CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 9
Is There Only One Detective in This Series?
“Oh, no, no, no, what have you done to Crystal?” a man I later learn is the hotel manager says in distress as he runs up with a waiter. He’s in his forties, with bleached-blond hair and red cheeks that give him a boyish look in his tailored light gray suit and tie.
Failed actor, probably, but I only guess that because it’s true for half of the people you meet in Southern California.
Even in Avalon.
“I think it’s moving,” Emma says, pointing. “Look, there, wasn’t that a twitch?”
“Crystal? Baby, are you okay?” The manager crouches by the cat and starts to stroke it.
Everyone else takes a step closer, holding their breath, as the cat twitches, then springs to life like a cartoon, hissing, with its feet splayed out.
The manager tries to pet Crystal, but she bites him and runs away with a growl that sounds more mountain lion than cat.
The manager holds his bitten hand to his chest and stands.
“Will you look at that?” David says, watching Crystal bound through the room and out of view. “It’s not dead.”
“It must’ve been a seizure,” Allison says. “That happened to my cat once. It’s quite scary.”
“It was a poisoning,” Mrs. Winter says in a voice she learned to project off-off-Broadway.
“What did you do to Crystal?” The manager’s eyes accuse Mrs. Winter.
“I should ask you that. I could taste it in my food. A good thing I tested it on that beast.”
“There are signs everywhere that say not to feed the cats.”
“Oh, please, do not be so...What is it my husband is always calling me?”
“Over-the-top?”
She glares at Mr. Winter. “We need to get that food tested for poison before anyone else is put at risk.” She looks down at the floor. “Where did my plate go?”
I search the room. The waiter who arrived with the manager is standing next to the door to the kitchen, scraping a plate into the waste bucket.
I point toward him. “We won’t be able to test it now.”
“Tomas was simply doing his job,” the manager says.
“What’s your name?”
He straightens his shoulders. “I am Mr. Prentice.”
How formal.
“Well, Mr. Prentice, it seems that there was something potentially poisonous in Mrs. Winter’s lunch.”
“Impossible.”
“How do you explain what happened to Crystal, then?”
“We’ll check everything, of course. But as I said, madam, you should not be feeding anyone but yourself.”
“I won’t be eating another thing with a poisoner on the loose!”
“Now, Mother. Let’s not scare the guests.”
Mrs. Winter pulls her kaftan tighter across her shoulders. “You don’t care about my welfare. No one does.”
“Of course I do,” Fred says. He looks exasperated and not one bit scared.
Maybe his mother frequently thinks she’s being poisoned.
But why and by who?
And why isn’t Mrs. Winter asking that question? It would be the first thing on my mind if I thought I almost ate something that could kill me.
“Not enough to tell me about your wedding!”
“Please keep your voice down, dear. Everyone is staring.”
“Let them stare.” Mrs. Winter flings her arms out, the large rings on her fingers flashing in the chandelier light. “Are you enjoying the show?”
Fred turns red to the roots, and I exchange a glance with Emma. I can tell she’s more than glad her parents aren’t here. Unlike the Winters, they’re the furthest thing from show business, more like hippies out of their time who run a wellness store, and they wouldn’t be into all of this drama. 45
“Mrs. Winter, why don’t you come sit by me and tell me all about it,” Emma says in a soothing voice, patting her on the arm like she used to do to the horses at our summer camp in the High Sierras. “I’m sure we can get to the bottom of it.”
Mrs. Winter huffs. “We need the police, that’s what we need.”
“I don’t think that’s called for, Mother, I—”
“Perhaps I can be of some assistance,” a voice says behind me, and I stiffen.
What?
No. It can’t be.
A man in his sixties with a bald head and a linen suit steps forward. He’s holding a crushed fedora, his shoulders a bit slumped. He’s speaking in an Italian accent covered over by a British one.
He gives a deep bow. “Inspector Tucci at your service, madam.”
“What the hell is he doing here?” Connor asks. 46
“It’s not him, Connor,” Allison says, laughing. “It’s—”
He puts up a hand. “As I have told you repeatedly, Ms. Smith, I prefer to stay in character throughout the shoot. Please address me as Inspector Tucci.”
“What’s he talking about?” Oliver asks. “Is this not the guy from Italy?” 47
“This is the guy playing Inspector Tucci,” I say. “He’s a method actor, you know, who stays in character the whole time?” 48
“But the shoot’s over.”
“There might be reshoots,” Inspector Tucci says. 49 “I don’t want to presume anything.”
“Give me a fucking break,” Fred says.
“Is this for real?” Simone asks. “Or is it part of that thing that was on the wedding schedule? The murder that will be served at midnight?”
“What?” Connor says.
Emma looks panicked, then recovers quickly. “How clever of you to pick up on that, Simone. Yes, we’re doing a murder mystery theme. To go with the movie, of course.”
“And was this part of it?” Simone gestures around her. “An almost-cat-poisoning?”
“No, of course not. It will be in much better taste than that.”
“What about him?” She points at Inspector Tucci. “Have you hired him to be in it?”
Inspector Tucci looks hopeful.
“If I told you that, I’d be ruining the surprise.”
“Well, it’s all a bit unusual.”
“It’s her wedding, isn’t it?” I say. “If she wants to have a theme, she’ll have a theme.”
“Did you clear this with People ?” Tyler asks, the sarcasm dripping from his voice.
Fred joins the conversation. “We can do what we want, Tyler. Bad enough that we can’t even have who we want at the wedding.”
“You’re unbelievable, you know that? You don’t want to pay for your wedding, you go back on a deal with your oldest friend, and now you’re complaining that I’m here? What the fuck, Fred? What. The. Fuck.”
“Keep your voice down. My parents are here.”
“I’m supposed to care about that?”
“You don’t care about anything anymore.”
“Or anyone,” Emma adds.
Tyler stares at her like he wants to correct her assertion, to profess his undying love maybe, but he clamps his jaw shut.
“What about the cat?” Inspector Tucci says. “Shouldn’t we be talking about that? Taking samples of the food? Sending things, how do you say, to the lab?”
“He is, how do you say...totally nuts,” Harper says to me, sotto voce.
“We should eat our lunch,” Oliver says, making a placating motion with his hands. “Before we ruin the rest of this day for everyone.”
“Too late,” Fred says, through his teeth.
“Fredrick Hubert Winter! Come sit down right this minute.”
My heart sinks in empathy for Fred, but her command has the impact Mrs. Winter wanted: We start to disperse back to our seats.
We can’t shake Inspector Tucci, though, as he follows us to our table and pulls a chair up to join us.
“Where shall we begin?” He pulls the bread basket toward him and plucks out a breadstick. “Who would want to kill Mrs. Winter?”
“No one wants to kill Mrs. Winter,” I say.
“Someone else at the table, then?” He looks around, his bald head shining in the overhead lighting. “Does Mr. Winter have any enemies?”
“You know you’re bad at this, right?” Connor says with his trademark sneer.
“What do you mean?”
“If someone is trying to kill someone at that table, it’s not Mr. and Mrs. Winter.”
“You mean it’s Cecilia or Connor?”
“Their names are Emma and Fred,” I say. “And no one’s trying to kill anyone. Mrs. Winter was being melodramatic.”
“That is possible, yes.” Inspector Tucci rubs his chin. “And the cat. Perhaps it ate something it was allergic to. There is a long list of foods cats cannot eat.”
“Yes, but...” I stop.
“Yes, Ms. Dash?”
I glance at Connor. He’s watching me with his mouth in a thin line, and I can feel Oliver’s body tighten in response. “It’s nothing.”
“As I have been saying. All a big overreaction to the momentous events at hand. Not hard to believe with all of these dramatic types around, no?”
“That’s preposterous,” Tyler says. “This whole weekend is—”
“Enough!” I say. “Enough.” I look around the table. “We’re all here for a nice wedding and some slightly terrifying outdoor activities, and then we’ll take the ferry back on Sunday, and that will be that, all right?”
Ugh, I just heard how that sounded.
But I want to celebrate my best friend’s wedding without also having to try to stop a murder.
Is that too much to ask? 50
45 Emma’s parents actively tried to persuade Emma from going into show business, but since when has anyone ever listened to their parents about something like that?
46 How many times is someone going to ask themselves that question in this book? Just once more, I promise.
47 Don’t judge Oliver too harshly here for not recognizing that it wasn’t the real Inspector Tucci. The man playing him is very good casting, and Oliver spent way less time with Inspector Tucci than I did.
48 In case you missed this from context, the real Inspector Tucci investigated the murders in Italy recently and ten years ago.
49 For ease of reference, I’m just going to call him Inspector Tucci.
50 You know it is, right? I don’t actually need this footnote.