Chapter 20. Does Misery Love Company? #2
“I’m not going to tell you. I don’t want to spoil the ending.”
I feel like I’ve spent too much time wandering through this resort, lost in my thoughts.
This afternoon is no different. After Cathy leaves, I find myself wandering again.
Out of the conference center, through the pool area, and toward the beach.
Stefano’s standing with Harold and a few others from my small group near the snack bar, poking a finger at Mark, who’s tugging on his collar in discomfort.
Oh God. What are they up to now? Stefano doesn’t think he can solve this, does he?
I approach slowly with caution till I can catch their conversation.
“—unacceptable. It wasn’t even cooked.”
“We could die of food poisoning.”
“—left in the sun.”
“—and the pool is cold. Like freezing.”
“My room wasn’t cleaned this morning—”
That doesn’t sound like a murder investigation. Should I intervene and rescue Mark? No, he won’t be killed because someone had to reuse their towels.
There are bigger problems in life.
Like death.
I walk away, aimless.
Okay, that’s a lie.
I’m headed to the bar. I’m at the bar.
Even though I was just promising myself I wasn’t going to drink today.
Yikes.
But I want a moment of peace. Where the questions, doubts, and fears quiet down in my brain, and I’m alone with myself. Only, my brain seems to hate me. It seems to want me dead. Because it won’t let me sleep or think straight or want ordinary things. Like Oliver. Like happiness.
So I’m going to have a drink.
One drink.
“That’s what I always say,” Vicki says, turning to greet me with pink cheeks as I plunk down on the barstool next to her.
“Was I talking out loud?”
“You were.”
“I need to fix that.”
The bartender asks me what I want, and I hesitate, but in the end, I ask for an Arnold Palmer.
“Changed your mind?” Vicki asks.
“I thought it best to.”
“You don’t mind if I have another?”
“Of course not.”
Vicki nods to the bartender, pointing to her glass. Looks like she’s drinking vodka on the rocks, which doesn’t seem like the best life decision.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Been better.”
“The murders?”
“What? Oh, yes.”
“And?” I prod.
“I spoke to Elizabeth at lunch.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah.”
“How did she take it?”
Vicki glances at me. “How would you take being forced into retirement?”
“Badly?”
She smiles, but it’s sad. “Yep.”
“Fuck.”
“That’s what she said. Which is surprising because I’ve never heard her swear in the twenty years I’ve been working with her.”
“Maybe she could go to another publisher?”
“They’ll all look at her sales numbers and come to the same conclusion.”
“So it’s over?”
“It’s over. And you know what the worst part is? She’s sick. She just told me. She’s been feeling run down and lost some weight and…”
“Cancer?”
“She’ll get the results next week.”
I shudder as the bartender passes me my Arnold Palmer. It’s tart and sweet and does nothing to calm the nagging in my brain. But I have to stay sharp. There are pitfalls all around me, more than the ones I know about.
“Maybe you could cancel Connor’s book deal and give it to Elizabeth instead?”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“It should. That idiot put us all in danger.”
“How?”
“By suggesting we come here, for one.”
Vicki’s face clouds, then clears. “You mean on the committee?”
“Why didn’t you tell me he was on it when I asked before?”
“I knew you wouldn’t like it.”
“Okay, true, but why would you ever let him on that committee in the first place?”
“We always need volunteers.”
“But Connor? He never does anything for himself. You must’ve known he had an ulterior motive.”
“I did wonder. But he was so helpful. He even found this place.”
“Exactly. That was part of his plan.”
“Plan?”
I explain to her what we learned. How Connor suggested that the conference happen here to act as a trap for Marta. How it’s owned by the Giuseppes. How we still don’t know who killed Brian and Guy, but it was probably Marta, who’s on the loose.
Vicki’s face goes white as she listens; then she gulps down her drink. “I should’ve seen it.”
“It’s not your fault. He’s very charming and persuasive when he wants to be.”
“He put us all in danger.”
“I’m sure you’re fine. No one wants you dead.”
“Don’t be so sure of that.”
“Elizabeth? She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“No, I…” She stares off into the middle distance. Then she reaches for her glass in a distracted way and gulps the rest of it down.
“Careful,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t drink too much. We still have dinner to get through.”
“Right. I should go change.” She stands up on wobbly feet, knocking over the chair behind her. “Damn it.”
“It’s okay, I’ll help.” I bend down and bring the chair up. “See, all better now.”
Vicki’s eyes fill with tears. “You are sweet.”
“It’ll be okay. Elizabeth will enjoy retirement. Never having to hear another person complain about her books again? No more deadlines? And she doesn’t even have to retire. She can rest on her laurels. Still go to conferences. Nothing has to change for her in the grand scheme of things.”
Vicki just shakes her head, unsteady on her feet.
I put my hands on her arms. “You’ll be okay to make it back to your room?”
“What? Oh, yes, I’ll be okay.”
“Skip dinner if you don’t want to go.”
“I might.”
“I’ll cover for you.”
She forces a smile and drifts off, swaying through the chairs.
“You should make sure she gets back to her room,” the bartender says to me.
“She’ll be fine. It’s just over there.”
He shakes his head. “She’s in trouble.”
“Did she say something?”
“She didn’t have to. In this business, you see all kinds of things. Learn a lot, too. If you take the time to listen.”
I look at him properly for the first time, because that’s what we do, right? Ignore the people on staff? They fade into the walls.
He’s in his mid-twenties, is a local, and is wearing a blue staff polo. He has a kind face, but appearances can be deceiving.
“She had a lot to drink,” I say. “And a stressful day.”
“Can I be honest with you, madam?”
“Sure.”
“Is that lady your friend?”
“Business associate and friend.”
He picks up a glass and starts wiping it with his bar towel. “If I had to guess, I’d say she’s afraid of something.”
“There have been a couple of deaths here, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“I don’t think it’s that,” he says.
“What, then?”
“You’re one of those mystery authors, aren’t you? I guess you’ll figure it out.”
“Thanks so much for your help.” I turn around and away. I feel like I’m being judged by someone I don’t even know.
And I know you’re judging me, too. Because I haven’t figured out what’s going on, and this is supposed to be my job. I’m supposed to see around corners, and figure out plots, and have insight into the people around me.
But all I want to do is crawl into bed and rot away for the next forty-eight hours, even though I can feel the ticking clock of these murders all around me.
Is it ticking down to midnight or dawn?
There’s the rub.