Chapter 23. Are We to Be Murdered by Every Giuseppe in the Country?
Are We to Be Murdered by Every Giuseppe in the Country?
“This is a shit show,” Harper says.
“Understatement.”
We’re back in our room, the three of us alone together.
Officer Rolle didn’t make a specific announcement to the participants about what was going on.
He simply told everyone that, because of events that had transpired in the investigation, everyone had to go to their rooms and remain there until breakfast. There was a curfew, and anyone found outside of their room would be dealt with accordingly.
The two-too-many drink crowd grumbled and complained—I heard Harold’s voice from across the room being shushed by his wife—but they eventually got up and moved out of the restaurant and to their rooms. I stopped to update Elizabeth on what was going on—Vicki missing, Tucci’s body gone—and she rapped her cane against the ground like Gandalf, maybe hoping she could magic them back into their places.
I hugged her impulsively, and she shooed me away.
And now I’m back in our room, and I’ve caught Harper up on everything to date.
At least, I think I have.
There is still something I feel like I’m forgetting. Missing.
Can you tell me what it is??
I thought at first that this feeling I’ve had all day is about Marta. That I recognized her but didn’t, and that’s what is tugging on my brain.
But it feels like more than that now. Marta isn’t enough. She’s been identified, but the taste of missing something is still on my mind. Is there a Taylor song for this? There’s one for everything, right?
Help me out, Swifties.71, 72
Anyway.
“So we’re just supposed to sit here and wait?” Harper says.
It’s late now, somehow already midnight.
She’s changed into pajamas, a checked pair like the matching ones we used to have when we were kids, opening presents with our parents with fake snow spray-painted on the windows.
I probably still have a matching set somewhere, but we stopped doing that whole matching PJs on Christmas morning thing a while ago.
“And not answer the door unless it’s an official,” I add.
Harper twists her hair into a braid. “We’re not just going to do that, though, right?”
“Why do you say that?”
“No way we’re sitting here letting the others figure it out. I don’t believe that for a second.”
Oliver and I exchange a glance. “What did you have in mind?”
“We should find Marta.”
“No, that’s dangerous. And the police are on it.”
“We have to do something.”
“We could read Guy’s book,” Oliver says. “Maybe there are some answers in there?”
“You have it?”
“I made a copy.”
“How?”
“I AirDropped it to my phone.”
“Have I told you lately that you’re a genius?”
He smiles. “And look what that gets me.”
“My undying love and devotion.”
“Yuck. Get a room, you two.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief. Harper’s making jokes with me. We aren’t beyond saving.
“Hey, Harp?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
She bites her lip. “Is that why you fired me?”
“I did it for your own good.”
“Feels like you did it to win an argument.”
“Maybe, but I was going to do it anyway. I decided before we came here.”
“Why?”
“You know why,” I say. “Because you have to go live your own life. It’s been too long living mine. Helping me live mine. You have to follow your own dreams, make your own mistakes.”
“I’ve made lots of mistakes.”
“You know what I mean. Don’t you want to wake up every day and not think about me?”
She laughs. “How did you know?”
“I know you better than myself.”
“What am I supposed to do now?”
“I can’t be the one to tell you what to do. You have to figure this out on your own.”
She folds her hands together. “The only thing I’m trained to do is write, and I’m not good enough.”
“So train for something else. Or try writing again. Just because it didn’t work last time doesn’t mean it couldn’t work now. Try a new direction.”
“You just told me that Elizabeth’s getting dropped by her publisher. What hope is there for me?”
I don’t look at Oliver. “Elizabeth had a long and successful career, but everyone has to pack it up eventually. If you truly want to write, then find the idea that won’t leave you alone. Find the idea that you’re scared to write about.”
“Who says I didn’t do that last time?”
“I read it, remember? It was great. Well written. But … something was missing.”
“What?”
I hesitate because what I have to say might come across as harsh. In for a penny …
“You, Harper. I didn’t feel you on the page. Your passion. Your intelligence. Your propensity to date the wrong person in every situation.”
She laughs out loud. “Oh, yes, I can see it now. I’ll go on Love Is Blind and write about that.”
I cock my head to the side. “That’s not a terrible idea. Is there murder in it?”
“If I had to go on that many bad dates, there would be a murder.”
“Murder Is Blind,”73 Oliver suggests.
“Good one.”
“I’m not going on Love Is Blind,” Harper says.
“But you get the idea.”
“I think your next lecture has been canceled.”
“Yeah, yeah, but you know I’m right.”
She gets serious. “And what if I don’t have a big idea in me?”
“That’s what we’re all afraid of,” I say. “Everyone who writes is afraid of failure, afraid of not connecting, afraid of not being good enough. But we press on anyway because we love it more than we hate it. It’s the job we can’t quit.”
“I don’t know if I feel that way.”
“Then don’t do it. Walk away. Take a pottery class. Take up running. Take voice lessons. Anything else. Just be spontaneous. What’s the first thing that pops into your mind when you don’t edit it?”
She smiles, a little dreamy. “A true-crime podcast.”
“Why did you just say that?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Tell me.”
“If I think about what I had fun doing, like actually enjoyed in the last couple of years, it was investigating John Hart.”
“The man who killed our parents? Seriously?”
“It’s like a giant puzzle where I’m filling in the pieces one by one. And I’m telling you, El, some things don’t add up.”
“Like what?”
“Like the missing woman. Why wasn’t she found?”
“Maybe they didn’t even look for her.”
“They asked him. He denied it. But lots of witnesses saw her. So what is he hiding?”
I try to smile at her, even though I don’t want to go anywhere near this topic. “I’m glad you have something you’re excited about, Harper. I am. But we have one mystery on our plate already, and I cannot handle anything more right now.”
“Sorry.”
“No, don’t be. Start your podcast if that’s what you want to do. I just don’t need to hear about it if that’s your first case.”
“I get it.”
I hold my arms open. “You forgive me?”
“For what?”
“Firing you?”
She steps into my arms and hugs me. “Depends. You’re giving me six months of severance, right?”
I laugh as there’s a knock at the door. “I’m giving you a year.”
“I’ll get it,” Oliver says.
He walks to the door as I reach out to stop him. “Careful. Don’t open it if we don’t know who it is.”
“Right.” He gets to the door and peers through the peephole. “It’s Officer Rolle.”
“You’re sure?”
He shoots me a look and opens the door. Officer Rolle’s shoulders are sagging. “We’ve found her.”
“Who? Marta?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“We would like you to come listen to what she has to say.”
“Why?”
“Because she is denying everything.”
We’re back in the room where Officer Rolle didn’t interrogate me, exactly, but kind of did. Me, Oliver, Connor, Officer Rolle, and Marta.
It’s late, and I’m tired, but I’m also keyed up like I’ve had too much coffee. The resort was quiet and beautiful when we walked through it, its flaws covered up by the night.
Harper decided to stay back and read Guy’s book. She didn’t want to face Marta, she said. She’d had enough of staring into the faces of murderers. And I couldn’t blame her for that, but it felt like I had no choice but to go and hear what Marta had to say, so I did.
No surprises here—Marta is the maid I remembered from earlier. Early twenties. An innocent face. A scared face. She’s wearing her maid uniform, and her hair is pulled back.
“Why are they here?” Marta asks as we enter. Her voice is high, one of those voices it’s hard to hear in a crowded room.
“I think they can help in this investigation,” Officer Rolle says.
“I already told you; I didn’t do anything.”
“You helped plot to murder me and Connor in Italy,” I say.
Marta’s eyes narrow. “I had nothing to do with that.”
“Sure. Right. Did you think killing Inspector Tucci was going to get you out of that?”
“I didn’t do that either.”
“And stealing his body? That’s rich.”
Her eyes shift around the room. “What are you talking about?”
“His body is missing. You already know. Where did you put it?”
She just shakes her head.
“Where did you find her, Officer Rolle?”
“She was hiding in the staff quarters’ laundry room. Once we knew who she was, we were able to identify which room was hers.”
“Did you find anything in her room?”
“Nothing evidently connected to the crimes, but we are continuing our search.”
Marta pouts. “Because I didn’t do anything, I already told you.”
“What about Guy?” I say.
She scoffs. “That man. I told Marco not to hire him, not to allow the conference to come here, but he thought he knew better. ‘Let them come,’ he said. The idiot.”
“So Marco killed him?”
“No! My brother’s not a murderer.”
“Not that brother,” Connor says.
Marta scowls at him. “I barely even knew Gianni. He moved out when I was six and died when I was twelve.”
“Your sister and mother felt differently.”
“Mother always had her heart set on revenge, ever since the beginning.”
“So the plan was her idea?”
“I didn’t say that.” She shakes her head again. “I shouldn’t say anything.”
She wants to talk, I can tell. Does she think she’ll convince us if she does?
It’s amazing how many people think that. That they can rationalize their hatred. That they can explain away their evil. That you’ll see it their way if they have a moment to explain themselves.