Heather Graham - Deadly Fate

And it had been hours, or so it seemed. Hard to tell in Alaska in the summer—the sun never seemed to really set. Clara didn’t wear a watch, but she knew that lunch and dinner had come and gone.

State police—ready to draw their weapons at the drop of a hat!—watched over them. The crew of Wickedly Weird Productions had been brought to the entertainment room in back to wait while she, Ralph, Simon and Larry were in the parlor.

They’d all had sandwiches, provided by the police officers. They’d been offered power bars and fruit. Ralph had complained a bit about not having a proper dinner as time had gone on, but she didn’t think that he was even hungry.

It was a nice enough waiting area. The fireplace was huge and the room was done with stone and natural wood. The sofas were worn, plush leather. While the entertainment center was out in back where the TV people were gathered, there was a smaller screen in the living room.

There was no stopping the media; while neither the police nor the FBI had given out any particulars, the news that producer Natalie Fontaine and celebrity TV hostess Amelia Carson had been murdered was plastered all over the screen.

Every news channel was broadcasting the information. Reporters interviewed other guests and employees at the Nordic Lights Hotel. They spoke in serious tones.

Not one of them missed the opportunity to say that both women had now become part of the sensationalist television they had promoted during their lives. And while a man named Enfield gave a press conference along with the chief of police, neither let out the information that one woman had been beheaded and another had been cut in half.

Law enforcement was doing its best to see that the murders did not become speculative gossip.

After the third or fourth program, Larry had suggested they watch a music channel.

They had all quickly agreed.

She and her cast mates had talked for a while—a little awkwardly, since a uniformed man watched them at all times—and then they had grown silent. It wasn’t a bad silence; they were all comfortable with one another. They were not only part of an ensemble cast, they had lived aboard the Destiny in close proximity, and knew each other very well. Larry and Ralph were now partners, living together, close as could be.

And, she thought, afraid. They were all scared. Every now and then, she caught her cast mates looking at her. Though they were on edge, they were men—and the killer had targeted two women.

But even she could distance herself a little. The two women killed had been with Wickedly Weird Productions.

She was not.

Becca Marle was. Clara had heard a bit of a few of her conversations with Tommy Marchant and Nate Mahoney. They were anxious. They wanted off the island.

Becca didn’t. She felt safer here than she would elsewhere. She liked the armed policeman watching over her amid a sea of cops and the FBI men, who were in the house, as well.

Clara wished that Jackson was out there with them. But now, of course, he was with the man she thought of as Agent Viking. She hoped he was taking charge; she certainly felt more secure when he was with them.

“It’s good that Crow is here,” Ralph said.

“Definitely,” Simon agreed.

Larry grinned. “I don’t know. That Thor guy looks pretty tough to me. We’re going to be all right.” He patted Clara on the knee. “Hey, don’t go wishing you were back in NOLA. Bad things can happen anywhere. Wait—very bad things did happen out of NOLA.”

She frowned, looking at him. She couldn’t help it; she did wish she was back in New Orleans. She had been born there, grown up in the French Quarter; her parents were there, and her younger brother was getting his master’s at Tulane. Home would feel good right now. Actually, New Orleans was where she’d gotten to know Jackson Crow and his wife, Angela, and where the “Krewe of Hunters” had been formed in pursuit of a killer on a high-profile case.

And when they’d been on the Destiny...

Her friend Alexi Cromwell had been there, and the cast of Les Miz had been large—lots of friends. When they were nervous, they’d stayed together. They’d kept working.

Hell, they’d polished their nails and done all kinds of mundane things.

She reminded herself that it had really only been a matter of hours that they’d been here. Long hours, but not a full day and night.

People had died—horribly.

There’d been a few minutes when she had tried to convince herself that the whole thing was an episode of Gotcha. Natalie Fontaine would come walking in and announce cheerfully that wow! They had all been really gotten. Special Agent Thor Erikson would prove to be an actor/stripper and the whole thing would have been a farce in extremely bad taste.

She couldn’t pretend at all anymore—if she’d ever been able to convince herself of such a thing. Jackson Crow was here now. She knew this was real.

“Yeah, you know, this isn’t right,” Ralph said. “Not right, and not fair. I’m reminded of The Importance of Being Earnest, by Oscar Wilde, you know. Wonderful quotes from that story. ‘To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune. To lose both looks like carelessness.’ Well! To be in one horrendous situation is certainly misfortune, but how in God’s name did we all manage two?” he demanded. “Carelessness?” he asked.

Clara, Simon and even Larry stared at him.

“Sorry, sorry, yes, no one’s fault. Still...” Ralph let his sentence end with a sigh. “I’m scared again, I guess. God! I hate being scared.”

“We’re all right, Ralph. Really. We’re all right,” Simon said. “Two things. Both of the people killed were with reality TV, not with the cruise line or the cast. And the other—both people killed were women.”

He winced, looking over at Clara.

“It’s okay, Simon. I had noted that fact already,” Clara told him drily.

“Hey!” Simon said suddenly. “Someone else is entering the fray!”

Clara had been curled on the sofa in the parlor beneath the large picture window that looked onto the porch; at Simon’s words, she sat up and looked out.

Someone was coming. A handsome man of about forty-five, medium height, with dark hair. He wore a double sweater beneath a thick parka and he was followed by a police officer and a shivering woman carrying a notepad.

The police officer with him appeared to be frazzled.

The woman looked as nervous as a cartoon rat. She was pinched thin, and wore a parka as if it were a heavy burden upon her.

The officer, the man and the pinched-rat-like woman were stopped at the door by another state policeman.

They talked for several minutes. At last, the officer in charge of guarding the front door opened it and let them in.

For a moment, the man looked around the room. Then his eyes lit on Clara. He looked confused, as if he’d seen a mannequin come to life or a ghost return from the dead. Then he smiled. “My God—it’s you!”

Clara didn’t have the least idea of what he was talking about.

“Hello?” she said politely. She stood; the others had done the same at the man’s entry.

He smiled—a great smile, she thought.

“I’ve seen you! You performed a Sandra Dee character in Grease! You were amazing. I was a little bit in love!” the man said.

“I was in Grease,” Ralph murmured.

No one paid him any heed.

“Thank you. And I’m sorry. Who are you?” Clara asked.

“Marc. Marc Kimball,” he said. “I own Black Bear Island.”

“Oh!”

The murmur seemed like a chorus line—it so perfectly seemed to come from everyone in the room at the same time.

“How do you do?”

“It’s a pleasure.”

“Marc Kimball!”

The greetings seemed to sail around the room.