Chapter 3. Did I Really Read the Itinerary?
Did I Really Read the Itinerary?
Let me, as they say, set the scene.
We’re in a large open-air restaurant that’s Italian-themed, because of course it is.
I can’t escape Italy even when I’m in the Bahamas.
The off-white walls are painted in peeling frescoes of Pompeii, and there are dusty fake olive leaves wound around the wood beams in the ceiling.
There’s pizza and pasta on the menu, with a large salad bar covered in one of those Mylar sneeze guards they have in American chain restaurants.
There are a dozen eight-tops along with a head table, which is where I’m sitting between Harper and Oliver.
I recognize a few of the hundred or so participants—people I’ve seen at various conferences over the years who like going to exotic locations to learn how to improve their craft.
The housewife who’s been working on her debut semi-autobiographical novel for ten years.
The retired army guy who’s written five airport thrillers he’s self-published.
The eager twenty-five-year-old who’s been writing novels since she was twelve, convinced she’s going to take over the literary world any minute now.
Our little group is sitting to the left of Elizabeth, who’s in the middle of the long head table, looking out over the participants with a small, welcoming smile.
I should learn how to look like that. She’s always gracious, no matter the circumstance. Her now white hair also always looks the same; she has one of those haircuts that doesn’t seem to exist anymore, feathered and chin-length. It’s probably set at a salon once a week, but who has time for that?
As far as I can tell, everyone seems happy and excited to be here.
Except me.
Because something is amiss.
More than one thing.
Number one is Inspector Tucci, who was not on the invitation. It had only said that a “real member of the police force” would be attending, and it never occurred to me that it might be someone I’d know.
I should know by now not to make assumptions like that.
Maybe someday I’ll learn.21
After his grand arrival in the lounge, Harper took Inspector Tucci aside to question him on his presence and so the event didn’t start with a double homicide.
Not that I’m going to kill him.
If Inspector Tucci dies, Connor’s the prime suspect.
Remember I said that.
Anyway, according to him, the officer who was scheduled to attend got assigned to an important case and had to prioritize justice over teaching a bunch of amateurs how to write a perfect murder.
Why that led to Inspector Tucci being here is still beyond me, but I’m sure it will be made clear to me in time. But having a police officer who once accused me of murder on the scene isn’t enough from the universe. Nope. There are more surprises in store for me.
And you too, of course.
Though you’re probably happy about the surprises.
I don’t blame you. I would be, too, if it weren’t for who it was.
“What’s she doing here?” I ask Harper as I point at the culprit with my eyes.
“Which she are you referring to?”
“Her,” I say, lifting my finger and pointing to a woman who’s sitting at one of the other tables with some of the participants.
Just shy of forty, she’s of Haitian origin.
22 She grew up in Montreal but has lived in California for the last twenty years.
She’s an author, too, and I know this and a lot more about her because she used to be my author BFF, but now she hates me for reasons she’s never explained.
I have my theories, though.
“Sandrine?” Harper says with a neutral tone. Harper has never said, but I always suspected she was jealous of Sandrine. For example, when I told her Sandrine and I weren’t talking anymore, she’d shrugged and changed topics.
“Yes. She’s not supposed to be here.”
“She writes murder mysteries.”
“I know.”
“And this is a murder mystery conference.”
“I know that, too. But you know we’re not talking.”
“I did know that, yes,” Harper says and takes a deep sip of her drink. I’m not counting drinks, but she’s had quite a lot for her small frame.
I shouldn’t judge.23
“So why would she come to this conference, knowing I’m here?”
“She was invited?” Harper says.
“She wasn’t on the itinerary.”
Harper shrugs. “Plans change.”
“You don’t think it’s weird?”
“We found a dead body in our room five minutes after getting here. It’s all been weird.”
“I meant what I said before, Harp. You can go. I’ve got Oli—right, Oli?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I’m not booking your travel.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“It’s fine,” Harper says. “Let’s just stop talking about it, okay?”
I agree, but my mind doesn’t work like that. It keeps talking about it as I watch Sandrine being charming with her tablemates. She’s deliberately not looking in my direction, but we can’t avoid each other the whole time we’re here.
And she knows that.
So why has she come?
The last time I saw her was two years ago. We were out for brunch at a spot on the Santa Monica to Venice boardwalk we loved to go to. I knew something was up from the way she was acting, but I didn’t expect the text breakup she sent me a few days later.
Yep, she broke up with me in a text she sent at an odd time of day, full of vague accusations that made me wonder if she was having a breakdown.
But I was feeling pretty fragile at the time—it wasn’t long after I’d humiliated myself by throwing myself at Oliver at yet another book event, only to be rejected—and I didn’t want to feel like I had to fight for a friendship. I didn’t have any fight left in me.
So I defended myself against what I thought she was insinuating and left it at that.
I miss her, though.
We used to spend hours talking about the book business, taking long walks on the beach, and stopping for cocktails at our favorite rooftop bar near my house in Venice.
It’s lonely being a writer sometimes, and Harper doesn’t want to hear my grousing.
And in the years when Oliver and I were apart, especially, Sandrine was a godsend.
But you can miss someone and not want to be trapped at a conference with them.
Sigh.
Remember when I told you bad things come in threes?
Well … the last person sitting at the head table is a man named Ravi Botha.
I knew he’d be here, but with all the other surprises, plus the dead body, it’s making me reconsider.
Why?
Because he’s the brother of someone I did know named Shek Botha. I met Shek at the same conference where I met Elizabeth and Sandrine ten years ago. He was murdered in front of me in Italy, and that’s not something I can just erase from my brain.
Since then, Ravi has taken up writing Shek’s detective series. His first book, coming out on the same day as the next in my series, is a thinly veiled account of the circumstances that led to Shek’s death.
Our publisher is diabolical.
I mean this as a compliment.
If horrible things have to happen, why not capitalize on them with book sales?
Yeah, yeah, I know how that sounds, okay?
ANYWAY, as I watch Ravi cut through his pizza with a knife and fork (!), looking so much like Shek that it’s disconcerting,24 the fine hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle.
Is that it, universe?
A dead body and multiple surprise guests, including my ex–best friend?
Oh, and let’s not forget Guy Charles is lurking around somewhere.
That seems like enough.
But I’m sure there’ll be more.25
Which brings me to the look Elizabeth Ben is giving me when I catch her eye. She was a bit standoffish in the car on the way here, and now that I’m counting up bad things like my life depends on it, I start to wonder why.
When was the last time we spoke?
I search my memory, and oh! My! God!
The blurb! The blurb I was asked to give for Elizabeth’s next book.
Did I send it?? Shit, shit, shit. Wait, no, I must have. Harper keeps a spreadsheet of the blurbs I’ve agreed to and reminds me to do them so I don’t forget. But she’s been distracted lately.
No. It’s a blurb for Elizabeth Ben. She’s never asked me for one before. I wouldn’t just let that slip by. And neither would Harper.
Breathe, girl, breathe.
I must’ve done it. I just have to remember what the book was about, and I’ll feel better.
Drawing a blank, though.
I pull my phone out and open my Kindle app. Her book is there—it’s called Sandoval’s Revenge26—but according to the app, I’ve only read 11 percent of it.
I am so screwed.
“Everything all right?” Oliver asks me.
“On a scale of one to ten, how bad would you rate forgetting to blurb someone?”
“Depends on who it is.”
I lower my voice. “Elizabeth Ben.”
His eyes go wide. “You didn’t?”
“I might have?”
“How can you not remember?”
“It’s been a crazy six months. You know that. Between almost getting murdered a bunch of times and turning in a couple of books—some things fell through the cracks.”
He shakes his head in answer.
“I know. What should I do?”
“Maybe she doesn’t care. Who did the request come from? Vicki?”
“I think she wrote to me directly.”
“Yikes.”
“That is not helping.”
“What are you going on about?” Harper asks.
“She forgot to blurb Elizabeth,” Oliver supplies.
Harper’s eyes go even wider than Oliver’s. “Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh, I’m screwed, or uh-oh, something else?”
“Uh-oh, I forgot to remind you.”
I knew it.
Harper picks up her drink. “You can fire me if you want.”
“Do you want me to fire you?”
There’s a tap-tap-tap on a water glass like we’re at a wedding, and Elizabeth rises from her seat into the burgeoning quiet. A hundred eyes turn to her.
A waiter tries to hand her a microphone, but she shakes her head and speaks in a surprisingly powerful voice for someone barely five feet tall.
“Welcome, everyone. I’ll be giving my formal talk tomorrow night, but in the meantime, I’ve been asked to say a few words of welcome.
This conference is in its twentieth year, and what a beautiful location for it to take place in.
Thank you so much to the organizing committee for including me and making this wonderful weekend possible for all of you. It’s an honor to be here.”
The participants begin to applaud, starting with a few taps of rain, then crescendoing to a storm. Elizabeth takes in the attention for a moment, then tap-tap-taps her glass again.
“Now, to the reason we’re all here. Through the next couple of days, you’ll be immersing yourself in murder.”
She says the word with relish, and a frisson goes through the room.
“That’s what we’re about here, ladies and gentlemen. Whether you’re writing a cozy or the bloodiest of stories, they all have something in common.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Bodies.”
She steps back and smiles at the shocked silence. This is why she’s the queen. She builds suspense and tension on every page without ever letting up. Like everyone in this business, I’ve studied how she does it, but I’ll never be as good as her; that’s just a fact.
“Now, there’s much more to come, but for the moment, there’s a surprise for all of you under your plates. A little personalized welcome so you’ll know what you’re facing.” She waves her right hand, a large pink stone dazzling on her ring finger. “Come on now, don’t be shy. Lift those plates.”
The participants follow her instructions, lifting their plates and pulling out color-coded pieces of paper.
“Each of you has been sorted into a different group—just follow your symbol and you’ll know where to go.” Elizabeth turns to us. “You too, authors. Up, up, up.”
I lift the plate in front of me. There’s a black piece of stock board the size of an invitation. At the top, there’s an illustration of a vial with the word POISON written on it in stylized script.
My name is embossed underneath it in pretty gold leaf, and the schedule’s below it.
But that’s not what’s catching my eye at the moment.
Nope.
It’s the phrase below my name that’s got me—what do the kids say?—gagged.
Because this is what it says:
NO ONE IS GETTING OUT OF HERE ALIVE.