Death had changed her. Death, Clara figured, could do that.
“So, should I have this honest conversation?” she asked Amelia. “Tell him that, yes, this is really an awkward situation. Two women are dead and we’re trying to find their killer before he strikes again. Oh, and I know you’re obsessed—thinking it’s a killer you put away who has escaped and is killing again—but, in the meantime, let’s sleep together?”
“It would work for me,” Amelia said.
“Hm. Just tell him that it’s a great stress reliever?” Clara asked.
“Yes, absolutely!” Amelia said.
“I was just kidding,” Clara said.
“That’s too bad. You shouldn’t be kidding. You should do it.”
“There are other people all over this house!” Clara protested.
“Cops and agents, and the creepy couple. And creepier Marc Kimball. Hey, I’d sleep with the FBI guy just to make sure that Kimball doesn’t come in. No, you might sleep with him just to make sure that Kimball doesn’t come in. Kimball isn’t all that bad looking, and he’s rich as an Arab oil nation. I might have slept with him,” Amelia said with a shrug. “Anyway...for me!” she said softly. “Be careful. Be really careful. Let me help you live. Maybe I’ll redeem myself.”
“But—”
“Do you really think any of the people guarding the place are going to say anything about Thor Erikson being in here? Do you think the cops will pay any attention? They’ll just relax, thinking he’s watching over you. And,” she added, a sparkle in her eyes now, “I promise you, I knock before I enter!”
She began to fade then and added, “Not to mention, I only last so long! And I might have been the hostess of Gotcha, but in real life, I’m not a voyeur. I liked living too much. Hey, I just said real life. That’s funny, right, ironic? For me, there is no life.”
“Oh, Amelia,” Clara murmured, reaching out.
She touched air. Amelia was all but gone.
“Get out there and enjoy your every minute, Clara,” Amelia said.
And then she was gone. There was really nothing there but air.
Clara had to wonder if she hadn’t gone a little crazy—if they hadn’t all lost their minds a little bit. She might just be arguing with herself, the sane side of her mind trying to tell her why she shouldn’t do exactly what she wanted to do.
Sleep with the man.
*
Thor tried to analyze what he knew—and didn’t know—logically. He threw what he believed to be true into the mix. That was theory, but he was going to assume at the moment that theory might well be fact.
Tate Morley had escaped from maximum security in Kansas by killing a doctor and taking on his identity.
He had an accomplice; someone with whom he’d been communicating in prison. Letters in and out were scrutinized. Angela Hawkins at Krewe headquarters was fine-tooth-combing the letters now.
It appeared that Tate Morley had gotten to Alaska. He knew about Wickedly Weird Productions. He probably knew as well that Thor was working in Alaska. Morley definitely hated him; he might also hate reality TV.
Fact—Thor really disliked Marc Kimball. Disliking the man had nothing to do with whether or not he was a killer. While Morley’s partner might just be supplying him with information and transportation, it was possible that the accomplice was a killer, too. Morley had been in the hotel lobby; Morley had interacted with Natalie Fontaine.
If he’d killed her in the early hours of the morning, he would have been able to get out to Black Bear Island by some kind of private conveyance and await the arrival of Amelia Carson. He could have killed both women.
Whoever had killed Amelia had dragged her into the woods to bisect her. Had he been worried that he’d be seen by Justin or Magda Crowley or one of the film crew who were eagerly awaiting the arrival of Natalie and Amelia and the poor cast members from the Fate?
Or was the killer someone on the island?
One of the Wickedly Weird crew or one of the just plain weird workers at the estate, Justin or Magda?
Or was it Marc Kimball himself?
Had the man been here all along and pretended that he had arrived via his private jet?
Due to his suspicions, Thor had been casual with little Emmy Vincenzo, but talked her into going inside and locking herself in her room.
He asked the police officer on duty in the house to make sure that he kept an eye on her.
He wondered, though, if Emmy wasn’t safe.
Tate Morley had always killed beautiful women. Emmy was too much of a mouse to be considered beautiful.
He spoke briefly with Jackson in the living room, telling him that he was going to check on Clara Avery.
“Feel like sleeping in front of her door like a Doberman, huh?” Jackson asked.
“I’m still not happy she’s here.”
“She might be in danger anywhere. We really don’t understand what’s going on,” Jackson said.
“Yeah,” Thor agreed. He turned to head down the hall.
“Thor,” Jackson called after him.