Chapter 4. Is This Murder Camp?
Is This Murder Camp?
“Who’s in charge here?”
I look up at the imperious voice demanding my attention from his front-row seat.
“I’m Eleanor,” I say. “Are you in the Poison group?”
“Apparently,” he says and rolls his eyes like a teenager.
He’s thirty-something, with close-cropped red hair the color of Ed Sheeran’s.
He has one of those mustaches that men seem to think makes them look attractive these days,27 and is wearing an oversized pair of wire-framed glasses I’m almost positive have clear glass in them because he’s giving the try-hard, pick-me vibe of a millennial who wishes he were cool enough to be mistaken for Gen Z. 28
We’re in one of the conference rooms in the single-story white structure that sits next to one side of the pool. It’s glinting at me through the windows under the strong sun like it’s talking to me: I’m here. You could be lazing in me with a nice drink, and instead, you’re stuck in there, loser.
That’s what pools sound like, right?
It’s the first session of the conference.
When lunch ended, Elizabeth told us to break into our small groups, and the participants shuffled out of the restaurant with a buzz of excitement, while my heart beat with dread.
And like the rule-follower that I (mostly) am, I shoved the threatening note into my pocket and followed instructions.
I wanted to tell Oli and Harper what I’d found under my plate, but I didn’t. Instead, I told Oli I’d meet him after his session and watched as Harper ensconced herself on a chaise by the pool and pulled out a book.29
Why, I’m sure you’re wondering, is this idiot ignoring basic clues that her life is in danger and just going along with it all?
I’m not sure, to be honest. All I can come up with is that I don’t believe my life is in danger. I mean, how many murder plots can one person be involved in?
A few light threats, sure. Who doesn’t get threats?
Oh, you don’t? Fine. FINE. But when you’re a public figure, it happens.
I’ve had a stalker. I’ve made some enemies, real and imagined, and writing murder mysteries for a living draws in weirdos.
Especially when you’re a woman, because everyone always assumes you’re writing about yourself.
That you’ve done the things you imagined.
So those might be some of the reasons I’m ignoring the note.
But here’s the truth. Because we’re friends, right? I can confide in you?
Cool.
I want to know who sent it, and if I leave, I’ll never know.
Curiosity killed the cat, and all that.
Besides, if my life is in danger, I already have a list of suspects, and the woman who’s staring at me from the other front-row seat with a mix of enmity and caution is at the top of it.
That’s right. Sandrine is in this small group, because of course she is.
I’ll get to her in a minute.
“What’s your name?” I say to Ed Sheeran’s taller brother.
He holds his hand to his chest in mock shock. Or maybe it’s real. I don’t know this guy, though he looks vaguely familiar in a way that fills me with dread.
“I’m Stefano?”
“Okay.”
“Dimitrov? From Booked4Life?” He says this like he can’t believe he has to give me this much information to identify himself.
The problem is that it’s not enough for me to know who he is. But he’s left clues.
“Booked4Life. Is that your Instagram handle?”
“Tik. Tok.”
Ugh. I’ve tried to do the whole TikTok thing, I have.
But it’s not for me. My videos get fifty views if I’m lucky, and I feel fake and stupid making them.
I’m happier being a lurker. Let me watch my silly cat videos, home-improvement segments, and clowning for when Taylor’s going to put out the Reputation vault tracks in peace. 30
“Oh, right, of course.”
“So convincing, El,” Sandrine says in her slight French accent, and I try not to glare at her.
You already know I failed at this.
“I’m sorry, Stefano. Anyone will tell you I’m terrible with names. And social media is bad for my mental health, so I try to stay off of it. Especially review sites.”
Did that sound convincing, Sandrine?
I think I’m a pretty good actress when I want to be.
Anyway, the truth is I read every review of every book I publish. Yep. Whether you tag me or not, I find them all.
Why? Well … I like to dull the knife so it won’t hurt me. And so, yeah, I saw that “meh” review of my book, Kirkus. Bite me.31
But back to the matter at hand. Do I know Stefano Dimitrov, BookToker?
I tried to block it out, but yes, it’s all coming back to me now. He’s even on my do-not-engage-with list. Which is another list Harper maintains for me when I send her the particularly egregious reviews of my books.
He does these videos where he judges books like fashion as they go by him on a carousel like they’ve been on the red carpet, designating books as “slay,” or “prison,” or “skip.”
So, basically, he’s like a Bond villain, but for books. And yes, I know that Bond started as a book character. You know what I mean. He twirls his little mustache and decides what the book of the season is.
And my book was not it.
He gave my last book “prison,” even though he’d been flaunting the swag my publisher sent him for clout.
The only saving grace was that Sandrine’s last book got the same verdict.
32 But did that stop her from sucking up to him at every opportunity?
Nope! She even sent him an early copy of her next book33 to get his feedback on it.
34 And right now she looks like he’s a trap I walked right into.
But joke’s on them. I got them both banned from getting free review copies from my publisher because I’m petty like that.
“So, Stefano, you want to write a murder mystery?”
He raises a nonchalant shoulder. “Thought I’d give it a twirl. I read so many of them. Doesn’t seem that hard.”
“Ah. Well. Right. That is the purpose of this conference, so, let’s get to it, shall we?”
I scan the participants. There are ten of them in total, including Sandrine, who I guess is taking this class?
Which is weird.
Anyway, what should I tell you about the others? They’re all dressed in vacation clothes and have little branded notebooks next to their laptops. Their notebooks have the same motif that the note for me had: a tipped-over bottle of poison with a drop coming off the end.
There’s a mix of men and women, and they range in age from middle thirties to mid-sixties.
And now I’m going to be honest with you for a second here. Just a second.
I’m not going to tell you the others’ names.
Why?
I’ll give you three reasons:
I’ve already introduced you to a lot of characters in the last couple of chapters.
They aren’t crucial to the plot.
Do you know how hard it is to describe people in a memorable way?
Just remember that there are eight of them. But they’re not the point of this chapter. They’re the window dressing.
The important part was meeting Stefano. And Sandrine.
And okay, I know I haven’t told you much about her yet, so I guess this is the time.
I met Sandrine at the first conference I went to.35 We were both baby authors and got along like a house on fire. You know when you meet someone and there’s that immediate spark? Sometimes it’s romantic and sometimes it’s friendship, but you always just kind of know. This is my person.
I felt it when I met Oliver. And when I met Sandrine.
So when I learned she lived a couple of miles away from me, it felt like kismet.
We became tight immediately, and we told each other everything.
We celebrated each other’s successes and were a shoulder to cry on when we failed.
I’m not sure I would’ve made it through my breakup with Oliver without her, and a bunch of other things, too.
In between the highs and lows, we read each other’s books and gave each other constructive feedback. We DMed each other Instagram posts by people who annoyed us and giggled over them. We buddy hate-read books by authors who’d been mean to us.
Maybe I’m telling you too much. We were human, okay?
I mean, I was. Sandrine, I’m not so sure. Because there was always something a bit … off about her. I could never put my finger on it, but I know I ignored the warning clang at the back of my mind like I often do because that thing goes off a lot.
Here are three red flags I knew about but ignored:
She speaks almost unaccented English because she’s been in the States for so long, but when she wants to get her way with a stranger, she puts on this charming French Canadian accent.
Her husband travels a lot for work, and she’s been conducting an affair with someone who lives in her building for years.
She’s like Sally in When Harry Met Sally: high-maintenance, but she thinks she’s easygoing.
There were other things I let go because when you make a friend as an adult, that’s what you do. We all have flaws. I have tons. I figure if you’re spending time with me, it’s because you’ve decided my good parts outweigh the bad, and vice versa.
So I pushed hers aside.
I thought we were on the same page.
Then she needed a new agent and wanted to query my agent, Stephanie. I introduced them, and Stephanie turned her down. It happens. It wasn’t my fault.
She didn’t get an agent for the longest time.
And when she did, it wasn’t someone she was excited about.
Her book sold after being on submission for months, but only to a small press when she was hoping to get a major deal.
Her career was going one way, and mine was going another.
I knew she was jealous, and I got it. I’d be jealous, too.
But I’d also be happy for her. That’s what friendship is.
Not Sandrine, though.
She pulled away slowly, and I let her do it because I thought she’d take a bit of time and then things would go back to normal. Instead, I got a text one afternoon that said she was done with me. A friendship-breakup text!
And then she’d accused me of stealing her book idea. Which was ridiculous. I have flaws, but book-plot theft is not one of them. But people accuse you of the things they’d do, I’ve noticed.
So, that happened.
And now here she is, sitting with her notebook open, looking like I’m going to teach her something about how to write a murder mystery.
Will she take notes? Is she here as a spy? Will the reasons she ended our friendship eventually be declassified?36
Anyway, enough of that. I need to start this class, or I’ll never finish on time.
“Hi, everyone, thanks for coming to the conference and being part of the Poison group.” My voice is high and squeaky. I clear my throat. “This morning we’ll be covering the opening sequence. You should have all received the handout?”
Stefano puts up his hand.
Is that really his name? Were his parents big Days of Our Lives fans?
“Yes?”
“Are we going to be able to plot a murder by the end of this?”
“That’s the idea.”
He holds the schedule in his hands. “I don’t see anything about picking your victim.”
“Pardon?”
“How do you decide who to kill first? Because that’s how it has to start, right? With a murder?”
“With a death, yes.”
“Right, so, who dies first?”
“That’s kind of getting ahead of ourselves.”
“How can it be getting ahead of ourselves when it’s the first chapter?” Sandrine says, batting her black eyelashes like an innocent.
“Did you want to teach the class, or…?”
A small gasp escapes one of the older women, and I sink in my shoes.
I shouldn’t let Sandrine provoke me. I’d promised myself that if (when) I ran into her, I’d be nonchalant. But what the actual fuck is she doing here?
“Sorry about that, folks. That rum punch at lunch must’ve been stronger than I thought.”
I pause for a laugh I do not get.
“Ahem, so, sure, we can start there, good idea. It fits in with the prompt for today, which is to write your three opening paragraphs from a sentence I’ll give you.
“So, there are three theories about who to murder first. You can do what I call the P. D. James method, which is to spend the first third of your book showing all the ways the other characters want the same person to die and then kill them. Or you can do what I call the decoy death, which is to start by killing off a minor character, who it turns out was killed by mistake or because they knew too much. And then the third way is to kill off the main target in the first chapter, and then have the book be about solving that murder, and we learn why people might want them dead after the fact.”
“Which one do you recommend?” one of the nameless participants asks.
I flash to the body I found in my room this morning. A suicide, Officer Rolle had called it.
But now this conference is full of people who don’t seem to like me—or my books—very much, and a threatening note was left under my plate.
And it’s right about now that something occurs to me.
Is this fucking play about us? 37, 38