Chapter 18
Eighteen
Flynn
Max agrees to work together on the case, and while the other writers grill each other to try to catch someone in a lie, we decide to question the staff that were present during the “murder.”
Starting with the server who screamed. She was closest to the actual event, so maybe she knows something. As we approach, I see she’s wearing a nametag. Her name is Bethany.
“I felt someone brush past me while the lights were out,” Bethany says with a shaky nod when I ask her about her experience during the murder. “And I smelled perfume.”
“Perfume?” Max asks, excitement lighting her amber eyes. “Did you recognize the scent? ”
Bethany pauses to think for a moment, then nods. “It smelled like the ocean mixed with tropical flowers.”
I meet Max’s gaze, and I can tell we’re thinking the same thing. That scent combination is decidedly feminine, and there were only two women present other than the server, herself––Max and Danica Black, the self-help book ghostwriter.
“If that’s all, I need to go bring in dinner,” Bethany says, and Max and I nod before moving back to our chairs.
I stare at my empty plate while I think about the clue. The scent definitely doesn’t belong to Max. She’s not wearing perfume tonight. And I caught a whiff of her scent earlier today, and her perfume is more of a citrus and woodsy scent, not flowery.
Of course, the server could be making up the detail completely. It’s not like someone actually got up and brushed past her to murder her coworker in the darkness. The only other option is that the murderer is Danica Black, and someone noted her perfume’s scent before now so Bethany could describe it.
Max leans in, whispering, “Maybe you should flirt with Danica after dinner. See if you can smell her perfume.”
I grunt in response, the sound noncommittal. It’s a good idea, sure, but the thought of flirting with Danica leaves a sour feeling in my stomach. I don’t want to. I only want one woman, and she’s sitting right beside me.
Dinner is served, and after the staff leave the room, the conversation around the table picks up. Lars accuses me, and I fight to keep a blank face so as not to give away my own innocence. Let him think it’s me. Peter, the other biographer, says he thinks the killer is either Danica or Max because the stab wound was obviously inflicted by a woman. That the location proves someone of a shorter stature inflicted it.
It’s a good point, and paired with the hint we got from the server, I think he’s right.
“Maybe it was Barnard, himself,” I toss out to throw the others off the trail.
A quick look of relief flashes across Danica’s face before she hides it. My eyes widen slightly. Does that mean she’s the one?
“Did you see that?” Max hisses quietly, and I nod.
She leans closer, and I can feel her warmth on my skin as she says, “It could be an act. Maybe she’s pretending it’s her so people will focus on her while she figures out who the real killer is.”
I mull that over while we finish eating, then as people start to file out, I jump out of my chair and move in close to Danica as we exit the dining room. She smells like sandalwood and peonies. It’s not the right scent. Max must’ve been right, and that look of relief was a ploy.
I head out to the veranda where Max is waiting, her eyes trained on the bright reflection of the moon on the surface of the inky water. She looks over at me when I move in beside her, and I shake my head.
“It’s not Danica. The scent wasn’t right.”
Max thinks for a moment, then cocks her head. “Maybe Bethany was lying. Maybe she did it. ”
“Or she’s covering for her boss,” I toss out as another theory.
“You really think Barnard is the killer?”
I shrug. “We can’t rule him out. We just need to figure out how to find the truth.”
Max looks back out at the ocean and goes still for a second. She breathes deep, then freezes. Before I can ask her what’s wrong, she grabs my hand and tugs me along behind her, heading back to the dining room.
Releasing her grip on my hand, Max goes straight to the wall of windows. Lifting one black-out blind after another, she peeks behind them until she stops and takes another deep breath.
“Come here, Flynn,” she says, waving me over as she lifts the blind up and points to the slightly cracked window. “What do you smell?”
I bend over, put my nose in front of the opening, and breathe deep. Then I straighten and look at her with wide eyes. “The ocean and flowers.”
She nods. “It wasn’t perfume Bethany smelled.”
“And we’re back to square one,” I say on a sigh.
The murderer could actually be Danica. Or anyone else, for that matter.
I hear a quiet sigh behind us, and we both turn toward the sound. The “body” is still on the floor where we left him.
“Does he have to lay here all night?” I ask Max, and the body grunts.
Max chuckles, saying, “Come on. Let’s search the room again for evidence.”
It only takes us a moment to find a trail of blood drops leading from the body toward the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen. Max and I share a look of excitement before we follow the trail. Pushing the doors open, we find the server sitting on a stool, her face buried in her hands as she sobs theatrically.
Max rushes over to place a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”
The server jerks upright, her expression damn-near accusatory as she shouts, “A coworker was just murdered right in front of me!”
“I’m sorry,” Max says, rubbing small circles on Bethany’s back before rolling her eyes in my direction.
Yeah. I agree. This is a bit overkill.
Bethany starts wringing her hands in her lap, and the movement catches my eye. I almost choke when I see something red beneath the fingernails of her right hand. I close my eyes for a moment, recalling the scene earlier, and I don’t remember her touching the victim.
There’s only one reason she’d have “blood” under her fingernails.
My eyes pop back open, and I study her nails for a second before my gaze moves up to the cuff of her white sleeve. Small spots of red pepper the material, and holy shit. I’m right.
She did it.
I meet Max’s eyes, then move my gaze aggressively down to the server’s hand. Max catches my meaning and glances down, her own eyes going wide and round before they snap back up to meet mine.
“Okay, well, we hope you feel better,” I say to the murderer while telling Max with my eyes that it’s time to leave.
Max nods, pats the woman on the shoulder, and follows me out of the kitchen. I take her hand and drag her from the dining room, and she barely manages to stifle her delighted laughter as she chases me up the stairs. When we reach the top, I drop her hand when I spot Lars coming down the hall on our left. I veer right toward our rooms, and Max follows without acknowledging the man.
We don’t speak, trying to appear calm––and maybe even a little dejected––as we unlock our doors and head into our own rooms. As soon as I lock my door behind me, I head for the still-open connecting doors. Max arrives there at the same time as me, a wide, happy grin on her face.
“We did it!” she cheers, then leaps forward.
I catch her as her legs wrap around my waist and her arms cinch around my neck. Her laughter rings in my ears as her body vibrates against mine, and I feel like I’ve died and gone straight to heaven.
Max must realize the position we’re in, because her laughter dies, and she clears her throat before leaning back to meet my gaze. When her eyes drop to my mouth, my cock twitches, and she must feel it because her eyes darken to molten honey as a quiet moan vibrates in her chest.
I don’t move a single muscle, letting Max decide what happens next. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, not taking control and slamming her back against a wall so I can devour her. She must see the need in my eyes, because her lips hitch upward, and she leans in slowly. She stops just before our lips meet, and I think I might actually die if she doesn’t kiss me.
Then her lips brush over mine, and my mind goes blank. Nothing else exists besides her and me in this single, perfect moment.
And if I do die, at least I’ll die happy.