Heather Graham - Fade To Black

“They do say that it could have just been random,” Malcolm said. “That the guy—or woman, but the dude was pretty big, so I think it was a man—was just out to kill. Someone, anyone, a guest or a celebrity.”

“You know, like it might have been some kind of an exhibitionist,” Roberta supplied.

“Marnie was going along with the show,” Jeremy said. “And Cara—Cara was never to be outdone. She hopped up and got right into it.”

“Miss Davante,” a male voice said softly, interrupting them.

They all swiveled around to see who had spoken.

Bryan had seen the man before—in the cell phone footage of the killing that had gone viral around the world. Most of the news stations had shown the footage with some respect. Many social media sites had posted it in all its graphic detail—until the pure horror of it had been caught and taken down by whatever powers that be, those with some common decency.

The man had been standing at the booth when it had happened. He’d been speaking with Marnie, or so it appeared. A fan?

“Miss Davante, David Neal. I was there... I just wanted to say I’m so sorry. I... We...we have an appointment tomorrow. I wasn’t sure... Anyway, I wish you luck with your future,” he said. He backed away awkwardly, looking at all of them. “I’m truly sorry—all of you. She was a great talent. She was...a talent. Yes. I’m sorry. Miss Davante, I hope that... I hope that you won’t hold this against me when...when you’re looking to hire again.”

He nodded uncomfortably to all of them and then moved on.

“Rude,” Malcolm said. “We’re at a funeral, and he’s worried about a job.”

“He was just apologizing,” Marnie said in the man’s defense.

“As he should have been,” Roberta murmured.

“We’re here for you,” Jeremy said. “We’re all here for each other. Oh, look, there’s Vince Carlton. I’m sure he’s hurting, too. He’d been in talks with Cara for a while,” he said to Bryan. “I’m going to say hello again. Excuse me.”

“And excuse me,” Marnie said. She stared straight at Bryan, and he knew that he was the reason she wanted to be excused.

But he couldn’t stop her. And he wasn’t sure that he should, not at that moment.

“Miss Davante,” he said, lowering his head as she stepped by.

“So,” Roberta said as Marnie walked away, “may I get you a drink? I suppose you used your family connection to get in here today. Because though we had help from a few others, we were Cara’s family, and we pretty much put the guest list together. Naughty, naughty, Mr. McFadden—you weren’t on it! Then again, neither was that young man, David Neal. You have a connection. How did he manage it, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Bryan told her. “But it would be interesting to find out.”

* * *

There was someone in her house. But that wasn’t unexpected.

Marnie had driven herself to the service, though she could have gone to the funeral and the reception in the cast limo.

She had chosen not to, explaining that she might not want to stay long at the reception, and she’d really like to have her own car available.

She pulled up to her duplex. Her home was in a perfect location—close to Universal Studios, a hop on the I-5 to either Hollywood or to places up north. She wasn’t far from Burbank and the airport there.

Also, she had just loved the home when she had first seen it. The yard was surrounded by a white picket fence. There were three gates—one at the walkway from the sidewalk, and one on each side for her and Bridget to bring their cars into their parking spaces. Really, for the location, her duplex had been an amazing deal.

The charm of the duplex was, in a way, odd. There were dozens of skyscrapers nearby, but her place looked like it might have come out of Home and Garden for the rural crowd. But it was that kind of a neighborhood—houses for the median-income crowd along with businesses and skyscrapers. She’d loved where she lived since she’d bought it, at the height of Dark Harbor ’s popularity.

She kept the place whitewashed with green trim. It had been built right when Art Nouveau had been giving way to Art Deco. There were window boxes and arches and all kinds of charming little details in the architecture.

Using her remote control, she opened her driveway gate and pulled her little Honda into place.

As she exited the car, Bridget came flying out from her front door.

“Marnie! You’re back so early. Are you all right? I knew I should have gone with you. Oh, they weren’t rude or mean or anything, were they?”

“No, I’m fine, really,” Marnie said, and she really hoped that she was a good actress, good enough to pull off that kind of a lie to her cousin. “I just... I just needed to leave. To come home.”

“I’ll make tea. My side? Your side?”

“My side. I know it’s just getting toward evening, but I’m thinking about to going to bed really early.”

“Right after tea,” Bridget said. “Oh, and food. You’ll need food.”

“I just left a reception,” Marnie argued. “There was food.”

“And I know you. You didn’t eat any of it.”

Marnie hadn’t eaten. Neither had she had anything to drink.

Nope, not a drop of alcohol, and still she had seen and heard a dead woman.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m really not hungry,” Marnie said. “Honestly.”

“Yeah, but you have to eat something. This is terrible, tragic—but you have to go on living. If you’re going to get that children’s theater up and running on schedule, you’re going to have to start functioning again. That real estate agent, Seth Smith, called. I told him that you were a bit preoccupied right now, and he’s being understanding, but doing up a budget and taking care of all the details will take time—you have to start moving. He told me he has other offers. Of course, that could be a come-on, but...”

“I’ll go see the accountant tomorrow,” Marnie promised. She smiled at Bridget. Neither of them had siblings, but their dads were brothers and had become the proud parents of baby girls the same year. Marnie and Bridget were as close as siblings—maybe closer. They had never had to fight over anything since they’d grown up in different homes.

They weren’t, however, much alike in appearance. Bridget had very wild red hair and soft amber eyes in contrast to Marnie’s blue-green eyes and dark chestnut hair color.

At the moment, however, Bridget was sporting some swatches in aqua and pink—very in the now. So far, Marnie had chosen to retain her own hair color. Her future was still uncertain; she made a lot of her current income from commercials she’d garnered here or there, and she was afraid of doing anything a bit off—even if hair did fix easily—when needing that money was still a major part of life.

For Bridget, of course, it was different. She didn’t act—in fact, she hated acting. She also hated crowds, which was one of the reasons Marnie had talked her out of attending the funeral. Bridget was a writer; she had a great job as full-time writer for several shows on the new Sci-tastic cable channel, an outlet that specialized in sci-fi and fantasy themes.

Bridget followed her cousin into her side of the duplex and headed straight for the kitchen. Marnie loved her kitchen. It was painted yellow, with herbs and flowers growing in the huge tiled bay window that overlooked the yard.

Marnie walked into the living room and crashed onto one of her rich chocolate leather sofas.

“How was the reception?” Bridget asked. “I can imagine it was a zoo. Everyone who hadn’t had a second for Cara Barton in life probably was there—I mean, what self-respecting actor would miss out on an opportunity for exposure like that? There was a ton of press there, right?”