt, how it felt to actually wield the knife, imagining the frisson when the first blood spilled from her body.  They envied him. Not that they’d ever admit it. They considered themselves above such cravings, but he knew better.

     They were fascinated with the act of murder, the same way racing fans lived for the big crashes and people stayed glued to their TVs when tragedy hit.

     He watched and studied them all, especially Detective Sam Turner. But his gaze was drawn again and again to the reporter in the sexy red dress. She was doing her job, but it was clear she was getting no respect. Sam Turner thought this was his game, but he was wrong. He’d find that out soon enough. They’d all find out.

     Murder by murder by murder.