Chapter 19. What Does “TlDr” Mean, Anyway?
What Does “Tl;Dr” Mean, Anyway?
Will it surprise you to learn that we don’t read Guy’s novel?
After shooing Sandrine away, we start to, but it’s very long and boring and starts with the main character’s childhood.
He’s just a very thinly disguised Guy and he hasn’t even bothered to change most of the names because when we do a few keyword searches for “Giuseppe” it has over two thousand hits.
But the name “Marta” is nowhere. We try to read the last chapter, but it’s just a series of cryptic notes that we might be able to puzzle out if we had more time, which it doesn’t feel like there’s enough time to do.
So, it’s a bust.
But why would Guy keep the manuscript on a USB in a book hidden in his office?
It feels significant. Maybe it’s useless to our current predicament.
We can’t decide that, though. Instead, after a short discussion, we persuade Connor to find Officer Rolle and Inspector Tucci and come clean about all of it.
The plan to unearth Martha.
The USB.
Guy’s connection to the Giuseppe family.
Whatever there is in their past that could be relevant to the crimes we’re in the middle of.
It’s not going to be easy for him, but I think he sees the importance of not holding anything back, even if it puts him in legal jeopardy.
Ha ha.
It’s Connor.
He’s going to hold something back. Probably a lot of things. He’s most certainly not going to confess to anything illegal.
Let’s just hope that whatever he withholds isn’t something that ends up getting someone else killed.
Because that’s what usually happens. Someone keeps a crucial detail to themselves for reasons they can’t quite explain other than to drive the narrative forward, and before you know it, they’re dead, or someone else is dead, and if they’d just come clean in the beginning, that wouldn’t have happened.
Is that just a fictional thing, or do people act like that in real life?
Of course they do.
We all have secrets.
Imagine you died suddenly. What’s the thing you’re most worried about someone finding out about you?
Don’t panic. I’m not going to ask you what it is.
It’s just an exercise to show you what I mean.
But yeah, you should erase those emails and texts.
Like immediately. And not just a simple delete either.
Go into your sent messages. Go into your drafts.
Go into your deleted emails and your archives. Be smart about it.
Anyway.
Connor’s off to tell his story, and I am starving and craving a drink.
But I’m giving up drinking for the rest of this trip.
What? I’m serious.
Maybe I haven’t been hiding it from you, but my mind has been clouded since I got here.
Notice how I said “maybe” back there? Good. You’re getting the hang of this.
ANYWAY, Oliver goes to forage some lunch for us as I walk into the rotunda by the pool. It’s a covered white structure with metal bistro tables around it. The white paint is chipped, and the bistro tables are rusted in spots. Like the rest of this resort, it’s a bit tired.
Like me.
Sandrine, Ravi, and Stefano are sitting at one of the tables, a pitcher of something on the table. Maybe the grog they’ve been serving nonstop since we got here. Because why else would all of my enemies be sitting at one table together, like they’re lying in wait for me?
“El-ea-nor!” Sandrine calls with a ringing laugh that reminds me of better times but puts me on my guard immediately, which is probably the point. “Come join us!”
“Yes!” Stefano says with gusto. “Do!”
This is not a table I want to join, but if I walk away, it would be like declaring war.
So instead, I avoid making eye contact with Ravi—who doesn’t seem quite as enthused that I’m joining the party—and take a seat.
“Drink?” Sandrine asks, picking up the pitcher. The liquid is dark and dangerous-looking, and as much as I want it, I have to keep my promise to myself.
For today, anyway.
“I think I’ll pass, thanks.” I look around. The resort has a deserted feel to it, like the day after a big party. “Where is everyone?”
“Excursions,” Ravi supplies. “Snorkeling, sailing, the make-up water polo match on that island over there.”
I follow his finger out into the ocean. There’s a small island just offshore that belongs to the resort. The water between it and the shore is dotted with boats and sunshine. It all looks so innocent.
“People went on those?” I ask.
“Chacun à son go?t.”
“How come you didn’t go, Stefano?”
“I’ve been investigating,” Stefano says, as if I should know this.
“Oh, right. I saw you interrogating Connor earlier. How did that go?”
“That man is exasperating.”
“I’m aware.”
“He’s still at the top of my list, though.”
“Great.”
“What about you?” Stefano asks, pointing the drink in his hand at me like an accusation. “Where have you been?”
“Researching my next book.” This isn’t a lie, I realize as I say it. If I survive this, it will all be fodder for the next installment in the Vacation Mysteries.
Which makes me question myself. Did I subconsciously come on this trip just to have something to write about? Like the yoga class I went to with Sandrine that I turned into a pole dancing class?
Maybe we can all agree that I’m very funny and just leave it at that?
“Any luck?” Sandrine asks, a bit too pointedly.
“Some pieces are coming together. Others remain a mystery.”
“Thanks for the details.”
“Welcome.”
“That was sarcasm.”
“I know.” I look around. “Have you seen Inspector Tucci?”
Ravi shakes his head. “Not since breakfast. Why?”
“I had some questions for him.”
“That man. He has called me Shek three times and also advised me that he had a very good idea for a book I should write.”
Sandrine laughs. “Welcome to being an author.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone has a great idea for a book,” I say. “And they always want you to write it.”
“Unless they’re going to write it when they retire.”
“Right. Someday. Someday they’ll write a book.”
“Because it’s so easy. You just do it like this.” Sandrine snaps her fingers. “And an amazing book appears at your fingertips and sells at auction for major money.”
Ouch. That’s a bit close to the bone.
Mine, that is.
“I always wonder why everyone wants to give their amazing book ideas away,” I say. “If I had an amazing idea for a book, I’d keep it.”
“How do you know if it’s an amazing idea?” Stefano says.
“If it won’t leave you alone. If you’re dying to write it down, then that’s a good start.”
“Huh.”
“What are you planning to write about, Stefano?”
His eyes shift away. “I’m not sure.”
“He’s writing about a book reviewer who gets embroiled in a murder,” Sandrine says.
Stefano’s head whips around. “How do you know that?”
“Because everyone’s first book is always about them. Right, Eleanor?”
“Absolutely.” I look at Ravi, tucking into another drink. “Can I ask you a question, Ravi?”
“Go ahead.”
“When did you get invited to this conference?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Humor me.”
“Several months ago. I’ve been invited to so many things it’s hard to keep track.”
“And who asked you?”
“I received an invitation through my publicist. Same as you, I expect.”
“Would you still have the invitation?”
“I might do in my emails.”
“Could you check?”
He takes out his phone slowly, frowning at the screen.
He taps at it and then tilts the screen toward me.
He received the invitation at the beginning of November.
It’s from the conference email address and signed “the Conference Committee.” It looks unremarkable.
But Connor was on that committee, directing things.
Re-creating the past to flush out Marta, if he’s to be believed.
But for that plan to succeed—if that was the plan—they needed everyone else to go along with it.
Or maybe they’re all in on it together, and I’m the one out in the cold?
“Did you know I’d be here when you accepted?”
“No. It never occurred to me to ask.”
I squint at him against the sun. “Would you have accepted if you’d known?”
“Perhaps.”
“Even though you hate me and think I’m responsible for your brother’s death?”
His eyes narrow. “You are responsible.”
“I’m not, though.”
“The only reason he was on that tour was because he had to go to help save his career. He told me. He told me all about you taking his marketing budget and how it was your fault that his books weren’t selling anymore.”
This is a gross oversimplification of a complicated issue, but I don’t have time to debate the fine details.
“But that’s not why he was killed. He was involved—”
The color rises in Ravi’s face. “That’s slander. And if you repeat that again, I will sue you.”
“You can ask Inspector Tucci. Your brother tried to kill Connor in LA.”
Ravi points his finger at me. “You’ll be hearing from my attorney.” He pushes back his chair and stalks off, stopping to grab his drink and the pitcher of grog.
“That was quite dramatic,” Stefano says into the ensuing silence.
“Do not take out your phone and make a TikTok about this,” I say.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“I mean it, Stefano.”
He smirks at me. “Is that a threat?”
“I—”
“Because I know you had my NetGalley access revoked.”
I glance at Sandrine. “What makes you think that?”
“I have my sources. I would’ve thought an author as big as you could take a little criticism.”
“It was more than that.”
His eyes narrow behind his fake glasses. “So you have seen my TikToks.”
“I never denied I did.”
“So petty.”
I take in a slow breath. “You requested the title after you’d already said numerous times that you didn’t like my books. Why would you do that?”
“I was trying to give you another chance to get in my book graces.”
“Your … what?”
“In my book graces. I like to give an author three strikes.”
“Like the penal system?”
His hands flutter in front of him. “See, that’s the problem with your books right there. So. Much. Sarcasm. Like, do something new. Do something novel.”
“You’ve had that one in your drafts folder for a while, haven’t you?”
“I’m entitled to my opinion, aren’t I?” Stefano says.
“Why did you come here? To this conference?”
“I told you.”
“You’re writing a book.”
“Yes.”
“About yourself?”
“It’s not about me,” he huffs.
“How many words do you have?”
“I haven’t started writing it yet, I’m working on the outline.”
“And who gets murdered in this book?”
He crosses his arms. “I’m not going to tell you. You’ll just take my twist.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve heard that’s what you do.”
“From her?” I point to Sandrine.
He doesn’t look at her. “It’s commonly known.”
“If you repeat that, I will sue you.”
“More threats.”
“I’m serious, Stefano. I’ve never stolen a plot in my life.”63
“I have the receipts.”
“Such as?”
He pauses like he’s not sure he’s going to go ahead, but his glee pushes him forward. “I looked into it. A bunch of your books are super similar to others.”
“In what way?”
“The murders. The locations.”
You’d think I’d be freaking out more, but I’m numb.
I’m also 100 percent certain that what he’s saying isn’t true. I’ve never stolen a plot from another author in my life. Who needs to do that when people keep involving me in their plots?
Wait …
“You didn’t answer my question before,” I say. “Why are you here? The real reason?”
“What’s it to you?”
“It might be a lot to me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Two people have died. Put it together.”
He pulls his chin back. “Are you accusing me of that? And what do you mean, two people? Who else has died?”
Fork. It’s getting too complicated to remember who knows what.
I should just assume no one knows anything.
“That isn’t important right now. Answer the question.”
“No.” He pushes his chair back and stands, his face red, his hands shaking. “This isn’t over.”
“It didn’t even start.”
“You think you’re funny, but you’re really not.”
“You’re the one who’s hiding something.”
He shakes his head. “You said it. We’re all hiding something.” He turns and stalks off like Ravi did.
I watch his back, trying to figure out what he’s not telling me, other than the bare hatred he seems to have of me from reading my books.
“And then there were two,” Sandrine drawls.
“Don’t start.”
“I haven’t started anything.”
“Really? Why are you here? Why come somewhere you knew I’d be?”
“It’s not for me to go.”
“Are you quoting from Pride and Prejudice?”
“Always with the accusations.”
I slump in my chair. “I feel like I’m going crazy.”
“You made your bed.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“You know you did. The common denominator of these stories is you.”
Didn’t I say that? I’m sure I did. Or at least thought it.
“So I’m that terrible, huh? I can’t go anywhere without being faced by enemies, and that’s just because I have so many of them?”
“If the description fits.”
“You can say whatever you want. It doesn’t hurt me anymore. But don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re not answering the question. I’m not some journalist on CNN who can be distracted by denying something three times.”
“And you haven’t answered why it matters.”
“It matters because someone’s brought a bunch of people to this resort who have reason to kill me and two people are dead.”
“But you’re not.”
“Not even denying you want me dead, nice.”
She purses her lips. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not a murderer. And I can tell the difference between you and Guy, even in the dark.”
“Guy was up to something. It’s not a coincidence that we’re all here.”
“Investigate that, then. Leave me out of it.” She stares at me, and though I expect her to get up and stalk out like the others, she doesn’t.
So I’m going to do it.
I’m going to stand and leave and go somewhere else, but before I do, Oliver comes to the table holding two plates of food and a grim expression on his face.
“What did I miss?”