Deadly Fate (6 page)

“I don't begrudge them coffee—they can have all the damned coffee they want. Ain't my coffee. Film people paid for all that's in here. They just need to start taking care of themselves a little. Where's this, where's that? You don't have any of this kind or that fake sugar? This is a quiet place, most of the time. People rent it out and come and go, but there's a time limit on it, you know?”

“No time limit on finding a murderer,” Thor said. “So, did you see anything unusual—besides the setup by the film folks,” he put in quickly. “Did you hear anything, did you see anyone else on the island anywhere?”

Justin Crowley waved a hand in the air. “It's a private island. We know when people are due out on the ferry. Hell, just 'cause it's Alaska, doesn't mean we're not like the rest of the world! Sometimes, yeah, kids like to come out here from the mainland to the ‘rich people's island,' and bring girls and beer or cheap wine, but they don't stay. We got grizzly bears in the forest and they are mean—especially the momma bears when they got cubs. If kids come, they hang out in the water, hug to the coves. In winter, you can get iced in, so no one comes then. We got generators, the missus and me, because it can freeze like a mother here and the electric can go. Did I see anyone else today—no, I did not. Did I hear anything—no, I did not. I didn't know one damned thing about the girl in the snow or the woman killed back in Seward until you all came out here today. And that's a fact—and there's nothing I can say or do to help you. I wasn't looking out for anyone to be on the island. I wasn't paying much attention. We were just getting ready for the film people, sprucing this place up. Hadn't been rented out in a while. It wasn't dirty, but it's like anything else. You don't use it, somehow you still have to clean it anyway.” He leaned forward suddenly. “Don't you think we'd like to help you? We live here—survive here. Thinking some maniac who likes to cut people in half might be running around isn't a good thought, not for my wife and me. We're a little old to be hitting an overcrowded job market!”

“People don't always realize what they might know when something first happens,” Thor said. “After a while, you might remember a sound or a moment or something out on the ice. I'm pretty sure that whoever did this had some knowledge of the island.”

“Something might come to you later,” Jackson said. “It doesn't matter how small.”

“Sure. So, what's happening now? You're not leaving the wife and me out on this island alone with a killer running around?”

“No, we won't be leaving you alone,” Jackson said. “You'll have forensic crews going through everything at the Mansion through the night.”

“You and your wife are sleeping here?” Thor asked him.

He nodded. “We were planning to, anyway. Natalie Fontaine hadn't been sure how it would all go. We were prepared for her crew to stay at the Alaska Hut, too.”

“Someone will be here,” Thor assured him.

Justin Crowley nodded and set his hands on his chair. “Then I guess ‘someone' can talk to me anytime they want. You finished with me for now?”

“Yes, we are. Thank you, Mr. Crowley,” Thor said. “And you know, of course, that we have search warrants that allow us to search every inch of property here, including your personal space?”

Crowley smiled. “Feel free. We're too old for any personal kinky stuff, so it will be kind of boring, but, hey, go for it.”

Crowley left the room. “Hm,” Jackson murmured. He looked over at Thor and grinned. “Sometimes, the older, the kinkier.”

“Please, Lord, don't give me any mental pictures!” Thor told him. He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes.

“What do you think—seriously?” Jackson asked him.

“Seriously—don't paint any mental pictures!” Thor said, and then shook his head, looking at his old partner. It had been over a decade since he and Jackson had worked together. They'd been good partners—great partners, really, even knowing what each other was thinking most of the time. They had an unspoken rule: there was no sense in doing what they were doing if it fell short of real humanity. They tended to be by the book and courteous until they couldn't go by the book and courtesy just wasn't in the cards anymore.

“I think that they can search this island for days and miss nooks and crannies,” he told Jackson. “I think that the film crew and the Celtic American people were taken completely by surprise. Then again, the group from the ship are actors, and the film crew are in ‘reality' TV. As for Mr. and Mrs. Crowley—they're either cantankerous from too much cold or just downright creepy.”

“Do you think someone else is on the island?” Jackson asked him.

Thor hesitated. “There has to be someone else—or, at the very least, a cache somewhere out here. There's not even a speck of stage blood on anyone in this house. And yet...I still believe that one of them had to have seen something. Because, at some time, Amelia Carson was killed here or brought here. We know that. We go backward from there.” He looked at Jackson again. “I can't help but believe that Tate Morley is here somehow. That he is out there on the island. And he's watching us.”

* * *

They weren't being offered any means off the island—not yet.

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.

Clara didn't speak. She felt uneasy.

She loved being a performer. She'd received good reviews and bad reviews. She'd been in casts when she'd been the low man on the totem pole, totally ignored by those seeking autographs. She'd had lead roles and signed and greeted people, as well. She'd been panned by critics and loved by critics and she'd been careful never to take any of it too seriously.

She'd been admired before, and that was nice. But something about the way this man looked at her made her feel queasy.

She tried to smile. He hadn't done an evil thing to her.

“It is you, right? I wasn't sure about all the particulars, but I heard about
Annabelle Lee
being done on the
Fate.
And, I knew, of course, that Wickedly Weird Productions was using cruise line employees for
Vacation USA
, and I had hoped...”