This Weekend Doesn’t End Well for Anyone (The Vacation Mysteries #3)

Prologue. Are All Prologues Just the First Chapter?

PROLOGUE

Are All Prologues Just the First Chapter?

My name is Eleanor Dash, and there are three things you should know about me:

I’m the bestselling author of the Vacation Mysteries series. It doesn’t matter what that is right now. You just need to know that I plot murders for a living and I’m pretty good at it.

You might think I’m being immodest, but I’ve learned enough about myself in the last thirty-five years to make an accurate list of what I’m good at and what I’m not.

The good-at-it list is short: death plots.

The bad-at-it list is longer: relationships, stopping at two glasses of wine, being self-sufficient, getting rid of toxic people in my life.

I could use my one skill to take care of the last one. But if I did, I probably wouldn’t get away with it—murders in real life aren’t like murders in books—and I’m 100 percent sure I’d be terrible at prison. So, no murders then.

I like asking rhetorical questions, i.e.

, questions I know the answers to. Because I know how this is going to end, even if it won’t seem like it sometimes.

You’ll have to trust me on that.1 I also ask a lot of questions I don’t know the answer to.

It’s a writing technique that helps with the whole plotting murder thing.

Like, I might ask myself, what else does the reader need to know right now?

And I’ll give myself an answer and write it down.

Which is how I decided to tell you the third thing about me:

I’ve been involved in two real-life murder plots.

Involved, meaning I was the target or I was there when it was unfolding.

Not as in I was the murderer, as I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know, and as should be obvious if you’re following along because I just told you I wasn’t going to murder anyone.

But I should also confess that I have killed someone.

And even though it wasn’t on purpose but in self-defense, that changes a person.

Being the reason someone’s light goes out forever—you’re never the same after that.

You’ll have to trust me on that, too. Not that you should trust me.

I’m a professional liar, after all. Because that’s what murder mystery writers are.

We’re like actors on a page. Which means I’m good at hiding things until I choose to reveal them. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

So now that I’ve introduced myself, why are we meeting, exactly?

Oh, right. The dead body I’ve just discovered on the floor of my hotel room at an all-inclusive resort in the Bahamas.

Wait, what?

Yep.

Oh, want to know more before you decide to read on?2

That wasn’t enough to pique your interest?

Fine. It’s ten in the morning, and I arrived in the Bahamas about an hour ago.

It’s my first time in Nassau. I already love the light tan color of the beach, the turquoise water, and the lush greenery, all of which I could see from our early flight from Miami as we landed.

The airport was typical hot-destination decor—white stucco and ads for Bahamian rum and sea turtle excursions on the hallway walls.

We didn’t spend much time in the building after we went through a customs line filled with sweating tourists because I’d insisted that my sister/assistant, Harper, and my boyfriend/co-writer, Oliver, each pack only a carry-on so we didn’t have to wait for our luggage and could get to the resort as soon as possible.

We’re only here for a weekend. I want us to get the most out of it.

But the universe doesn’t work that way. Not my universe, anyway.

So we didn’t get to go to the resort immediately.

Instead, we had to wait for Connor Smith, the protagonist of my novels and antagonist of my life, who packed two large suitcases, because of course he did, and Elizabeth Ben, the grande dame of detective fiction, who’s one of the keynote speakers at the conference we’re here for.

Elizabeth is in her late seventies, thinning out and frailer than the last time I saw her, and walks with a cane.

But her dark brown eyes still shine with intelligence from her round, lined face.

She’s written fifty bestselling murder mysteries, and I’ve never figured out the ending of any of them.

If you’re imagining a slightly less fluffy Miss Marple, you wouldn’t be far off.

I met Elizabeth shortly after my debut, When in Rome, was published ten years ago, at the first writer’s conference I ever attended. I wouldn’t quite call her a mentor, but she did take the time to sit with me and give me some career advice.3

Connor is another creature entirely. I’ve described him before as Captain America with a smirk, and I stand by that description.

Dark blond hair, piercing blue eyes, a strong jaw.

He favors linen suits and fedoras and once worked as a private detective/consulting criminal.

I met him ten years ago in Rome, where he swept me off my feet, got me involved in a real-life murder mystery, and then revealed he was married.

But not before I wrote and sold a book where I made him the hero.

Until recently, he’s lived on his cut of my book royalties4 and specialized in bedding up-and-coming authors.

So yeah, he’s hot. But also, there are many reasons besides the whole married to someone else thing why he’s my ex.

Anyway, once Connor appeared with his light pink suitcases in tow (!), we all piled into the cornflower blue Footprints van, and I tried not to cringe while Connor attempted to get Elizabeth to read his recently released rom-com (long story), even though she rarely blurbs anyone and never blurbs books that don’t have murders in them. 5

The muscles in Oliver’s jaw were working overtime.

He hates Connor, and if we ever break up, it’s going to be because whatever charms I have don’t outweigh the annoyance of having Connor Smith in his life.

But Oliver’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, so I’m really hoping we don’t break up. Again.

To ensure we didn’t break up on the van ride, I ran my hand through his chocolate curls, then leaned my head against his shoulder as he undid the top button of his madras shirt, saying something about it being too hot for ten in the morning.

Harper watched the candy-colored houses roll by as we drove through light traffic.

If you’re wondering, she’s a better-looking version of me—long, dark brown hair that never seems to frizz, sky-blue eyes that shift with her mood, and small teeth that never needed straightening.

She’s also had a lot of disappointment in her life, only some of which I’m the cause of.

The last three months have been particularly rough on her, and I don’t know what to say to make it better.

That’s right, this author is tongue-tied when it comes to fixing her sister’s broken heart and broken dreams.

I only said I was good at plotting murder, not life.

I do have a plan to try to fix things, though.

If I’m brave enough to go through with it.

But more on that later.

For now, you should retain that we were all in our own little dramas in that van, as is so often the case. We didn’t know we were driving over a bumpy road into something bigger than us.

Or maybe someone did. That remains to be seen.

I can’t tell you everything up front.

What I can say is that by the time we got to the resort, I was counting down the seconds till my first gin and tonic.

Cue getting our room assignment and then following our luggage through the white stuccoed resort.

It’s not as lush as it looked in the brochure—the buildings need a new coat of paint, and the shrubbery hasn’t been trimmed recently and is crowding into the cracked concrete paths.

But I didn’t pay to be here, so I can’t be too picky. 6

The porter ushered Harper, Oliver, and me past a large saltwater pool with a blue tile swim-up bar surrounded by (faded) teak deck chairs and sunburned people reading paperbacks,7 then around one of the many à la carte restaurants, and finally to our private, two-room villa.

We’re in suite 120, only the 2 is missing a screw at the bottom and hangs upside down on the battered doorframe.

I’m not sure why my brain was cataloguing flaws, and it certainly didn’t prepare me for what was about to happen. Because then the porter opened the door, and the body was there on the floor like someone wanted it to be the first thing we’d see.

So, mission accomplished, I guess.

Have I told you enough to keep you around?

I mean, I wouldn’t stop reading if someone was about to be thrust into a real-life murder mystery where they were supposed to—wait for it—teach a seminar on how to write a murder.

But you do you.

Still here?

Good. You probably have some questions. Go ahead, ask me anything.

Wait. Ha! They haven’t invented live books yet. Thank God. If you knew how many times I stopped to check the internet already, that would be embarrassing. Plus, you don’t need to know how bad my spelling and grammar are before I use spell-check and professionals.8

Or should that be “how bad my spelling and grammar is”? Whatever. That’ll get fixed in copyedits.

How about this? I’ll answer the top three questions I’d be asking right now.

Is the fact that I keep speaking in threes important? Why, yes, it is. Remember that.

When I mentioned the Vacation Mysteries earlier, was that relevant? And on the back cover, it says this is the third book in the series. Do you need to read the others before you read this one?

Nope, I’ll provide enough backstory for you to understand this story on its own.9 But it would be a richer experience for you (and for me—hello, royalties) if you did. You can do it after, though. Don’t stop reading now.

What was that whole thing with the steps for writing a murder back there? Were you supposed to be paying attention to that?

Yes, you were. But sorry, not to be all Canadian about it, I’m not going to tell you why right now.

How come? Because I can’t give away all my secrets.

And also, it’s only the prologue. I need to build tension and keep enough facts hidden so you keep turning the pages.

All I will tell you is that if you always wanted to write a murder mystery, you can use the structure to help you plot one when you’re done. Cool, right?

So, where was I?

Oh, right. The dead body on my villa floor.

He’s lying on his back, his right hand arched toward his head like he’s making one of those obnoxious finger guns Connor’s always doing. The real gun—a black revolver—is lying a few feet away, just outside the edge of the pool of blood that’s congealed around him like some macabre halo.

He’s got dark brown hair and olive skin, and to be honest, the weirdest thing about him is that he’s wearing the staff uniform—khaki shorts and a dark blue polo shirt with the Footprints logo on it. There’s a name tag above the logo that reads brIAN.

If you’re taking notes—and you should be—this is a clue.

As we all process what we’re looking at, Harper makes a sound like a cat dying and collapses onto a chair.

She puts her head in her hands like she’s hyperventilating, which she very well might be because dead body.

But also, a few months ago, the woman she was dating turned out to be working with a murderer and ended up dying in Harper’s arms.

Right? I’d be hyperventilating, too.

Oliver isn’t having trouble breathing, but he is shaking his head in a way I can read a little too easily. He has a lot of great qualities, but he’s also the kind of person who sometimes says, “I told you so,” which is what he’s saying to me right now because I twisted his arm to come on this trip.

I’d done that even though he’d reminded me that, lately, every time I go on vacation, someone dies.

But this isn’t a vacation, it’s work, and I thought this would somehow protect me, which was stupid because, hello, dead body.

Did I mention the porter promptly fainted dead away the minute the death smell hit him?

I can’t blame him for that.

If you’ve never smelled a dead body—and I’m going to assume you haven’t because the opposite is a lot to assume about a person—it’s overwhelming. Plus, the visuals. The blood is so much redder than you think it will be. I keep forgetting that, though I should know better by now.

Oliver’s looking a little green around the gills, too, even though he’s been to the morgue multiple times for book research, and he’s been present for all the real dead bodies I have.10

But more importantly, it looks like someone attending this conference got the memo that you’re supposed to drop the body in the first chapter.11

So, mission accomplished, I guess.

But also:

I’m feeling a bit faint, too;

No, I’m not pregnant; there’s a dead body in front of me; and

I can’t believe this is happening again.

That’s enough to be getting on for now.

Oh, wait, one more thing. And yes, I know it’s a fourth thing, but it’s important if you’re going to be solving this with me.

A murder mystery is never entirely self-contained in a book. There are the things that came before and the things that come after. Murder comes from somewhere, and murder leaves a trace.

You just have to know where to look.

Ready? Let’s begin.