I calculated the time in my head. There had been a six-week recuperation period after my near death in Steeltun Bay, most of which I had spent visiting family in Ontario. And then, of course, we had to cancel programming while the police investigation at the studio was underway.

  “That’s right, but I think we can manage. What do you think, Ben?”

  A cheeky grin from Ben. When he smiled, I noticed a dimple on the left-hand side of his mouth, a small indent in his otherwise perfect face. I wondered what it would feel like, this slight depression underneath my fingertips.

  “I think we’ll do fine.”

  Ben went to retrieve two chairs while Dougie finished setting up the camera and lights.

  “Here you go, Kate.” Ben placed the seats behind the table, sitting in one while I sat in the other. “I haven’t seen much of you around.” he stated, lifting one eyebrow rakishly, “and I’ve been looking. I’m guessing you’ve been busy with the case?”

  My surprise must have been apparent on my face. He laughed aloud.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered, “your secret is safe with me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ben,” I replied before busying myself with setting up my laptop.

  “The case. Remember? Rosalie’s murder? I had to miss the emergency volunteer meeting because I was working, but I heard the news. Find the killer and put this story to bed, or the station might lose funding.”

  I sighed. “Unfortunately, that’s true.”

  “So, that leads right back to my first question: Have you been busy? Sleuthing?”

  “You make me sound like Sherlock Holmes.”

  Ben tilted his head flirtatiously to one side. “I could always be your Watson. You know, some people believe their relationship was more than just a friendship.”

  I stared down at my laptop keyboard. Ben as my Watson? But Shea had always been my partner in crime. But not any longer. She didn’t know it yet, but I had begun to consider the unthinkable: that Selesia might be the killer. Or worse, her son Brad.

  “We’d have to get you a bowler hat.”

  “And you a deerstalker?”

  “Yes,” I laughed.

  “I think you’d look quite attractive in a deerstalker hat,” he said. “Or anything else for that matter.”

  My eyes connected with his, and I felt a tingle of nervous anticipation in the pit of my stomach. What would I do if he reached over right now to kiss me? Startle and run away? Or lean into his warmth and enjoy the texture of his soft lips against mine?

  “Well, Watson, we’re down to one suspect.”

  “And who might that be?”

  I hesitated. “We need to keep this between us. Some people,” I paused, “are struggling with this theory.”

  He grinned. “My pleasure.”

  “It’s Selesia.”

  I could not bring myself to mention Brad, even to Ben. The idea was too incredible, too incendiary. I felt like uttering it aloud would singe my tongue.

  “Really? My money was on the boyfriend.”

  I nodded. “Yes. Jason was one of my first suspects, but he’s no longer on the list.”

  “What about that other guy, the assistant?”

  “Scott? He has an ironclad alibi. He caught the ferry to Victoria two days before Rosalie’s death. And he had absolutely no motive for her murder. Ian told me that Jason is the main beneficiary of the will, with only a small bequest for Scott and Phil. Financially, her death was a terrible blow for Scott. In fact, it means he is out of a job and probably out on the street.”

  “So her death only makes things worse for him. But not for Jason, especially if he’s the heir to her estate. I mean, that’s a huge motive right there.”

  “I know. And it’s not just her past revenue to consider. There’s going to be future revenue as well.”

  “Future revenue? You mean syndication rights and that kind of thing?”

  “Yes, but not just TV rights. Rosalie was working on her autobiography, which played a big part in her decision to return to Wynter Island. She wanted a quiet place to write.”

  “But if it wasn’t finished…?”

  “Jason will get a ghostwriter to finish it and tidy things up. The publicity from her murder will increase sales tenfold.”

  “Which brings us right back to Jason again.”

  “Yes, but he got an unexpected get-out-of-jail-free card this week. Did you hear about the break-in at the Glass House?”

  “Yes. I assumed it was someone trying to get a piece of memorabilia.”

  “More like someone hunting for Rosalie’s laptops and hard drives. Looking, we think, for a copy of her autobiography. And they would have gotten away with it, too, if they hadn’t woken Jason.”

  “Is that how he got injured? I saw him in the village with a black eye.”

  “Yeah, he got whacked in the head by the thief. His shouting was loud enough to rouse Scott, who arrived downstairs in time to see the thief race away in a zodiac.”

  “The plot thickens.”

  “Which leaves us with only one suspect now: Selesia.”

  “Selesia.” He paused to ruminate on this.

  “She has publicly stated her hatred for Rose and her desire to get revenge. She, like all the other volunteers, had advance notice that Rose would be our guest. She also had access to the energy drink at the station when she went to the restroom. There are ten minutes where no one can confirm where she was. She could have poisoned the bottle and returned to the studio with none of us any the wiser. "

  “Or she could have been in the restroom for ten minutes.”

  I nodded. “That’s correct. But, like Vera, she also knows how to collect flowers and herbs and create tinctures. Apparently, several people on the Reserve do. It is a skill the Tsawout use in their medicinal treatments.”

  “So, anyone on the Reserve might have that ability.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like Sam or Brad. Those two would also have an axe to grind about the failure of Selesia’s marriage.”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. It felt like a betrayal.

  But then again, all of this felt like a betrayal. I was betraying Shea by not only being unable to prove Selesia’s innocence but also actively hunting down proof that she was the killer. I was betraying Sam by pointing the finger at his sister and, possibly, his nephew. And I was betraying myself, betraying who I thought I was. Was I really someone who put the importance of keeping my job above the people I cared about deeply? Had Jack been right all along?

  “Kate? Earth to Kate?”

  Dougie stood in front of me, tapping the face of his watch. “We’re going live in a few minutes. I’ve got everything set up.” He glanced over to where Ben was readying the bingo ball cage. “Are you guys ready to go?”

  I paused as a thought struck me. “Dougie, do you do any landscaping work over at the Glass House?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  No hesitation or concern. That’s a good sign.

  “You acted like Rosalie was a stranger at the studio. Like you’d never met her before.”

  “I hadn’t. I’d only met Scott, her assistant. He’s the one who hired me to cut their lawn.”

  Of course! Another theory dashed. But just to make sure, I had one further question.

  “I saw you’ve got a new truck. Scott must be paying you well.”

  He smiled and glanced proudly out the front door to where his sparkling clean truck sat in the parking lot. “Like I could make that kind of money cutting grass! No, my great-aunt passed on. Left me a nice little nest egg, so I decided to invest in a new truck. I’m getting my business name put on the side sometime next month.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I tapped a few keys on my laptop before looking back up. “I’m ready. Are you ready, Ben?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Good. Okay, Dougie, count us in at the top of the hour.”

  Dougie rushed back to the camera, glancing at his watch as he did so. “Okay. Five, four, three, two,” And with a silent one, he waved his hand in my direction and pushed the start button on the camera.

  “Good evening, Wynter Island, and all of you outside of Wynter Island for joining us tonight. As many of you know, a tragic event at our station forced us to cancel our programming. But we are back tonight and ready to play Fish Bingo!”

  My cell phone rang. I glanced down at the number. It was Phil. Of course, it was Phil. That was the last thing I needed right now: a drunken fisherman going on about the unfairness of a stupid bingo game. I paused as a thought struck me.

  Who caught the salmon for the prize this evening?

  Had it been Phil? Or Brad? Brad had said he would get it to me if Phil was unable to, but how could he catch a salmon if Phil was out of commission? Brad couldn’t just throw out a line from the Hope Bay dock and hope for the best! He would need a boat, a commercial fishing license, all the equipment, as well as the skills to do it. All things he didn’t have.

  What on earth is going on with those two?

  But I couldn’t figure that out while I was live on-air. I sent Phil’s call to voicemail and turned back to the camera.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Few things in life instantly ruin your day like seeing the face of Jack Donahue.

  As I walked out of the General Store in Harrow Village, my mail in one hand and my P.O. Box key in the other, a sudden flurry of movement caught my attention. Before I knew it, Jack Donahue and a young man—a film student, I’m guessing—blocked my path. Jack held a hand mic, the cord trailing back to the small camcorder the young man carried on his shoulder.

  Really? Ambushed? They’re going to ambush me? Who do they think I am, Angelina Jolie?

  “Kate Thomas, I’m Jack Donahue reporting for CGN-Online Entertainment News. I have a few questions for you.”

  I glanced from Jack’s earnest, angry face to the perplexed young man holding the camera. “Are you serious?”

  His eyes glimmered with pleasure. “Yes, I am deadly serious. As are our viewers.”

  “What, two elderly women in the Poconos and that shut-in in Florida?”

  I tried to push past him, but he blocked my path.

  “Your disdain for regular, hard-working people doesn’t cast you in a particularly attractive light, Ms. Thomas.”

  “I don’t need to worry about my light, Jack, because I am no longer working in mainstream media. Get out of my way, please.”

  I gained a few inches of ground and had almost passed him when he spoke again.

  “No, a small community TV station isn’t mainstream; that’s true. But I would say that Rosalie Morgann qualified as mainstream media.”

  I paused. “You want to ask me questions about Rosalie Morgann’s murder, is that it?”

  “Yes, and not just her murder, but the shocking trail of murders that seem to follow in your wake. First, your translator in Afghanistan, then your boyfriend here on Wynter Island, and finally, Rosalie Morgann, one of Hollywood’s brightest stars.”

  “Spare me your hyperbole, Jack. As you know, I have already stated the station’s perspective on Rosalie’s tragic passing. We are deeply sorry for the suffering of her fans and family, but all further questions about her murder should be directed to the Wynter Island RCMP.”

  “Does your employer know about ‘your history’ with murders, Kate?”

  I swiveled back to him, my face most likely expressing the fury bubbling inside me. The young cameraman took a wary step away from me, pulling the cord connecting him to Jack’s microphone taut.

  “Where are you going with this, Jack?” I rumbled out with a dangerous softness.

  I spotted Betty Wu out of the corner of my eye, walking up the hill towards us, her rapid steps moving with a jerky agitation.

  “Where I’m going, Kate, is this: did you have anything to do with the death of Rosalie Morgann? There is a great old saying. Once is a chance, twice is a coincidence, but three times is a pattern.”

  Without even considering the foolishness of giving him such dramatic footage, my arm instinctively drew back, my hand clenching into a fist. Before I made another move, a hand grabbed my arm from behind, pinning it back down to my side. My head swiveled around to see Bob standing there, Doreen a few feet behind him.

  “Get out of here!” he bellowed at Jack and the cameraman. “I said scram! Now!”

  Irritated by Bob’s interruption, Jack snapped back in a holier-than-thou tone. “I represent CGN. I have the right to be here.”

  Bob released my arm and took a few steps towards him. “I don’t care if you represent the bloody Queen! You are on private property. I told you to leave, so get out of here! Capisce?” He turned back towards Doreen. “Go inside and get the cell phone, Doreen. I’m going to call the police.”

  “Okay, okay.” Jack held up his hands in mock surrender. “We’ll go. But I’m not leaving this island or…” his eyes narrowed in on me, “…this story. Brandon, stop filming.” He handed the relieved young man the microphone and turned to walk back up the street to his car.

  “Sorry,” the young man whispered and clunkily ran after him with their camera gear.

  Betty Wu strode up to us, pausing for a few moments to catch her breath. “What on earth was all of that? I thought I would have a peaceful walk around the harbor, not witness a brawl!”

  I don’t know which stunned me more, the fact that a film crew had just ambushed me or that Bob Corker, of all people, had saved me.

  “Bob, thank you. Thank you for stopping me from doing something stupid.”

  He waved Doreen back towards the hotel. “Didn’t want the hotel getting any bad publicity,” he muttered and followed her inside.

  Is it possible that Bob Corker has a heart, after all?

  “His name is Jack Donahue,” I said to Betty.

  “Oh, I know, dearie, I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Come with me,” she motioned toward Annie’s Bakery. “Let’s have a cup of tea. There are some things we need to discuss.”

  In shock, I followed her to the bakery, grabbing a mug of tea, before heading to a table.

  Things were getting curiouser and curiouser. Betty Wu had inside information on Jack Donahue? What next? Would Fisherman Phil turn out to be best buds with the Prime Minister?

  “Betty,” I asked after taking a sip of my hot, milky tea, “How do you know Jack Donahue?”

  “Oh, I don’t know him personally. My daughter Caroline is the one who knows him.”

  “Your daughter, Caroline?”

  “Oh yes.” She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and thumbed through the photos before handing it to me. “That’s Caroline, right there. She’s with her husband, Mark.”

  A tall, willowy woman, her sleek black hair hanging like a silky curtain alongside her face, stood next to an equally attractive man while a crowd of black tie-clad people bobbed around them. She wore a white column-style gown, tastefully decorated with only a slight pearl embellishment on one shoulder. She was stunning.

  “This is your daughter?”

  “Yes,” Betty nodded. “I think it was the Hospital Foundation Gala at the Hotel Vancouver last year.”

  “She is beautiful.”

  I couldn’t keep the astonishment out of my voice. In her knit sweater and corduroys, Betty appeared like a sweet Asian grandmother, not the mother of this stunning apparition.

  “Yes, she is, isn’t she.” Betty beamed and took the phone back. “She started modeling in high school and then started her own modeling agency with her husband. They live in Point Grey with their two kids.”

  Point Grey was synonymous with big money. The modeling agency must be doing well.

  “My other daughter, Karen, lives in Burnaby. She is an elementary teacher. Married with one daughter.”

  “How does Caroline know Jack Donahue?”

  Betty took a long sip of her tea. “I was talking on the phone with her after Rosalie died, telling her about the press blocking our road with their TV trucks. Luckily—well, not luckily for him—that movie star ODed, and most of them headed off to cover that story. She asked if I’d seen a particular journalist. She described Jack Donahue, and I said yes, I’d seen someone like that. She told me to stay as far away from him as possible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a trashy tabloid hack. She’d had a run-in with him over one of her up-and-coming models. He insisted the girl was going to do Paris Fashion Week because she was having an affair with a pop star on a European tour. It was all garbage, Caroline said, but he refused to listen to her and ran it anyway.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Well, what surprised me is what she said next: that there was a connection between him and Rosalie.”

  “Our Rosalie?”

  “The same.”

  “What kind of connection?”

  “She said he had interviewed Rosalie in his previous job as an entertainment reporter. Unfortunately, he showed up to the interview as high as a kite.”

  It was difficult to match this slimy individual with the quiet but oh-so-forgettable young man I knew in school. How had he gone from forgettable to a train wreck? It couldn’t be because of me, could it?

  “It wasn’t just that he was on drugs. He made a very ham-handed pass at Rosalie, and she complained to the TV station. He was fired and then relocated to Vancouver.”

  “So that’s how he ended up at CGN-Online Entertainment News,” I murmured.

  “Yes,” Betty replied. “So I knew who he was when I spotted him and that young man attacking you in front of the General Store.”

  “Attacking is a pretty strong term, Betty. Ambushing is more accurate.”

  “Well, ambushing doesn’t sound much better.”

  “So he has another connection to Wynter Island. That’s very interesting.”

  “What’s this other connection to Wynter Island?”

  “I went to university with him, Betty. Twelve years ago. In Toronto. And I’m afraid he doesn’t like me very much.”

  “Well, that just proves he’s a fool, doesn’t it?” she replied succinctly and took a sip of her tea.