Chapter 19
Apparently, I’ve passed out.
Because that’s what you do when you’re a sleep-deprived, adrenaline-electrified amateur sleuth trying to get herself killed
by finding crucial clues in a murderer’s lair.
Pass out until they find you.
Thankfully, in my case, I have Nash.
And next thing I know, I’m in Nash’s arms and he’s opening the door.
“Wait!” I cry, flinging my arm out.
I wouldn’t say he screamed exactly, but whatever it was, it was clear I just went from dead asleep to life in his arms, and
the sudden scream made him leap two feet off the floor.
I push his hand away from the knob and turn it myself. “Did you get my shoes?”
“Geez, Pip!” he says. “Yes, I got your shoes!”
I see them dangling from his hand.
“Did you put the weapon back?”
“Was I supposed to?” he says, frowning.
“Yes!” I cry out. “Yes! Leave it here and we’ll get the detective so he can see for himself. It doesn’t do us any favors to hand him a weapon from our hands and claim it’s from her.”
“Breaking and entering and then claiming we found the weapon looks a little suspicious, you’re saying,” he says, moving my
entire body into one arm and throwing open the drawer in a move of extreme strength, dropping the knife inside, and slamming
it shut.
He adjusts to hold me with both arms. “But running back to the room and then calling him telling him to look for a bloody
knife in a drawer won’t? I’ll be honest, Pip, I’m starting to wonder if we didn’t think this through.”
“Time was of the essence. I saw her leave and had to do something,” I say in a rush. “C’mon.”
I bounce my useless dangling legs like I’m trying to giddy up, horsey him.
“Let’s brainstorm back in the room. I can call him from the room. Or . . . or whatever. But we’ll figure it out there.”
As he races us back to the room (why doesn’t he put me down? I don’t know. You don’t do things that make sense when you’re
under the knife, turns out), I feel an intense adrenaline rush in the settling reality: Crystal is the killer.
Crystal, turns out, is the killer.
I’m supposed to say there’s something terribly sad about that, but the truth is, I’m nothing but relieved. Relieved it’s not
love-revenge Neena. Relieved it’s not ghostwriter-secret Jackie. Or sweet Gordon. Or Nash, obviously. Or even . . . in my
own way, Ricky.
We’ve only known Crystal now, what? A year? Two?
She’s but a blip in the memories of our lives.
Good memories, sure. But there are just a few of them.
And quite frankly, Crystal and I have never quite clicked.
Maybe it’s all the tracking down I’ve had to do for her.
Regardless, she doesn’t take up the same amount of space in my heart as the others.
It feels like less of a betrayal. So she betrayed us. But anyone can fake a personality for one year. It’s truly horrifying
to fake it over five.
Mostly, I feel an adrenaline-pumped relief. It’s over. We figured out the killer.
I pull out my phone, even as Nash is running.
Begin to type Cedar’s name.
Stop.
Start again.
Scenarios from a dozen of Hugh’s books fly through my mind simultaneously, fighting for attention.
The Quiet Cuban where Bembe tells the detective about the weapon. Doesn’t go well. He dies.
Murder on the I-95 where Stieg runs to the detective and leaves the weapon at the door for him to find. Doesn’t go well. Again: death.
Race Against Time. Monroe keeps the fact to herself. Doesn’t go well. Dies.
Man.
There’s just no good way to be an amateur sleuth here.
Doomed if you do. Doomed if you don’t.
The struggle is being a suspect and detective at the same time, isn’t it? It’s a little more challenging to clear yourself
while announcing someone else’s guilt simultaneously.
Hence why the detective in the novel always says more or less, in the same gruff way, Stay out of it, puny civilian.
It’s not just because we tend to be clueless in matters of violence and causation.
It’s because there’s no easy way to clear ourselves of guilt.
Well, hang on. There’s one way.
One sliver of a chance.
Follow the book Ode.
Point Cedar to the weapon without him knowing we’re pointing him to the weapon. Something dramatic enough to catch his attention.
And fast.
Once Nash sets me down, I look around the room for possibilities.
Run to the patio.
Snatch up a votive.
Race back out the door, pause, backpedal, and open the little closet by the front door.
Nash frowns at the candle in my hand. “Pip, what are you doing?”
“I have a plan.” I reach for the fire extinguisher.
“I see that. And we need the fire extinguisher on our floating wooden vessel because . . .”
“In case my plan goes terribly awry. Let’s go.”
I tiptoe-race back down the hall, unlock the door (even quicker this time, thank you very much), and step inside. The question is, what can I light on fire that won’t go up in immediate flames?
Nash is slower behind me.
“I think there is another way,” he says cautiously.
“I’m sure there is. But what if she’s planning to throw the weapon overboard the second she gets back and we never see it
again? All the evidence is gone.”
For that matter, why hasn’t she thrown it overboard? That’s the first thing I’d do if I were a killer. The great wide sea, and nobody would ever see
it again.
I feel the distinct crunch of a Frito chip underfoot.
Maybe that’s one clue.
This is Crystal we’re talking about.
I move toward the glow of the television screen.
Something near wires.
My eyes land on the curling iron resting among the other hair appliances.
Bingo.
Flipping the iron to high, I hold the candle over one of her books. Flames begin to grow.
Perfect.
I wait as the fire gathers, swivel round, then push Nash out the door.
Once in the hall with the door wide open, revealing the smoke and orange glow of the flames, I look at Nash. “Ready?” I whisper.
“For what now?” he whispers back.
I stride next door to Gordon’s room and bang on it twice.
“Fire!” I cry in a low, mangled voice through my elbow. It sounds like someone else entirely. “Call someone! Fire!”
I run and do the same at two more doors, yelling the same thing in the low voice.
Ten seconds later Nash and I have made it back to our room and shut the door.
“You sounded like Elmo,” Nash murmurs behind my shoulder as we both look through the peephole.
I lift my chin up. Our eyes inches apart. The tips of our noses touch.
“A very cute . . . Elmo,” he whispers, and for a moment we say nothing.
Then the first scream comes.
“Oh my—fire!” Neena cries out.
I look through the peephole and see her in her bathrobe, barefoot as she runs in front of Crystal’s room, looks in, and wheels
around. “Call security!” she cries, her voice trembling. “Fire!”
It doesn’t take much longer for everyone to emerge from their rooms, wide-eyed in their pajamas.
And frankly, for as quick as the waitstaff is about delivering cheesecake at 2 a.m., they sure take their sweet time over
a legitimate emergency.
Probably because of all the guests who were calling out for cheesecake.
Ultimately, it’s Jackie who puts out the fire.
After a “What in the—” cry, she elbows her way between the useless group with a fire extinguisher and flings herself into
the smoky abyss. In silence everyone watches, no one saying a word. At this point Nash and I are both in the group watching,
taking pains to look tired and in panic at the scene before us like the rest.
All of us in a fair bit of Jackie awe.
Through the smoke Jackie emerges, triumphant, a frown on her face. The fire extinguisher hangs limply at her side.
She looks absolutely irate for a hero.
“Where is she?” she growls at us, searching each of our eyes. “Where’s Crystal?”
Oooooh, she’s in trouble now, a childish singsong voice plays in my head.
“She was in her room, right?” I say. “Has anyone . . . else seen her? Who was her buddy?”
“What’s the problem here?” a staff member, the same kind-eyed, silver-haired man who helped me prop up my umbrella the other
day, says, as two others in uniform rush to inspect the room.
“Nothing. Just our author-child trying to burn down our ship in the middle of the Atlantic,” Jackie snaps.
“Crystal, sweetheart?” Neena says, her hand curled around her phone.
All eyes shoot to her, and she spins around for privacy.
“You better get up here,” she says in a hushed voice. “Seems we’ve had a little fire in your room.”
“Where is she?” I say.
“Can you hurry, darling?” Neena says.
“Found the problem,” a woman says, emerging with the crisp black cover of a partially fire-eaten book in one gloved hand.
“Curling iron left on. Seems it caught on some . . . belongings.”
“Is Pogache coming?” I say.
“I’ll call,” Neena says swiftly and begins dialing.
It takes a full fifteen minutes for Pogache to make his way to us, which is simply shocking given the circumstances.
Crystal has already come and apologized through every how-could-you-do-something-so-stupid? snap of Jackie’s. Even the staff members have finished cleaning up and moved on. Adrenaline is slowly giving way to exhaustion
on everyone’s faces and the desire to return to our beds.
I never got a clear word on who Crystal’s latest partner was. At first it was Gordon, but then Neena, then Jackie, then at
the very last both Gordon and Neena claimed her as their own. So clearly, no one.
Though, given Crystal is the killer, was it such a bad thing to have been absolutely terrible at being buddies with her?
At last, Pogache makes his way down the hall. Gone are his official blue jacket and name tag; on is a pair of basketball shorts
I’m assuming he wears for pajama bottoms. He wears a plain gray sweatshirt. He looks exhausted.
“Where have you been?!” I say, throwing my hands out. I mean, honestly. “We’re in crisis here and it takes you half an hour to show up?”
I fling my hand toward the door.
Pogache peeks inside. Pointedly ignores me as he addresses the group. “I’ve been appraised on everything that happened tonight.”
“Apprised,” I say, frowning.