CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 21
Is Murder Usually Served at Midnight?
It’s coming up on sunset, and it’s finally time for Emma’s wedding.
It’s been a whirlwind afternoon. After dropping the bomb that Tyler was still on the island, Officer Anderson explained that he didn’t make it onto the ferry after all and had been hiding out in his room since this morning. She was on her way to question him and, if her suspicions proved sufficient, to place him under arrest until her colleagues could get here.
In the meantime, with it looking like Tyler was behind everything that had happened so far, we got the green light to go ahead with the wedding.
Once that was established, I sprang into maid of honor mode. 69 That meant locating Shawna and Harper, advising the guests that we were going ahead, tracking down the photographer from People , and making sure Emma still wanted to go through with it.
She assured me she did, but then started to fret about the smaller details—like who’s going to do her makeup (her, we decided) and my makeup (also her) and press out her dress (me) and get the flowers together (also me, plus Shawna and Harper) because her glam squad and florist were scheduled to arrive today, but that’s out with everything that has happened.
What else?
Oh. The storm is getting closer.
The sky has darkened, and the surreptitious peek I took at my cell phone confirms Hurricane Isabella has moved up the coast and is threatening San Diego as we speak.
As I write. Whatever.
The point is, in a couple of hours the wind that’s already tossing the palm trees against the villa in a spooky rat-tat-tat and littering the paths with debris is going to increase to seventy-five miles an hour. And the clouds, which look so pretty with the sun reflected through them, are going to turn black and release inches of rain.
That’s what’s coming.
But before all that is a moment of, well, calm.
“I’m getting married today,” Emma says, looking at me through the mirror she’s seated in front of. Her hair is swept back off her face and tumbles to her shoulders in waves I can never get my hair to make, because she’s good at hair, too, and I’m kind of hopeless with girly things.
Oh, well.
Can’t be good at everything.
Not that I’m good at everything.
We just established that I’m not.
We’re alone in the bedroom in her suite. It’s filled with light from the French doors that lead out onto a back patio, and there are rose petals strewn on the bed.
We’ll walk down to the Beach Club together in a few minutes, but for now, it’s just us and a glass of Champagne each.
Okay, maybe two or three glasses, but who’s counting?
“I’m happy for you.”
She meets my eyes in the reflection. I’ve cleaned up pretty nice, too, with her help, and the eggplant-colored dress I’m wearing suits me, even if the taffeta in the skirt is itching a spot on my hip where the slip has a gap. It’s a small price to pay for the happiness I see in front of me.
“Are you?” Emma asks.
“Yes, of course. If this is what you want.”
“I do want him.”
“Even with...”
She smiles at me. “It’s okay. I know you’ve been keeping things from me.”
“I...”
“Fred told me everything after that policewoman left...”
Officer Anderson had questioned Fred and Emma before Oliver and me. She’d also talked to Harper and Shawna, David and Allison, Simone, and even Inspector Tucci before she got to us.
I was trying not to take it personally that she’d left Oliver and me for last.
It probably was because she knew it couldn’t be us.
Right?
I mean, I could have done it. I’m right here on the spot. I might not have a motive—that I’ve told you about—but that doesn’t mean everything.
Maybe I’m a sociopath waiting for my moment to strike. Because the perfect murder is one where you don’t have a motive.
Kidding!
I didn’t do it, I promise. And the fact that we haven’t found Fred’s burner phone, even though I ripped my room apart and sent Oliver back to the crime scene to check, well, that is just a loose thread that I’m sure is going to be explained eventually.
It’s a gap like the one in my slip. An irritant, and nothing more. 70
“What did Fred say?”
“He told me about his second phone and the texts. It was some ex-girlfriend who wanted to get back with him. He gave her that number so he’d have an excuse not to answer her regularly.”
“Why not just block her?”
“Because she’s someone you can’t do that to.” Our eyes meet again, and I get what she’s saying. She’s one of those ex-girlfriends. The famous ones. The ones who can call up TMZ or People and plant a story from “close sources” that will ruin your career if you cross them.
“Did he meet with her?”
“A couple of times, to tell her things were over and they weren’t going to get back together.”
“Like never.”
Emma laughs. We used to sing that song together a lot when we were in our early twenties because we were dating guys who were in their early twenties.
“People have trouble letting go sometimes,” Emma says.
“Like Tyler.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t believe you remembered his number all this time.”
Emma blushes and looks down. “It’s not what you think.”
“No?”
“It was because he was calling me. I saw it flash on my screen so many times.”
“Ah.”
She reaches for a pair of earrings on the dresser in front of her and starts to insert the diamond studs into her ears.
“Why did Fred have that phone in the first place?”
“Because of Tyler. He didn’t want me to know about the money.”
“I see.”
“And I’m deciding to trust him.”
“It’s just all been so fast.”
“I know it has, El. But when you know, you know.”
“Do you know?”
“Did you know about Oliver?”
I want to say no, but the answer is yes. “I did.”
“See?”
“Okay, yes, I do. And I do see that you love him.”
“And what I love about him?”
“Yes, of course. He’s Fred Winter!”
“I’m marrying Fred Winter!”
I lean down and rest my cheek against hers. “So crazy.”
“I’m really happy, El.”
“That’s the most important thing.”
“I thought the most important thing was you being able to take credit for this match?”
“There is that.”
She smiles at me again, then kisses my cheek. “I hope you can be this happy soon.”
“I’m working on it.”
Tears spring to my eyes, and I stand up.
“No tears at my wedding.”
“Yes, ma’am. Are you okay with your parents not being here?”
Emma considers this for a second. “You know what? I’m fine with it. It would just be an added stress, and the Winters are a lot , as you’ve seen.”
“They seem like a lot.”
“Thankfully, they’re moving to Florida soon because the taxes are too high in California. Anyway, the point is, they’ll be gone, and the movie will be over, and Tyler is probably going to jail, and we can start our life fresh.”
“It’s all working out...”
According to plan, as the rest of the saying goes, and a chill runs down my spine.
Was this the plan all along?
To get rid of Tyler? To pay him back for Fred not repaying the money he owed?
Emma and Fred together could’ve planned all of this.
They did plan it—the wedding was their plan, despite the storm. What was it that Fred had said? It was all arranged already. They couldn’t put it off. Is this what he meant?
But no, no. It can’t be.
It would be a great plan, though—create an elaborate series of near misses to make it look like someone wanted to kill them .
Emma could’ve sent those notes to herself—if there were any notes. There was only one that was kept, she said, the one she showed me. And she has access to scripts just like David does. Just like anyone on set.
She could’ve been leaking to that Twitter poster and the gossip site.
And the schedule she approved that announced the murder.
And Fred could’ve given José his number.
It didn’t have to be Tyler.
So maybe this was the plan all along. And José was collateral damage, so they could plant the murder on Tyler and get away with everything.
Even the threat on the dock. Fred could have goaded him into that to make him look guilty .
Shit.
But wait, wait, wait. There were texts on José’s phone with Tyler . They were in touch. Tyler was the one behind it all.
So no. My best friend and her fiancé aren’t behind all of this. Emma’s not a killer.
Phew.
“El?”
“Yeah?”
“Were you just trying to decide if Fred and I are murderers?”
I clear my features. “What makes you think that?”
“You were talking out loud. You know, how you do.” 71
“What did I say?”
“‘But what if it was Fred and Emma together?’”
Oh dear.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I know it’s the way your brain works. I love you for it.”
“You love me for considering you might be a murderer?”
“I love you for you.”
“Ditto.”
She cocks her head to the side. “So, did I do it?”
“I concluded that you had not. Didn’t say that part out loud, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Tyler was communicating with José. So unless you were in cahoots with him, too, you’re in the clear.”
“Glad to hear it.” Emma reaches out and slips her engagement ring onto her finger.
“You swear you’re not mad?”
“I’m not mad.”
“So, what now?”
“I think you have to walk down the aisle in front of me.”
“Let’s do it.”
The wedding is tasteful and subdued. A man died, after all, but maybe that’s also just Emma and Fred. Despite all the glitz and glamour and outward flash—the exotic location, the photographer from People , the cameras set up recording the whole thing, Mrs. Winter crying loudly into her handkerchief while Mr. Winter rubs her hand to soothe her—it’s still only a wedding. Something people do every day.
Two people facing each other and making those age-old promises.
To love.
To cherish.
Even to obey.
It’s my personal belief that the only people who hate weddings are sociopaths. Because they’re in a room full of people they have to pretend in front of. That they understand love. That they can live a simple life and do the things that everyone does. Couple up. Make promises. Be there for each other. That puts a strain on a person who can’t feel anything for anyone but themselves.
You might disagree, but I’m not a sociopath.
I am, however, pretending, too.
That everything is okay with me and Oliver.
That I’m not jealous of Emma.
That I believe Tyler killed José.
I might not be a very good actress, but I do walk down the aisle with a smile on my face, holding a bouquet of exotic fresh-cut flowers that are stand-ins for the understated tulips Emma wanted. And when I reach Oliver in his seat, he holds his hand over his heart and mouths I love you and You look beautiful and I know all’s forgiven, that we’ll make it through this wedding intact after all.
I mouth it back and walk toward Fred. He’s beaming like he’s a little boy who’s won a prize, and of course he has.
Emma.
She’s a radiant bride. Under the glare of the lights and the flashes from the photographer, she walks without hesitation into Fred’s arms, not saving the kiss until the end of the ceremony.
Everyone laughs, releasing the tension, and the ceremony proceeds without a hitch, with Inspector Tucci reading their vows from a printout he got off the internet.
I’m not guessing this; he told us so as part of his spiel.
It was, how do you say, said to get a laugh.
Like this.
Everyone is performing.
It’s a room full of professional liars, after all—actors and those who orbit around them.
I should’ve kept that in mind.
Because—and you should know this from the page count—someone’s sitting there without a genuine smile on their face.
Someone’s plotting a murder.
Someone’s already committed one.
But who?
Let’s spin the wheel of suspects: Fred. Emma. Shawna. Connor. David. Allison. Simone. Mr. and Mrs. Winter. Harper. Oliver. Me.
Did I leave anyone out?
Oh, Inspector Tucci, though I doubt he did it.
He is, how do you say, not that stupid. Or he doesn’t have a motive. Take your pick.
So step right up if you have a theory. We’re in a circus, after all. Spin the wheel, pick a prize, solve a murder.
Have you figured it out yet?
“Have I told you that you’re beautiful?” Oliver asks me as he spins me around the dance floor during the reception. He’s dressed in a tux because it’s a black-tie affair, and I’ve already told him that I’m going to insist that he wear one at least once a month from now on.
It’s late—we’ve eaten dinner and dessert, and Emma and Fred cut the cake with a large knife and then Emma smooshed a piece of it onto Fred’s face before kissing him. The storm has started outside, the rain pattering against the windows, streaking them with water like they’re in a car wash. The lights have flickered several times, but have never fully gone out.
But those are outside problems. Inside, the party rages on. The band never made it, but there’s a sound system pumping out wedding hits, and people are dancing and making liberal use of the open bar. Fred and Emma are glowing and happy, roaming among the tables, stopping to talk to each guest for a few minutes, kissing and hugging.
And I’m so happy for her.
I’m happy for me.
“You have told me I’m beautiful already today,” I say to Oliver, “but you can say it as many times as you like.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
I tuck my head against his shoulder and breathe him in.
“You think she’s having a good time?” Oliver asks.
“Who?”
“Officer Anderson.”
I pull my head back and scan the room. She’s sitting off to the side, her back against the wall, observing. She’s still in her uniform—I guess she didn’t have anything else to wear—and I can’t put my finger on why she’d come. But Tyler’s locked up in a jail cell in Avalon, so I guess she had nothing to do.
“Is she hoping someone’s going to confess?” Oliver asks.
“Unclear. You don’t think Tyler did it?”
“Nope. And you don’t either, I’m guessing.”
I sigh. Oliver does know me well. “Who then?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you have a theory,” I say because I know him, too.
He tips his head and looks down at me. “It’s speculation.”
“Tell me.”
“How about we not talk about murder tonight?”
“You’re right.”
“It happens.”
“Ha ha.” I kiss him. “I’m happy.”
“Good.” He spins me away from him and back slowly. Someone gives out a wolf whistle, and the music rises and swirls into another song, a faster number that has a beat to it.
“I’m going to get us some drinks,” Oliver says.
“Good idea. I’m going to find the ladies’.”
“See you in a minute.”
We kiss again briefly, and I wend my way through the crowd as the beat of the song thumps through me. I find myself bopping to the music as I go, my heart swelling, a smile creeping onto my lips.
But I should know better than to celebrate or let my guard down.
You should, too.
Because I’ve shown you this scene before.
Did you forget? I forgive you.
I get to the door I think leads to the bathroom 72 and turn the handle.
The room is dark. It’s one of those annoying bathrooms where the lights are supposed to be movement-sensitive but aren’t.
I wave my hand around, trying to provoke the light, but when nothing happens, I step inside and search for the light switch on the wall. I grope around for a minute until I find it, then snap it on as it hits me.
That smell .
Metallic, heavy metal.
Blood.
My eyes adjust, and a body comes into focus on the floor in front of me.
Dark blond hair. Tux.
Fred. Actually dead this time, I promise.
So, first of all: Fuck.
And second of all: It’s one minute to midnight.
Which means this murder is right on time.
69 Which, to think about it, I haven’t really been in till now. What’s that about?
70 Sure, Eleanor. SURE.
71 I do talk out loud sometimes. It’s like an odd kind of sleep-talking except I’m awake. Other writers I know suffer from it, too. Maybe it’s because we live in our heads and we forget which is real. Not sure. But it’s not a good trait for someone trying to act like a detective.
72 I stopped counting the number of Champagnes I drank when it got to four.