Chapter 25. Does Gathering All of the Suspects in a Library Ever Work in Real Life? #2
“I cannot believe you let her do this,” Sandrine says to Officer Rolle. “This must be a violation of our rights.”
“You are not under caution,” Officer Rolle says.
“So we don’t have to talk,” Sandrine says. “Understood.”
“Yes, Sandrine. Say less.”
“Why? How do you think I did it? I’d love to hear your theory.”
“You’re a plotter.”
“So?”
“We’re in a plot. Don’t you get that? Or did you know that already?”
“I don’t know why you’re looking for complicated explanations. It must be Marta and Marco together who have done this with Guy. They killed him for some reason that will be revealed in time. Case closed.”
“They deny it.”
“Of course they do. But Officer Rolle will investigate, and he’ll find the evidence. They have a motive to kill Guy and Inspector Tucci. And you, for that matter. Et Connor.”
“What about Brian?” I ask. “And why are Connor and I are still alive? Why not kill us immediately?”
“I have no idea, Eleanor. But you’re fishing.” The venom in her voice saps my energy.
“Why do you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you. I just got tired of you. Of your selfishness. Of the me, me, moi of it all. It’s not more complicated than that.”
Tears spring to my eyes. “Okay.”
“I was suffering, and you didn’t even notice. Constantly talking about Oliver and Connor and your next book deal. You never cared about my career or that I was drowning. You never tried to help me.”
Anger takes over my pain. “What are you talking about? I was there for you when you left your agent. I read your book. I gave notes. I even kept your secrets. You’re jealous. That’s all. Which I get, okay? I get it. But you didn’t have to break up our friendship over it. You could’ve just told me.”
“And you think I, what? Planned to murder you instead?” She makes a sound in her throat that I can only describe as French. “You’re ridiculous.”
“How did you meet Brian?”
“I don’t know him.”
“Is he the one you’ve been having an affair with?”
She pales. “You’re mistaken, Eleanor. I do not know Brian. The man you’re referring to, who is a friend, for the record, is named Daniel. He’s in his fifties. He’s certainly not Brian.”
Damn it. I thought I was on to something there.
Stefano raises his hand. “Is it my turn now?”
“You want me to accuse you of planning a murder?”
“It would make great content.”
“Oh my God.”
He raises his shoulders. “What? You have no idea what it’s like. The pressure. Having to produce TikTok after TikTok to feed the algorithm. And the stress of it all being taken away at any moment because one minute it’s being banned and the next it’s not.”
“So get a real job.”
“It is a real job. See, that’s a typical legacy-author attitude.”
“Why do you hate authors?”
“I don’t.”
“Really? Aren’t you with the one with the TikTok series called Books That Were Literal Crimes Against My Mind?”
“Sounds like you’re a fan of my content.”
“That’s what you would take from this. I love the book community, but you just tear people down. You’ve broken careers.”
“So you decided to break mine?”
“I spoke up for myself! Why should you get books for free if you’re just going to hate them on sight?”
He sneers at me. “This is why you’re almost getting murdered all the time.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“It’s kind of true, Eleanor,” Cathy says. “You are the communis denominator in these stories.”
This stops me. “Wait. Why are you speaking in Latin … That’s in Amalfi Made Me Do It. How do you know that?”
“I read it on NetGalley.”
“You’re approved to read my books?”
“I’m your biggest fan.”
“Oh my God,” I say.
“What?” Oliver says.
“The note. The notes under our plates … the note I got on Friday … That’s like what happened at Emma’s wedding.”
“Why does that matter?” Connor asks.
“Because it’s in the book Oliver and I wrote together.
Something Borrowed, Blue, or Murdered … We wrote a retelling of the murders on Catalina Island…
” The book Oliver is supposed to be doing the copyedits for, which I assume we’re turning in late now.
If Vicki’s even alive to turn it in to. Which is a horrible thought.
I haven’t been giving Vicki enough thought.
What is wrong with me? I hope she’s okay. But when is anyone missing in books like this ever okay? Never, right?
“That murder started with a threatening note.”
“So?” Sandrine asks.
“You think it means that the person behind all of this is someone who read it?” Oliver says. “That’s a short list.”
I look at Harper. “You didn’t give anyone an early copy, did you?”
“No.”
“So, who was on the organizing committee that also read the book?”
“Vicki.”
“Vicki doesn’t want to murder anyone,” Harper says. “And there’s a good chance that she’s also dead … How come they haven’t found her yet?”
Her voice cracks, and my throat tightens. I cannot lose Vicki on top of everything.
“But why?” Oliver asks, his voice shaky as well. “Wouldn’t that mean she knew something?”
“No way Vicki is behind this,” I say. “Just no.”
“Connor?” Harper supplies. “He knew about the note because he was on the spot when it happened. He didn’t have to read the book.”
“We know he’s involved,” I say.
“I was trying to help,” Connor says. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
“But he arrived with us, after Brian was already dead, so he couldn’t have done that,” Oliver points out.
“Will you stop talking about me like I’m not here?”
I ignore him. “Right, which only leaves…” I look around at the faces of the people I’ve assembled. Who is it? Who is it? It must be one of them.
But wait.
Someone’s missing and I’ve only just realized it. “Where’s Elizabeth?”
“In her room, I assume,” Sandrine says.
Shit, shit, shit.
“We have to find her.”
“Why?” Officer Rolle asks.
“I have a bad feeling.” I start toward the door. “Does anyone know where her room is?”
“She’s in the other presidential suite. Right behind yours.”
I nod and almost run out of the room, the others following behind.
We weave through the paths, our footsteps echoing in the quiet resort.
When we get to her door, I realize we don’t have a key. But Officer Rolle has that covered this time. He takes out a master key and presses it against the mechanism.
It beeps in a low sigh, like it’s about to give up.
That’s how I feel, too.
I open the door as Officer Rolle protests something about fingerprints, but I can already tell it’s too late for that now.
She’s not in the living room, only one light on low.
The door to her bedroom is ajar, and the drapes are pulled so there’s barely any light.
And though it’s hard to see, one thing is clear.
There’s a rope hanging from the ceiling.
And Elizabeth is dead.