Chapter 9. Shouldn’t You Have Just Said If You Wanted Me Dead?
Shouldn’t You Have Just Said If You Wanted Me Dead?
I grab Ravi’s arm just before he’s out of reach.
“Did you just threaten me?”
He pulls back. “I did nothing of the sort. Sandrine was right about you.”
“Sandrine is a snake. I’d be careful.”
“She told me you’d say that.”
“Isn’t that nice? I’m sure someone who turned on one of her best friends is super trustworthy.”
Ravi’s eyes narrow. “You stole her book idea.”
“Did I?”
“She said.”
“I know what she said, but what do you think? Does that seem like something I’d do?”
“I believe you are capable of anything.”
I shake my head slowly. I think I know where this is coming from. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ravi. Truly. Shek was very nice to me at the beginning of my career, and there’s a big hole in the mystery community since his death. I’m sure he’d be touched that you’ve stepped in to take his place.”
“He died because of you.”
I hold my ground. “No, he died because he got involved in something he shouldn’t have. I was almost killed, too. More than once.”
“You would say that.”
I put my hand on his arm. He starts to recoil, but I hold on. “I am saying that. Is this what Shek would’ve wanted? Us squabbling? Can’t we be friends?”
“Friends?”
“Yes, you know, book friends. I’ll repost your releases on Instagram and blurb your next book.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“What’s all this?” Sandrine says, coming up behind me. “Are you in danger, Ravi?”
I turn on her. Harper’s standing next to her, her cheeks red, her face glowing from the heat or the alcohol or the thrill of hanging out with someone I despise, maybe all three.
“Why would Ravi be in any danger from me?”
She shares a glance with Harper.
Have I mentioned that I hate it when people do that?
“Has she read the book?” Sandrine asks Harper.
“Don’t think so.”
“What book?”
Harper’s eyes meet mine, and I think there’s an apology in them, but honestly? Who knows. “Ravi’s continuation of Shek’s series.”
I get a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach. Ravi seems entirely unconcerned, but I wish I hadn’t cast aside the copy of his book Vicki sent me. In my defense (am I on trial? Feels like it), I get sent so many books I never asked for I can’t read all of them.
“Why do you want to know if I’ve read it?”
“It’s about a bunch of authors who go on a book tour and then one of them ends up dead,” Harper says.
“Okay, I knew that.”
“A character named Leonora Bash did it. She writes pulpy mysteries.”
“Seriously?”
“Deadly.”
I turn to Ravi. “So you wrote a book based on something that happened to your brother and made me the murderer?”
How come no one told me? How come no one warned me?
“Is that all of it?” I ask Harper when Ravi says nothing.
“She’s also involved with a sketchy detective who wears stupid hats.”
“Awesome.”
“My book has nothing to do with you.”
“Tell yourself whatever you need to.” I think it over, wondering if I can do anything about it, but I know I can’t. If he changed enough details to make the fictional me not me, I’m shit out of luck.
Not that I would sue him even if I could.
I don’t need to call attention to whatever he’s written about me.
But, wait. Did Vicki send me a copy of the book so she didn’t have to tell me I was the murderer?
What did she say before? She already had one uncomfortable conversation coming up. Maybe two if you counted her turning down Oliver’s manuscript. So, a little light parody of one of her other authors probably wasn’t high on her list of priorities.
“Is this why you came to the conference?” I say to Ravi. “To tell me off? To gloat?”
“I received an invitation to a prestigious mystery convention, and you want to make it about you?”
“She does that.”
“Shut it, Sandrine.”
“Mature as always.”
I’ve had enough of this conversation. I search around the room for some escape hatch, by which I mean Oliver, but he’s been swallowed up by the crowd.
But I don’t have to stay. I can leave.
Run away. Whatever you want to call it. I don’t even have to say goodbye.
I turn around and start walking, passing snippets of conversation as I make for the exit.
“—Yellowface had a brilliant opening, but there wasn’t any twist in the third act.”
“But that was the point. You missed the whole thing—”
“—I heard that this resort is owned by the Mafia. Do you think the organizers knew that?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Maureen. There’s no Mafia in the Bahamas.”
“—Have you seen the resort next door? Chef’s kiss.”
“I will be complaining on my comment card. There weren’t even fresh towels in my room!”
“—Nothing’s been as good as When in Rome. I know they broke up, but Connor brought out something in Eleanor that’s been missing ever since.”
“100 percent.”
I almost stop because, for God’s sake, is everyone a literary critic now?
I mean, yes, of course they are, but it’s one thing to graze past a negative review online, and quite another to hear it in person.
But if I’ve learned one thing in this business, it’s this: never engage with a bad review.
You can write that down, too.
I burst through the doors and suck in the night air. It’s humid out, my hair frizzing instantly in the heat as I grab the porch railing for support.
I feel like I’ve escaped a room where everyone hates me. Oh, wait, that was high school.
Ha.
I’m being melodramatic, but it’s been a day. I can feel the bad thoughts pressing in all around me. Bad intentions, too.
I should’ve listened to Oliver when he said it was a bad idea to leave Los Angeles.
But there’s a reason every one of my books is set on vacation. It’s not just because it’s fun to write about incredible vistas and sand between your toes.
I need it. The travel. Leaving behind whatever version of myself is driving me crazy for long enough to feel renewed and then returning to my life of yoga pants and daily word counts.
But Oliver was right. And now we’re stuck here because of some solar storm. I can feel the danger. Like a charge in the air that could cause a spark at any moment.
I’m pulled to the water. There’s a lighted path leading down to it, the lights on even though it’s not dark yet. The sun is sinking through the horizon quickly, the way it always does at the end of the day in the tropics. Draining like it can’t wait to go to sleep.
I get to the edge of the path and take off my sandals. I let my feet sink into the soft sand and walk slowly toward the water. When I get to the end of the beach, I stand there, letting the waves crash against my toes, covering my feet. There’s nothing better than this feeling.
It calms me. Makes me see reason when my brain is a riot of thoughts.
It also drowns out the external noise, which is why I don’t hear anyone approaching until the hand on my shoulder makes me jump right out of my skin.
I turn around, clutching at my chest like I might have to start my heart up again.
“Inspector Tucci!”
“I am sorry to have frightened you.”
“What are you doing here?”
He gestures vaguely. “I am, how do you say, investigating.”
“On the beach?”
“On the property.”
“Why?”
“A dead body was found, was it not? In your room, I believe?”
“Wait. How did you hear about that?”
“I am a detective, Ms. Dash. Nothing gets by me.”
Hmmm.
So much to say.
No point in saying any of it.
“The official word is that it was a suicide.”
“I heard that.”
I take a slow breath. My heart is racing like a race car. Galloping like a horse. No, that’s not a good analogy.
You get it. My heart is beating fast.
“I still don’t get what you’re doing other than scaring people on the beach.”
He smiles at me. I can’t tell if it’s friendly or not. “Tell me, how did you come to this conference?”
“I was invited.”
“Yes, but why?”
“I get invited to a lot of conferences. And my editor’s on the selection panel. Why?”
“And myself. Why was I invited?”
“That’s a good question. Why were you invited?”
“I was told by my capitano to come here.”
“What does that mean?”
“The invitation was extended. My boss, as you would call him, advised me that I would be attending.”
“You keep saying this as if it’s significant, but I’m not getting it.”
He nods his head in a way that indicates he’s not surprised that I’m puzzled.
I sigh internally. This is the way that Inspector Tucci works. In riddles and puzzles. Also with lots of mistakes and missteps.
“I was told to keep my attendance quiet,” Inspector Tucci says.
“Why?”
“Perhaps they thought you would not attend if you knew I would be here.”
“Why would anyone care if I was coming to this conference? I mean, I was already coming. It’s been on my agenda for months.”
“You could have changed your mind.”
“I … Why?”
“Tragedy seems to follow you.”
I try to smile. “I’ve noticed.”
“You have not caught my meaning?”
“No.”
“You are missing one crucial fact, of course.”
“Naturally.” I pause to wait. Why am I constantly surrounded by drama queens?45 “Are you going to tell me, or was that simply a statement of fact?”
“What have you discovered about the man who died?”
“He was fired yesterday.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Guy told us that he’d been found in a guest’s room. That he was stealing things.”
“And did you believe that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
He cocks his head to the side. “It is a convenient story, no?”
“That’s not what happened?”
“What do you think?”
It’s wrong that I want to kill this man, yes?
“Just spit it out, Tucci, for fuck’s sake.”
“I am not familiar with this term.”
“Pretty sure you can figure it out from context.” The waves crash into my feet as the sun dips lower on the horizon. I can’t believe I’m pushing Inspector Tucci to tell me something I doubt I want to know.
But when has acting reasonably ever been my course of action?
“He did not steal anything from someone’s room. He stole, how do you say, information.”
“Information about who?”
“Among others … you.”
Sigh.
I should’ve seen this coming.
You did, right?
I’m losing my touch. Maybe with reality.
It feels like the time for a dramatic pause.
So, see you on the flip side.