Deadly Fate by Heather Graham

members of the Wickedly Weird Productions team, she and Misty Blaine were the two surviving women.
    The Annabelle Lee cast had been talkative—maybe because they all knew Jackson Crow already. Jackson’s appearance was a good thing. While Thor felt that talking with Clara Avery had been somewhat of a challenge, it had been easy, thanks to Jackson, to gain trust and a comfortable rapport with the three men.
    Now...
    Mr. and Mrs. Crowley.
    â€œTheir name just had to be Crowley,” Mike murmured, bringing the pair in. Neither Jackson nor Thor responded and Mike added, “Crowley. You know—like Aleister Crowley. The satanist.”
    â€œYeah, we know about Aleister Crowley,” Thor told him, managing a grim smile. “But, hey, it’s still a pretty common last name.”
    â€œJust don’t think we needed it here!” Mike said. He hesitated and added, “And they’re weird! Remind me of that painting— American Gothic , I think it’s called. Or those movies you see where the old folks are raising a tribe of cannibals who feed off travelers.”
    â€œMike, there aren’t that many travelers out here—a family of cannibals would starve pretty quickly,” Thor told him.
    â€œThey’re still weird!” Mike said.
    He’d been to the toolshed and around the Alaska Hut with the couple while Thor had interviewed the others.
    Although the police and forensic crews had been scouring the island, the how of the crime here remained a mystery. No weapon could be found; no hiding place. Of course, with not much blood at the site of the body, Thor hadn’t needed the medical examiner to tell him that Amelia Carson had been killed elsewhere, and brought to be left in the snow for discovery. But how had the killer gotten her there—and gotten away—without being seen?
    Unless he was among those in the house.
    Ralph Martini, Larry Hepburn and Simon Green vouched for one another; they had come to the island together.
    Thor had found Clara Avery running through the snow himself.
    That left the film crew—unless the three actors had gone crazy and started chopping people up together, a scenario that seemed unlikely.
    And then there were... Mr. and Mrs. Crowley.
    According to Ralph, Larry and Simon, the first people they had seen were the film crew, when they had—screaming bloody murder over what they had discovered at the Mansion—run into the Alaska Hut. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Crowley had been in on what was going on.
    Of course. The film crew had signed saying that they would make sure every last piece of fake blood was cleaned up, every bit of fabrication was taken away and the Mansion was left as it had been.
    But the members of the film crew had arrived at the Alaska Hut at different times. And no one had seen Mr. or Mrs. Crowley until they’d been there at least twenty minutes or so.
    Now Mrs. Magda Crowley sat across from him. She looked stiff and dignified, wiry and fit in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, and still—as Mike had commented—somewhat reminiscent of American Gothic.
    â€œMrs. Crowley, you’re aware of the dead woman found in the snow, of course.”
    â€œOf course,” she said humorlessly. “My husband and I are older—we’re not deaf or stupid.”
    Touché.
    â€œWhere have you been all morning? You’re not deaf or stupid so you must know that since you live here, you definitely fall into the suspect range,” Thor said flatly.
    Jackson cleared his throat.
    But Magda Crowley seemed to like his tone.
    â€œWorking, Agent Erikson. Preparing meals. Justin and I live up at the main house, but we came out here early—about five forty-five this morning. We were to leave the house—my pleasure, with the way those film people rigged it up yesterday!—so that it was prepared for the people to come in and see all that fake blood and gory stuff. Justin and I have been in this