Chapter 14. Is This a Trope?
Is This a Trope?
When I get to my classroom at nine thirty on the dot as per the schedule that we are apparently still following even though bodies are dropping left and right, everyone is in their places, sitting at attention, the notebooks open to a crisp fresh page.
Well, not everyone. We’ve been joined by Crazy Cathy, as her coming to find me back there suggests. Apparently she was put into the wrong group yesterday (can you imagine?) and insisted that she be moved to my group.
So that happened.
Stefano is back in the first row, and the minute I enter, his hand shoots into the air like an eager fifth grader’s. He’s wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt whose print is made up of book covers and matching statement glasses I suspect he doesn’t need.
I scan his shirt, but none of my book covers are there.52
“Yes, Stefano?”
“I assume we’ll be spending our time this morning trying to determine whether or not that man was murdered?”
“That was not the plan, no.”
“But we have to know,” one of the unnamed participants says.
“Yes, I agree,” another one says, and this sets off the rest of them.
“We can’t just sit here and do nothing.”
“Wait, that wasn’t a real murder, was it? It’s part of the conference, right?”
“Don’t be stupid, Harold.”
“I heard he had a heart attack.”
“That could be, only it would be a funny coincidence.”
“There are no coincidences. Eleanor says that all the time.”
“Yes, thank you, Cathy.”
She smiles sweetly at me. It’s eerie sometimes how much she looks like Kathy Bates in Misery. Only this morning, instead of a shapeless tunic with a turtleneck under it, she’s wearing a pair of capris and a sleeveless shirt that does, in fact, have one of my book covers on it.53
“Well?” Stefano says. “Are we addressing it or not? My audience is waiting for the next installment.”
“Of what?”
“My I’m-stuck-at-a-subpar-resort-and-someone’s-been-murdered series, obvi.”
“So you have been filming.”
“So?”
“Did you get permission from Officer Rolle?”
“For what? I have the right to express myself.”
Do not roll your eyes.
Do. Not. Roll. Your. Eyes.
“Stefano’s right,” Cathy says. “This is much more interesting than some boring lecture.”
I glance down at my carefully prepared lecture notes. Because I might seem like I fly by the seat of my pants—and you wouldn’t be wrong in thinking that—but when I commit to teaching about writing, I commit. So I have notes, themes, examples.
“What do you suggest, Stefano?”
“Well,” he says in an imperious voice, “first we have to investigate the victim.”
“Don’t we have to decide if there is a victim, first?
” Sandrine says, because yep, she’s changed out of her yoga clothes and slithered into another effortless outfit meant to make me feel frumpy and dowdy and all the things your much cooler ex–best friend can make you feel when you’re not on speaking terms.
And yes, if you’re curious, I’m sure that’s exactly what she was thinking when she chose her carefully tailored white shorts, blue linen shirt, and spotless espadrilles this morning.
“Yes, that would be the—”
“Let’s do that, then,” Stefano says. “How do we proceed?” He rises and approaches me. “We should use the chalkboard. That’s what I always see done.”
“Always see done where?”
“TV, movies.”
“That’s a trope.”
“What’s that?” Cathy asks.
“It’s a recurring plot device. Like the third-act breakup in romance novels.”
“But police use them, too,” Stefano says.
“How would you know?” Cathy asks, and I can’t help but smile. She’s crazy, but she’s my crazy.
Unless she’s finally trying to kill me.
I’m not claiming her then.
“I’d humor him, El,” Sandrine says. “Don’t want another bad review.”
Stefano’s eyes darken. “I was just expressing my personal opinion. When did that become a crime?”
I grit my teeth. “It’s fine, Stefano, no book is for everyone.”
“You didn’t like one of her books?” Cathy says. “What is wrong with you?”
“Leave it, Cathy.”
“I want to hear his case against it. Which book was it?”
“Amalfi Made Me Do It,” I say.
“That’s not even out yet, and you trashed it?”
“As I said in my review, I felt that the plot was tired and—”
I clear my throat loudly. “I thought you wanted to solve a potential murder?”
His face clouds with confusion. “Yes, of course. Sorry, got carried away.”
“Cathy does that to people.”
“I was only defending you, Eleanor.”
“I know, Cathy, thank you. Take a seat, Stefano.”
He returns reluctantly to his seat, and I wait for a minute, because fuck it. If I’m doing this, I’m doing this, you know?
Dramatic pauses and all.
I pick up a piece of chalk and shiver. Something about the feel of it, the feel of this, is ringing alarm bells.
I write “Guy Charles, 55” on the chalkboard. I’m not sure of his exact age, but fifty-five is close enough and unlikely to be related to why he’s currently lying in a refrigerated room waiting to be dissected.
Sorry, that went dark there for a moment.
“Can I film this?” Stefano asks.
“How about you not for now? I’m sure your audience will survive without constant updates.”
“But my views. You don’t understand how the algorithm works. You have to keep feeding it or—”
“What’s more important? Your TikTok Creator Fund money or solving this murder?”
“So it is a murder,” Sandrine says.
I grit my teeth. “I didn’t say that. Anyway, Guy. What do we know about him?”
“He worked with Connor Smith!”
“Yes, thank you, Cathy.”
I write “Connor Smith” on the chalkboard.
What are three things I know about Guy? I write them down on the chalkboard.
Born in Montreal, Canada. Speaks English, French, and other languages.
Worked as a detective in the UK and Italy with Connor for ten years. Worked both sides of the law.
Wrote a book called The Guy Behind the Man in Rome.
What else? Turns out I know more than three things about him.
Began working at Footprints six weeks ago.
May be in a relationship with Sandrine.
“Wait, what?” Sandrine says. “That’s slanderous.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
“Eleanor, please. Be serious.”
“Fine.”
May be in a relationship with Sandrine.
Knows Sandrine, was in contact with her before the conference, suggested she attend.
“Happy?”
I’m met with silence.
Knows how to get a gun into a country illegally.
Knows people high up in Italy—wasn’t interrogated when he should’ve been about his gun.
“What is all this about Italy?” Stefano says. “Aren’t we in the Bahamas?”
“Obviously.”
“Well, then?”
“I’m putting down everything I know about Guy. This is what I know about him.”
“What does it mean, though?”
“That he’s sus.”
“Talking in Gen Z now, El?” Sandrine says. “Mon dieu.”
I don’t turn around. Instead, I look at the words on the chalkboard.
So many things I know about Guy relate back to when I met him and Connor in Italy and we solved a series of robberies and a murder that I memorialized in When in Rome.
That story wasn’t over, as I found out when I went to Italy for my tenth-anniversary book tour six months ago, because murder has roots and murder leaves traces and murder will out.
But that doesn’t mean it’s relevant to what’s happening here.
What we need to determine is what he was doing in the Bahamas. That will be the solution.
Remember that.
I turn around. “Does anyone know why Guy was in the Bahamas? Sandrine?”
“Why would I know?”
“Because you’ve been in touch with him?”
“You keep saying that, but what is your evidence?”
“Guy.”
“Please. That man was not trustworthy.”
“So how did you end up at this conference, then?”
“I thought we were investigating Guy, not moi.”
I sigh. Having Sandrine here is like being trapped with your ex-boyfriend on vacation.
Which I also am.
“Moving on. Another thing we need to determine is whether he was murdered,” I say, tossing the chalk up and down in my hand.
“I thought we were assuming that?” Stefano says.
“Yes, but what’s our evidence?”
“Um, he’s D-E-A-D.”
“People do die, even suddenly.”
“If it was a murder, how could it have been done?” Cathy says.
“The lights were turned off—that was deliberate,” Stefano says.
“Or someone used it as a cover,” I suggest.
“Was he stabbed?”
“No, Stefano, imbécile,” Sandrine says. “There wasn’t any blood.”
“I wasn’t close enough to see.”
“Why would you want to be close enough to see?”
“I’m just saying…”
“Well,” I say, “you were at our table, so you definitely were close enough. Unless … were you filming? Is there a TikTok of Guy’s … uh … death?”
“I was filming Elizabeth’s speech.”
“That’s all? Your phone didn’t wander?”
“You can check for yourself. I stopped filming when the lights came up.”
I make a mental note to check his TikTok.
“If we’re done with that,” Sandrine says, “the only thing that makes sense is poison, given the way he looked and how suddenly he died.”
“That’s the name of our group,” Cathy says.
“So, the murderer is in this room?” Stefano says.
Sandrine’s chin lifts in a way it does when she’s been personally insulted. “Why would they be stupid enough to murder someone in the way their group is named?”
“Murderers are stupid,” I find myself saying. “That’s how they get caught.”
I shiver. Someone else has already said that to me on this trip. Too many things are repeating. Like an echo. Or wait, maybe that’s a bad analogy. An echo is distorted, right?
No, it’s an imitation or repetition of a sound. But this was a soundless murder.
My God, I need a nap.
“What do you think, Eleanor?” Cathy asks.
“I agree that if he was murdered, he must’ve been poisoned. There was no blood and he died suddenly. So how do you poison someone?”
“In his food?” one of the participants suggests.
“I didn’t see him eat right before it happened,” Sandrine says.
“Me either,” Stefano adds.
“I thought you were filming?”
“Well, yes, but before that. Anyway, he was talking to you. What were you talking about?”
“That’s not relevant.”
“We can’t know that at this point,” Stefano says. “We have to assume everything is relevant.”