There was a crowd of tourists around the grave, listening to a guide, and Joe couldn’t help wondering if ghosts would appear to his friends when there were so many people in the area. Then he wondered if they would give any indication of what they saw even if they did see something.

What the hell was the point of all this, anyway? It was fine to acknowledge the sad life of a great writer, but he didn’t see how that would be helpful in solving a series of modern murders.

When the guide, a lean man of about twenty-five who was dressed as the poet, was finished, Joe stepped forward and asked him if he knew anything about Bradley Hicks.

“Poor Bradley.”

“You knew him?”

“Yes. And what a terrible way to die, frightened to death in his own family vault.”

“Was he easily frightened?” Joe asked.

The man frowned, clearly curious as to Joe’s line of questioning, so Joe showed him his license. “My friends and I are looking into the recent murders in New York,” he said.

The man’s eyes widened. “You think…?”

“We don’t know.”

“Look, I’m done here, so I can show you Bradley’s grave, if you want. Poor guy. He died there, and now he’s buried there. I’m James Boer, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

Joe made the introductions to the rest of the group, and then they got back in their car and followed James.

Bradley Hicks had been buried in a very old cemetery, rich with funerary art, slightly overgrown, and melancholy. The Hicks family had been in Baltimore for a long time. The first interment had been in eighteen-ten, and there were literally dozens of names inscribed on the tomb.

“Can all of those people really fit in there?” Nikki asked doubtfully.

“I imagine some are cremations,” Joe said in reply.

“They found him in there, though. There are shelves on three sides, and a couple of tombs on the ground where you go in,” James told them. “Hey, you can see for yourselves. You can look through the grating.”

Joe stepped up and looked in. Though shadows hid some things, the interior was just as James had described it.

“Here, use my flashlight,” Adam volunteered, handing over his keychain, which had a small but powerful penlight attached. When Joe looked at him in surprise, the older man just shrugged. “I encounter more tombs than you do,” he said lightly.

The beam showed Joe what he needed to know. On the other side of the grating was a wooden door, now open. Inside, there were four stone coffins on the ground and a number of others filling the shelves.

“That’s Bradley, over there,” James said, moving up and pointing. Bradley Hicks was resting on the top shelf on the right-hand side.

“Who keeps the keys to the mausoleums?” Joe asked James.

“The families, of course, and the cemetery manager has one,” James said.

“You want to get in?” Adam asked. Joe nodded, and Adam said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Take the car,” Brent suggested, tossing him the keys. “It’s a long walk back to the office.”

Adam nodded, and Nikki decided to go with him.

“What are you trying to prove?” James asked.

“I’m just trying to see how he could have thought he’d locked himself in,” Joe explained, then was startled by a choked-off scream. He turned quickly to see Genevieve and Brent standing together on the narrow path leading to the tomb. The scream had come from behind them, where a young woman of about twenty was standing, carrying a bouquet of flowers.

Genevieve hurried over to her, frowning.

“No,” the young woman mouthed, wide-eyed.

“It’s all right,” Genevieve said, touching her shoulder gently.

The woman ignored her, raised a finger and pointed at James. “You were here!” she said accusingly. “You were here the day that man died.”

“No, I wasn’t,” James protested. He looked at the others, shaking his head. “I swear, I was working.” He turned back to the young woman. “I’m a tour guide,” he said quickly. “I dress like this for work, but except for today, I’ve never come here in costume.”

“Calm down, everyone,” Joe said. “Miss, were you here when Mr. Hicks died?”

She nodded.

“Are you related to him?” When she shook her head, Joe went on, “So you were here because…?” he asked.

She pointed to another family mausoleum about fifty yards away. In bold letters it announced the name ‘Adair.’

“Your family?” Genevieve asked, trying to draw her out.

Another nod, then, “I’m Sarah Adair.”

“What happened?” Genevieve pursued.

“I…came to bring my grandmother flowers. I like to come. Our tomb is always open. It’s like a little chapel,” she said.

“Did you see Mr. Hicks that day?” Joe asked. “Before he died?

She shook her head. “No, I only heard about it later. But I saw him!” She pointed at James.

“I’m telling you, I wasn’t here,” James said.

She studied his face. “Okay. I saw someone who looked like you.”

“Someone who looked like Edgar Allan Poe, you mean?” Joe asked.

She shrugged. “I guess. Like Poe.” She suddenly clamped her hand over her mouth. “The paper said the man who died loved Poe. He wrote an article about him or something.”

“Miss Adair,” Joe said, “can you tell me about the day Mr. Hicks died?”

“Like I said, I came to bring flowers to my grandmother. When I left, I saw a man who looked like him—like Poe—walking in front of me, and the way the path runs, he must have come from over here. I didn’t think anything about it. But then I heard on the news that Mr. Hicks had a heart attack in his tomb, so I told the police that I had seen someone in the cemetery. But they told me lots of people had been here, and that there was nothing suspicious, that no one had locked Mr. Hicks in and both doors were unlocked when they found him.”

Just then Adam and Nikki returned. When they stepped out of the car, Adam was dangling a key triumphantly; then he frowned, noticing the addition to their party.

“This is Sarah Adair,” Joe explained. “And she was just telling us that there was a man dressed as Edgar Allan Poe in the cemetery the day Bradley Hicks died.”

“Oh?” Adam stared at her with renewed interest.

“Are you going in?” Sarah asked.

“Well…” Nikki said.

“You can go into any of the tombs. The keys are just hanging on the rack in the office.”

“They just leave them there for…whoever?” Joe asked.

“Of course. People come from all over the country to visit relatives who are buried here,” Sarah said.

Joe took the key from Adam, fitted it into the lock and found that the iron grate swung open easily. Unless it had been oiled since Hicks’s death—something he would have to look into—there was no way it would have stuck and trapped anyone inside. With Adam’s flashlight in hand, he stepped in and closed both the outer grate and the inner wooden door behind him. Both opened instantly to his touch.

He closed the doors again and turned off the flashlight, then tried to imagine being Bradley Hicks.

Trying to open the door…

Not being able to.

He might have tried banging on the walls, but they were brick, and very thick.

But could anyone have counted on him to have a heart attack so conveniently?

He must have had a weak heart, and his killer must have known it.

He opened the doors again.

It was almost amusing. They’d lined up in front of the tomb as if they were waiting for Lazarus to arise.

“The doors don’t stick,” Joe said briefly, then turned to James. “You said you knew him pretty well, right?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have a heart condition?”

James nodded somberly. “That’s why they figured he had the heart attack.”

“Makes sense,” Joe agreed. Then he turned back and locked both doors to the tomb. “I guess we’re done here,” he said. “James, thank you. And, Sarah, thank you, too.” He handed her his card. “Just in case you remember anything else about that day.”

Joe slipped an arm around Genevieve, and with the others behind them, they started walking back to the car.

They decided to have an early dinner in Baltimore, and just after they’d ordered, Joe’s phone rang. He saw that it was Raif and excused himself to step outside.

“I found it,” Raif said.

“What?”

“I heard from a fellow in the Richmond P. D. thirty minutes ago, said he wanted to let me know that an Edgar Allan Poe costume—complete with wig, mustache, shoes, the whole bit—was rented to a T. Bigelow the day William Morton was killed. And one of our cops here managed to find a shop here on Broadway that had rented another one just two days before Bigelow was murdered. It was rented to Thorne Bigelow, as well.”

“Thorne is dead.”

“Credit cards can get around, you know?”

“So who do you like for it?”

“Jared Bigelow. And I’ve got him in custody.”

“You’ve arrested him for murder?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I still don’t have any proof on that. Although we did find a lady who lives down the block from him who said she saw Edgar Allan Poe walking around the neighborhood.”

“That’s something,” Joe said.

“I don’t know. She also told me that Martians had landed and were living in the house next door.”

“So what do you have Jared on?”

Raif chuckled softly. “Traffic.”

“Traffic?”

“And attempted bribery. He seems to think he doesn’t have to pay his parking tickets. He owes the city almost a thousand dollars, and the officer who stopped him wasn’t impressed with his offer of a gratuity, so at this moment, he isn’t getting out—no matter what kind of fancy lawyer he has—till the judge hears his case in the morning.”