Dying to Have Her by Heather Graham Page A

They were all saying accident. It was what she believed herself, right?
    “We have to just live the way we want to live,” Jim said. “There was Jane, torturing herself to quit smoking so she wouldn’t die of lung cancer. And there she is, dead from a spotlight. I quit smoking myself. She was a bitch, but I wish I could have rushed her one last cigarette.”
    “She had her one last cigarette,” Serena said.
    She was startled when they all turned to stare at her. A flush touched her cheeks. Olsen had told her not to mention the note.
    She wouldn’t mention the note—or scrap of burned paper—she had seen. “She was smoking before she went on the set. Using a saucer for an ashtray. She did have her last cigarette, Jim.”
    He nodded gravely, as if that meant a lot.
    They came out to the walk that surrounded the church and ambled around to the parking lot behind it. Others also headed to their cars, talking all the while. Serena overheard the usual comments.
    “What a tragedy!” came from a lovely young woman.
    “Um. Cuts down on the competition, though, eh?” That from a jaded dame in a wide-brimmed hat.
    “Think someone did her in?” queried an older man.
    “Whatever for?” asked the woman.
    ‘To cut down on the competition?” the young woman suggested.
    “For pure meanness!” the man said.
    The woman laughed softly. “A mercy killing—for the rest of the cast?” she said, and they moved on.
    Standing alone, away from the others for a moment, Serena felt a real and terrible sadness for the woman who had lost her life. Where were Jane’s real friends? Did playing in the world of pretend too much mean that she didn’t have any friends who were real!
    Too many people let the struggle to be on top become the entire focus of their lives.
    “Somebody did her in, you can bet. Murder. And someone on that set did it!”
    She jumped as she heard the words, spoken in a hiss. She spun around to see who had spoken.
    No one seemed to be really near her, although dozens of people stood in clusters, not at all far away.
    One word ricocheted in her mind.
    Murder.
    She saw Conar Markham. Realizing that she had stopped walking with the group, he and Jennifer had come back for her. “What’s wrong, Serena?”
    Leave it to Conar. He was studying her with both curiosity and real concern. She smiled. She was lucky. She did have real friends. She shook off the unease that had gripped her. She wasn’t about to tell Conar that she had felt a sudden panic.
    “Nothing. I was just—feeling sorry for Jane. Not even so much for the fact that she died, but … I can’t help wondering about her life.”
    “I know,” he said softly.
    She smiled. “How’s the baby?”
    He started to answer her, but someone tapped him on the arm. It was one of the funeral attendants. Conar was a tall man, and he lowered his head as the funeral home employee spoke to him in a whisper.
    Conar then said, “I’m a pallbearer.”
    “What?” Jennifer said, puzzled.
    Conar shrugged. Jane had had no real friends! They were calling on the cast and crew of the soap to bear her coffin, Serena thought.
    “Oh, of course,” Jennifer said.
    “Ride with Serena?” Conar said.
    “We’ll be with Andy,” Serena said quickly.
    Conar nodded and left them. Andy, coming up, sniffed. “Serena, I’m a pallbearer. Doug will drive you, all right?” Doug Henson was the head writer on the show. Handsome to a fault, gay, funny, talented, self-mocking, and as irreverent as Allona was cynical. Serena loved him.
    Serena looked at Jennifer. “Of course.”
    “Well,” Serena said, then smiled at Jennifer and repeated the question she had earlier put to Conar. “How’s the baby?”
    She was referring to three-month-old Ian, who was home with Jennifer’s mother.
    “He’s wonderful. Wonderful! I love every minute with him. You should see him smile. He’s going to be a heart-breaker. He looks just like Conar, except his eyes are bluer, just like mine. But his