Chapter 16. Are We Going to Talk About It?
Are We Going to Talk About It?
I see Elizabeth to her table in the buffet dining room because apparently it’s time to eat again, though I’m oddly unhungry, which is not a state I am used to being in.
We don’t talk on the way there. Maybe we’re both thinking about the same thing: the murders, who’s behind them, and whether I was the intended target.
Or maybe I’m projecting. It’s what I was thinking about. Elizabeth was probably contemplating her lunch choices, secure in the knowledge that no one’s ever wanted to murder her.
Don’t get too smug, though. Someone might want you dead. Only they never acted on it, so you haven’t been confronted with the evidence of your ability to create enmity.
ANYWAY.
I make sure Elizabeth gets to a good seat, then scan the room, looking for a friendly face I can eat with. Or push food around on the plate with. But I’m coming up empty when Oliver approaches.
“There you are,” he says with something that sounds like relief.
He’s wearing a pair of tan slacks, a polo shirt, and a blazer.
His “teacher uniform,” he called it when he was packing for the trip.
I hadn’t planned on dressing up to teach, but I repacked my bag and put some more appropriate clothing in after I saw what he was including.
Teaching a murder class in a beach cover-up probably wouldn’t get me the respect I was going for.
Hence my demure summer dress and cardigan, because every conference room I’ve ever been in is ten degrees too cold for a woman,57 and today’s was no exception.
“Where were you?”
“I was speaking to Officer Rolle.” I tell him what Officer Rolle has discovered. The device that killed Guy. The potential that it was meant for me. His eyes widen as I tell him about it, his brain coming to the same conclusion as mine.
This is not a coincidence.
I mean, obviously.
“I knew I shouldn’t have let you out of my sight,” Oliver says.
“I’m okay. Why were you looking for me?”
He motions for me to follow him through the dining room. We pass several animated tables of conference-goers, catching clips of their conversations about what I assume are their WIPs.58
Or there are a lot of people plotting murders here.
Both are possible.
We stop, and Oliver points to a table in the corner.
Connor is sitting at a round table, and the members of my small group surround him.
I could be mistaken, but it looks like an interrogation, which Stefano is leading.
Cathy is holding his phone, recording, and he’s taking notes.
And Connor looks … not annoyed, exactly. A mix of nonchalant and wary.
It’s a look I’ve seen before.
“Did you assign your class to investigate the murder?” Oliver asks.
“They wouldn’t let me give my lecture. They insisted we talk about it.”
“And Connor?”
“Stefano think he’s the prime suspect. He’s ‘on the case’ or making some Storytime or whatever. For his TikTok.”
“Yeah, I’ve watched them.”
“Stefano’s TikTok?”
“I wanted to know what he was up to, filming all the time.”
“And?”
Oliver tosses his head back and holds his hand up like he’s holding his phone.
“POV. You’re at a resort that’s supposed to be five-star, but it’s more like two point five, three tops.
You’re here to learn how to write a perfect murder from the best writers in the business.
Or whoever they could get to show up to this conference.
Samesies. And then—Storytime, guys—someone is dead!
They’re saying it’s a heart attack, but I’m not falling for that.
Come back for part two, where I reveal who the dead guy is and why I knew he was going to die. ”
I snort. “Wow. That was … very accurate.”
“Thank you.”
“I think Stefano was recording a Live when the murder happened.”
“I didn’t see that on his page.”
“He said he was recording Elizabeth’s lecture … but I don’t think a Live ends up on your feed? There must be some way to retrieve it.”
“I’m sure there is.”
“How much time do you spend on TikTok, anyway?” I ask. “I didn’t even know you had an account.”
He shakes his head. “It’s for research purposes.”
“Sure.”
“I write contemporary stories. I have to stay involved with the culture.”
“Keep telling yourself that. What’s on your FYP?”
“My what?”
“For You Page. It’s the page that you see when you open up TikTok. The videos the algorithm pushes you.”
“Eleanor.”
“What?”
He shakes his head at me. “Why does Stefano think Connor murdered Guy?”
“He’s not wrong. If Guy was murdered on purpose, Connor is suspect number one.”
“Why?”
“They know too much about one another.”
“That’s not usually a reason for murder, is it?”
“It can be,” I say. “They’ve both been keeping secrets. About Italy. About their business. All of it.”
“If I remember correctly,” Oliver says, “Connor didn’t even know Guy was going to be here.”
“So he says.”
He wrinkles his forehead because he doesn’t do Botox and still has facial expressions.
Me too. I don’t do Botox.
Yet.
“Connor used the device that killed Shek to kill Guy?”
“It’s not information that’s in the public domain.
So, it’s someone who was in Italy with us or who’s read the book that did it.
Only it’s the advance reader copy they have to have read, which is a limited number of people.
But Connor was there. On the spot. So it doesn’t matter if he read the book or not. ”
“Did he?” Oliver asks.
“I have no idea.”
“If he didn’t, he’d be pretty stupid to use that method.”
“Maybe he thought it was public?”
“Still…” Oliver purses his mouth. “Why would he kill Guy? Why now? Why here?”
“It has to be related to why Guy was here. I don’t buy this ‘job opening’ nonsense for a minute.” I look over at the table, where Connor’s turning red in the face. It looks like the interrogation is being led by the man named Harold.
Okay, I lied about not telling you everyone’s names in my group, that they’d all be background players. But I told you Harold’s name a couple of chapters back, and Harold has some things to say.
Here are three facts about Harold so you can envision him:
He’s about sixty, with a gray half-circle of hair on his head.
He’s the one I mentioned who’s been to more than one writer’s conference I’ve attended, and has self-published his books,59 which he talks about like they’re New York Times bestsellers to anyone who’ll listen.
He uses large hand gestures and likes pointing his pen when he’s mansplaining the book business.
I’m sure you’ve met a Harold or two in your lifetime.
Especially if you’re a writer.
And the woman standing next to him, who I assume is his wife from the way she was saying his name in class, seems a little too used to seeing Harold act this way.
I wouldn’t want to be her if I screwed something up for him.
But I am enjoying watching Connor squirm.
“What do you think they’re asking him about?” Oliver says.
“No idea. No one seemed that bright in my class. What? It’s true.”
“You can’t say things like that out loud.”
“I’m only saying them to you.”
He smiles. “Lucky me.”
I smile back. “You are lucky. I mean, look at how many times you’ve almost died because of me, and yet you’re still alive.”
“Not sure my life was ever in danger.”
“Potayto, potahto.”
“Still making jokes, I see.”
“It’s my coping mechanism.”
“How about doing something more concrete?” Oliver says.
“Such as?”
“A little light breaking and entry?”
“Now you’re talking.”
“Where are we going?” I ask Oliver a few minutes later as he leads me through the compound.
When I signed on to come here, I thought I’d be spending most of my time in a lounge chair sipping cocktails while Oliver did our copyedits, not getting my knees scraped up by overgrown fronds.
Alas, alas.
“Where do you think?” Oliver says.
“I don’t know, that’s why I asked.”
“Patience.”
“You know I’m not patient.”
“Shhh.” He holds his finger to his lips as we approach the low-lying buildings where the staff quarters are.
The white paint has yellowed and is chipping, and one of the roofs has a small tree growing out of it.
The brush is encroaching, too. It hasn’t been cut back in a while.
The resort has seen better days, but this part looks like it hasn’t been touched since the last century.
“Guy’s office?”
He nods.
“Won’t they be locked or under watch?”
“Locked, yes. Under watch, no. They aren’t a crime scene.”
“How do you know?”
“I checked earlier.”
I cock my head to the side. “You’ve been investigating.”
“I have.”
“Why?”
“Not sure if you’ve noticed, but two people are dead?”
“Clever boy.”
“I try,” he says. “This way.”
At first, I think he’s made a mistake, but then I notice there’s a small path—a shortcut the staff must use. When we come to the edge of it, he stops me again. We’re standing directly in front of the door to Guy’s office. There’s no one around.
“Is this a good idea?” I ask.
“Probably not.”
“Shouldn’t we leave the investigating to the police?”
He gives me a look over his shoulder. “Duh.”
I laugh quietly. “Did you bring your breaking and entering tools?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I was going to use them in class as a visual aid.”
“Well, this is a much better use for them.”
He takes a small black case out of the pocket of his blazer and unzips it. Inside are a bunch of thin tools I know can be used for picking locks. I don’t have the skill to do it, but this isn’t the first time Oliver’s shown me that he can.
Last time he did this, he used a credit card, but he was improvising.
We weren’t expecting murder that time.
Silly us.
“Keep a lookout,” he says as he crouches down by the door.
I stand behind him and look left, then right. We’re all alone, only the birds twittering, but I’m starting to sweat, even though I don’t imagine anything really bad would happen to us if we got caught. A light scolding, maybe?
Or wait. Is this obstruction of justice? It might be obstruction.60
“I’m in.” Oliver stands and opens the door, ushering me inside.