Adam sat down and started setting up his notebook computer and portable printer, and Nikki got out a map and started planning a self-guided tour of Poe’s onetime haunts.

“Stay safe,” he warned them.

“Adam, stop worrying,” Genevieve said. “We’re here, and the murderer is back in New York.”

Her logic was sound, but he frowned anyway. Then Nikki came to her defense. “We’re going to be tourists, Adam. There will be plenty of people all around us.”

Nikki got on the phone and arranged another rental car, and as soon as it was delivered they left for the Old Stone House, now a museum dedicated to all things Poe.

Poe had never lived in the Old Stone House, but he would have passed it in his early days as he walked to school. It had been built in seventeen-thirty-seven, and was the oldest house in Richmond. Inside, they studied the relics of Poe’s everyday life. Furnishings from the home he had shared with his foster parents, clothing, documents, first editions of his work, even a lock of his hair. Genevieve found herself enjoying the museum, despite the stress of everything going on. It was fascinating, beginning to know someone who was long gone but had made such a deep and continuing impression on the literary world, and who continued to influence writers and moviemakers. Visiting sites dedicated to him, walking where he’d walked, made him flesh and blood.

As they walked outside, they heard the words tortured genius and realized that a docent was giving a speech, so they hurried closer to listen to her.

“Poe’s pain began at an early age, when his father abandoned the family, and then he lost his mother before he was two years old. Scholars believe that many of his stories focus on this loss. So often he writes about a beautiful woman, taken far too soon. He felt himself caught between the very real world, in which he was constantly fighting a battle against poverty, and the ethereal world of the dead. John Allan, his foster father, was a stern man. A highly moral man. He never formally adopted Poe, and he meant to make of Poe a man in his own image, one who was responsible, stern and moral. As a result, they fought often.

“In contrast, Poe loved his foster mother, but he was barely an adult when he lost her, as well, another motivating factor in the omnipresence of the dead, dying and decaying in so many of his works. He fell in love with and married his cousin, Virginia, and she, too, was frail, and died at a young age. Perhaps it was only natural that Poe should be obsessed with death. We recognize Poe now as one of the great literary geniuses of American history, but in his time, he struggled. He longed to be respected by his peers, but that respect was never forthcoming. The ironic tragedy is that he was on the verge of achieving all that he craved at the time of his death, and in fact, his own death was shrouded in mystery.

“He was in love with Elmira Shelton, who had been a childhood sweetheart and was then a widow. She had accepted his marriage proposal, and might have had the age and wisdom to curb the drinking that was his ongoing downfall. He had written happily to his aunt and mother-in-law, Maria Clemm, to say, ‘I hope that our troubles are nearly over.’ Here in Richmond, he was becoming a fixture on the lecture circuit. He wasn’t getting rich, but he was being well received. And then…he headed for Baltimore. He disappeared for several days, then was discovered in the street, delirious, wearing another man’s clothing. He died on October seventh, eighteen-forty-nine, and his last words were, ‘God help my poor soul.’ His life was a litany of depression, alcoholism, lost love and great sadness, his death a mystery as dark as any story he ever penned.”

The docent nodded gravely, and her audience was spellbound as they followed her into the museum. All except for Gen and Nikki, who remained standing outside in the sunshine. Genevieve, frowning, kept watching the spot where the woman had stood.

“What is it?” Nikki asked.

“Something she said.”

“That his death was a mystery?”

“No…no. I’ve heard all the theories on his disappearance. I have a feeling that it had to do with the voting scandal of the time.” When Nikki looked at her curiously, she explained. “A candidate’s supporters would find a man, keep changing his looks and send him out to vote over and over again. By giving him a lot to drink, they kept him docile and willing to do whatever they told him. And then, when they were done with him, they assumed he would be all right and sent him on his way. Unfortunately, Poe was an alcoholic and he wasn’t all right.”

“So what’s bothering you?” Nikki asked.

“It’s the whole tortured-genius concept,” Genevieve said. “She said, ‘he longed to be respected by his peers.’ I don’t know why, but that just keeps coming back to me. The whole tortured-genius thing. If we were only looking at the murder of Thorne Bigelow, Jared would be the prime suspect. Even Lori Star was probably only killed to cover up the first murder. But if the deaths here and in Baltimore are related, we need to look at the bigger picture, at different motives. So…Poe was a tortured genius. Maybe the killer sees himself as a tortured genius, too.”

“You could be on to something,” Nikki said. Then she grinned and said, “But don’t torture yourself over it. We’ll figure it out soon enough.”

She sounded so certain, Gen thought, and asked, “Where to next?”

“Let’s do the churches. Monumental Episcopal and St. John’s.”

Monumental had been built on the site where Elizabeth Poe, Edgar’s mother, had once worked as an actress. They were able to sit in the same pew where Edgar Allan Poe had gone to services with his foster parents. From there, they moved on up East Broad Street to St. John’s, the church where Patrick Henry had given his famous “Give me liberty or give me death” speech. There the historical marker at the churchyard entry claimed two very famous grave sites, one for the patriot George Wythe, and another for Elizabeth Arnold Poe. A local guidebook that Nikki had picked up at the museum explained that Elizabeth’s grave was at the far eastern edge of the churchyard for a reason.

She’d been an actress. And that, in her day, had been scandalous. The congregation of the time had been appalled that she was allowed to be interred in their graveyard at all.

As they walked the grounds, Genevieve kept her eyes on Nikki. But if the other woman was seeing ghosts, she gave no sign.

Inside the church, they couldn’t help being swept up in the building’s revolutionary history. But because her mind was so heavily on the task at hand, eventually Genevieve found it wandering to her own mystery.

Then she noticed the memorial. “Nikki, look.”

It was the kind of marker that usually noted the fact that a certain person had been laid to rest beneath the floor. But this one wasn’t old, and it didn’t refer to anyone buried in the church. It was just a memorial.

To William Morton.

According to the inscription, he had not only attended the church, he had helped to keep up the building and grounds, and he had given generously of his time and his earnings.

And he was buried in a nearby cemetery.

“Let’s go,” Nikki said.

They hurried back out to the car, where Nikki glanced at a map for a moment, then started the engine and pulled back onto the road.

Genevieve read from the guidebook as they drove. “This says there are three presidents buried there,” she told Nikki. “James Monroe and John Tyler and Jefferson Davis, president of the Confederate States of America.”

“It’s a technicality as to whether that makes it two or three, then,” Nikki said with a laugh. “Of course, some Southerners would say that the most important president ever is buried there.”

“This book was written by an Englishman,” Genevieve said, reading the cover blurb. “We’ll assume that he really didn’t take a side.”

Nikki grinned, as they drove into the cemetery and parked. They went into the office, where they pretended to be relatives of William Morton so they could get directions to his grave.

As they started walking, Genevieve felt an odd sense of unease slipping over her, despite the beauty of the setting. “Nikki?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Are we here because you’re hoping to, uh, talk to William Morton?”

“Who knows? It’s worth a try.”

Genevieve found herself distracted when she saw a sign pointing to the grave of George Pickett, famous for Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg. She wandered over to the grave and studied it, saddened by thoughts of how much had been lost when the country had been torn in two by war.

“Nikki?” she said, then realized the other woman wasn’t with her, so she started walking again in what she hoped was the direction of William Morton’s grave.

Then she turned a corner and froze.

There were ghosts, and she knew they were ghosts, standing right in front of her. A man, tall, slender, gaunt even, and very stately, with graying hair and strong, tormented features. And a woman. Very tall, as well, in eighteen-fifties dress. She was of medium build, a very handsome woman, but looking as tormented as the man.

Genevieve’s jaw locked, and she shook her head.

They were just there on the path, surrounded by stone angels.

As she stood transfixed, another man came up to the pair. He wore a gray uniform with butternut trim, a handsome officer’s jacket and a cockade hat. The officer said something to the couple, then tipped his hat and turned to walk down the path.

Right toward Genevieve.

As he got closer, she realized that she could see right through him.

He was a handsome man, and as he passed her, he tipped his hat as if it were perfectly natural that she should see him.

She sensed someone behind her, and she couldn’t help it. She screamed.

“Genevieve! What on earth is the matter?”

She turned to see Nikki standing there.

“You’ve seen someone,” the other woman said.

All Genevieve could do at first was point.

“That’s Jefferson Davis’s grave. His wife is buried right next to him, and there are a number of Confederate officers nearby.”