“I didn’t kill Shek,” I say to Inspector Tucci, but the effort it takes to say it makes it sound unconvincing, even to me.
He folds his hands on the table next to the ring-like device that was apparently used to kill him. There’s a bit of condensation on the plastic evidence bag it was placed in, like it was wet before it went in there.
“You can say that all you like, but the evidence states the contrary.”
I point to the bag. “Even if it was found in my things, I promise that I’ve never seen it before.”
“I’m sure its origins will come to light in time.”
He means he thinks he’s going to discover where I purchased it or how I made it.
But here’s the thing: If I did do this—and I’m not saying I did—I wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave evidence of it just lying around for anyone to find.
“Anyone could’ve put it in my backpack,” I say.
He makes a dismissive gesture. “A convenient excuse, which you have used before. The key card, the backpack … Is that the best you can do?”
My fear is being replaced by rage.
At the unfairness.
At the condescension.
At the blow to my ego.
Take your pick.
It all mixes together, and now I’m going to say something I’ve been told never to say. “I’d like to speak to a lawyer.”167, 168
“In due time, I’m sure you will consult one, Ms. Dash.”
“No, now. This interview is over.”
He smiles at me in a way that makes my blood boil. “Ah, but you do not get to decide this, Ms. Dash. Again, this is not the American cinema. We do things differently here.”169, 170
“I don’t have to speak to you.”
“Again, wrong. But that is all well and good. I have enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“To obtain, in your terms, a warrant for your arrest.”
My mouth goes dry, but there’s no water for me to drink, or air left for me to breathe. “A warrant?”
“For your arrest. I will speak to the local magistrate and return with it in the morning.”
“This can’t be happening.”
He stares at me with pity. “But it is, Ms. Dash. And not like in one of your stories where some convoluted explanation will appear to save you.”
“You mean, the truth?”
“The truth is usually simple and very straightforward. There isn’t some big reveal or mystery to unlock. People behave in predictable ways.”
“This is exactly why you didn’t solve the Giuseppe robberies.”
“Ah, but I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
He stares at me, trying to process what I’m telling him. “What could you possibly mean?”
I stare back. This is the only power I have. The secrets I know. It’s the only chip I have to play. “I’m not going to tell you. But you did miss something all those years ago, something crucial. And now it’s too late for you to do anything about it.”
Something flickers behind his eyes, and I know that I’ve done what I could.
I’ve created a doubt. Whether it’s reasonable or not is for another day.
But what about you?
Do you think I did it?171
When Inspector Tucci and I are finished with our staring contest, we return to the library.
It’s late now, my stomach is rumbling because despite the shock—and is that … sadness at Shek’s death? I think it is—my body needs to be fed at regular intervals.
Everyone is pretty much where we left them. The easel has no more clues written on it. Oliver’s pacing by the window, the inky sea reflecting the moon. Harper’s opened a book, but I can tell she’s not reading it. Isabella and Connor are ensconced on a settee, intertwined, but not engaging with each other directly. Isabella’s head is on his shoulder, and he’s staring at the easel like it might contain the meaning of life. Allison and Emily and Guy are standing by the fireplace talking in low voices about Lord knows what.
Inspector Tucci claps his hands to get everyone’s attention.
They turn to him, but Oliver makes eye contact with me, a question in his raised eyebrows. I shake my head in a warning, but how am I supposed to convey what’s happening?
I’m going to go to jail for a murder I didn’t commit.
If I survive that long.
Inspector Tucci clears his throat. “I am here to inform you that I will be seeking an arrest warrant for Mr. Botha’s murder.”
“Allison?” Connor says with grim certainty.
“No.” He pauses. “Ms. Eleanor Dash.”
Harper’s hand flies to her mouth, but it’s Oliver who speaks. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Be that as it may, it is where the evidence leads.”
“What evidence?”
“I do not need to disclose that to you. This is not some parlor game we are playing. A man is dead. I owe my duty to him.”
“Well, well, well,” Connor says, smirking at me. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Shut up, Connor,” Harper says. “Just shut up. For once in your life.”
“Good for you, Harper,” Allison says. “Though I doubt he’ll listen.”
“There must be some mistake,” Oliver says, searching out my face again. “Whatever you think the evidence shows … I know Eleanor isn’t behind this. I saw someone try to kill her with my own eyes.”
“Who?” Inspector Tucci asks.
“I don’t … It was dark, the fireworks were flashing, but she was pushed.”
“Or she made it look that way to elicit your sympathy and cover her intentions.”
Oliver opens his mouth to say something, then stops.
Is that doubt I see on his face?
Of course it is.
He knows I’m not to be trusted with his heart. Why would he trust me about anything else?
“This is the problem,” Inspector Tucci says. “You think that you are able to solve this crime by yourselves, and you cannot. You must leave this to the professionals.”
“Ha,” Connor says. “Because that worked so well the last time.”
Inspector Tucci glares at him. “I do not think you understand, Mr. Smith. There is a murderer among you. Seeking them out”—he points to the easel—“is a bad idea.”
“Why don’t you just take Eleanor into custody, and then that will be that?” Guy asks.
“It does not work like that here. I must go to the magistrate first.”172
“You still have doubts,” Oliver guesses. “You’re not sure Eleanor did it, so you want to cover your tracks. Make it someone else’s decision.”
“I do not have to explain myself to you.”
“But I’m right, aren’t I? It’s because of what Connor said before—you were demoted ten years ago and I bet if you screw up again you’ll be out.”
Inspector Tucci works his jaw. “As I said before, you need to leave the investigating to the police. If you do not, you might stumble on something you shouldn’t and provoke a reaction.” He looks at me at this point and it’s not subtle. He thinks I’m dangerous. That they should be afraid of me. “Ms. Dash may not be acting alone. Be careful. Lock your doors tonight.”
“What about the rest of us?” Harper asks. She is surprisingly calm for someone whose sister was just accused of murder. But maybe I’d react the same way because I’d know it wasn’t true.
I mean, it can’t be true.
“What do you mean?” Inspector Tucci asks.
“You said you’d question all of us. Don’t you need to do that to be sure that you’re right?”
“Events have surpassed … But we will question all of you in the morning. I will return with my colleagues then. Be safe.”
He shoots one last glance at me, then leaves, taking the police officer with him.
The door is open; we aren’t locked in here. I feel trapped nonetheless.
Because this has to be a joke, right?
But no one’s laughing. No, instead, everyone’s looking at me in a way that I understand. They think I’m guilty, even though they haven’t even heard the evidence against me.
“Did you do it?” Isabella asks.
“Of course she didn’t,” Harper says. “Right, Eleanor?”
“I didn’t kill Shek.”
Ugh, that wasn’t convincing at all.
“I didn’t kill him.” There, I put my back into it that time.
“Hmmm,” Guy says, walking toward the easel. He picks up the discarded marker. It hovers on the square next to my name with the word “motive” in it. “Eleanor definitely had a motive to kill Connor.”
“Give me a break,” I say. “We all have one of those.”
“You wanted him out of your life.”
“On paper. Not in reality.”
“I know you’re not that naive. Connor wasn’t going to just disappear because you wrote him out of your book series.”
“And what about the blackmail?” Emily says. “That’s a good motive.”
“Are you saying that Eleanor blackmailed Connor and then tried to kill him, because that’s nonsense,” Harper says.
“No, no, not that blackmail,” Emily says. “The one Connor did with Eleanor. With her book deal.”
Ah, shit. When did I tell her that?
Oh, right. Yesterday. The lemon spritzes that came every ten to twelve minutes.173, 174
Oliver and Harper look at me with questions in their eyes.
I’ve never told either of them about the blackmail or even that I was paying Connor at all. I never showed Harper my contracts—I just told her that the lawyers took care of it, and she handled the money once it was received. And Oliver, well, Oliver hated Connor on sight. Telling him anything about it would’ve made it worse.
So I kept my secret.
But secrets don’t keep; they rot until their stench makes them impossible to ignore.
“Connor’s blackmailing you?” Harper says.
“I … Yes. I have to pay him twenty percent of my royalties.”
“Since when?”
“Since the beginning. I mean, it was ten percent then. But you get the idea.”
“How did I not know this?”
I shake my head in shame. “I didn’t want anyone to know.”175
I’m sorry, I mouth at Harper and Oliver, but who knows if it will get through.
“How does Emily know about it?” Oliver asks.
“She told us yesterday,” Emily says. “Didn’t she, Guy?”
“It wasn’t my fault,” I say. “I was under the influence of too many spritzes.”
“Is that going to be your defense for the murder, too?” Isabella asks.
Oliver raises his hand to cut off whatever stupid thing I was going to say. “What happens if Connor dies? Do you have to keep paying?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe it goes to his estate?”
I look at Allison. Is she Connor’s heir? I’ve never asked Connor if has a will, but if he does, I assume that he wrote her out of it when they got divorced.
But then again, Connor’s never been someone who’s up on his paperwork.
Speaking of Connor … he isn’t saying anything. And a silent Connor is a Connor you need to keep your eyes on.
“Maybe for the old royalties, but not on a new deal, right?” Emily asks. “If you sell another book series, then it will be clean.”
“Eleanor wouldn’t kill someone for money,” Harper says. “She has enough of it to last a lifetime.”
“Does she? That expensive house in Venice Beach?” Guy says. “And her book sales are declining, I hear.”
“That was our parents’ house. And even with the declining sales, we’re fine.”
“It’s you, isn’t it?” Connor says, shaking himself into action. “You did it.”
“I did not.”
“Come on, El. You’ve been angry ever since that night at Bouchercon.”
Oliver’s head snaps up.
Bouchercon, the scene of a different crime.
The place where I killed our relationship.
“You wanted me dead,” Connor continues. “But most of all, you wanted me scared. Maybe you thought I’d be happy to give up my payments if my life was on the line.”
“That’s ridiculous. If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it years ago.”
“That’s everyone’s excuse,” Allison drawls. “I thought you’d be more original.”
Connor stares at me. “You didn’t have the guts then. But you’re different now.”
I want to deny it, but this is one of the first true things that Connor’s said about me in a long time. I do feel different now. I’m just not sure when that change happened.
“Did you blackmail her?” Oliver asks Connor.
“Call it what you will.”
He turns to me. “But why, El?”
“I couldn’t publish the book if I didn’t. It was his name … him.”
“I don’t buy it,” Oliver says. “You could’ve easily changed his name in the book and enough details to keep him out of it. There has to be something more.”
I look at him. The pain on his face is like a punch.
A sucker punch, and I fall for it.
“He was behind the robberies.”
“Eleanor!” Connor warns.
I don’t listen to Connor. I’ve listened to him long enough.
“He planned them. He wasn’t behind the murder, but he planned the robberies with the Giuseppe family. I found out when we were still in Italy, but I didn’t tell the police. He convinced me not to.”
“I don’t get it,” Emily says. “How did that make you vulnerable to blackmail?”
“Because you were an accessory after the fact,” Oliver says.
“Yes.”
“You should stop talking, Eleanor,” Guy says. “Wouldn’t want to incriminate yourself any further.”
“It doesn’t matter, Guy.”
“That’s an odd thing to say in your position.”
“It’s past the statute of limitations. Even if I confessed to Inspector Tucci, they can’t do anything about it now. And that’s why Connor’s theory doesn’t make sense. I don’t have to submit to his blackmail anymore. That’s why I was okay killing him off in the series. He doesn’t have a hold over me.”
“When did you realize this?” Oliver asks.
“A couple of months ago. I was doing some research for the book and I stumbled across it. That’s when I knew I could write him out of the series.”
“But you came on this tour.”
“The publisher insisted. And I thought, why not? One last tour. It wasn’t going to, well…”
“Kill you?” Oliver says.
“Yes.”
“But that means…” Allison says, “that it’s someone else here. Doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Shek is dead. He was poisoned…” I stop. Should I tell them what Inspector Tucci told me about him being the intended victim? He didn’t tell me to keep it to myself. Fuck it. “Shek wasn’t poisoned with the Champagne.”
“What?” Harper says. “He wasn’t?”
“No, apparently it was some … I don’t know what you call it. This needle attached to this device that could be concealed in your hand. All someone had to do was tap him with it.”
“But he started to choke right after he drank it.”
“That could be a coincidence. We don’t even know when he was poisoned. It might’ve been something that was slow-acting.”
“Inspector Tucci told you this?” Oliver asks.
“About the device, yes.”
“Do they know when it was administered?”
“He didn’t say. I assume they won’t have the lab results back till later.”
“But how did he know, then?”
“They found the device.”
“Where?”
I look at the floor. “In my backpack.”
“So that’s why…” Oliver says.
“Yes.”
“Anyone could have planted it there,” Isabella says.
“That’s what I said.”
“I don’t think so.” Harper stands and walks to the easel. She turns the paper over and picks up a marker. She draws the hull of a boat and then starts filling it in with X’s.
x—Captain Marcox—Eleanor x—Connor x—Shekx—Harper x—Isabella x—Oliverx—Emily x—Guy x—Allisonx—Sylvie
“What are you doing?” Guy asks.
“Trying to figure out who could’ve poisoned Shek.”
“Inspector Tucci told us not to do this,” Allison says.
“So,” Harper says, ignoring her. “Connor, Isabella, and Oliver all had access.”
“But it could’ve happened at any time,” I point out.
“Not any time, surely,” Connor says.
“Any time since we got on the boat after Capri,” I say.
“You don’t know that.”
“You should hope that’s the case, or it’s you in the hot seat.”
Connor’s eyes narrow. “Why would I want to kill Shek?”
“Because he was blackmailing you…”
We stare at each other, the energy in the room charged.
“I think Inspector Tucci was right,” Allison says. “This is dangerous. Us throwing accusations around. Someone’s going to stumble on the truth, and then what?”
“Maybe that’s what Shek did…” Harper says.
“That gossip?” Connor says. “He’d never keep it to himself.”
“I think Allison’s right, El,” Harper says, putting down the marker. “It’s late. We should eat and then go to bed.”
“Separate?” Emily asks. “That’s always when bad things happen in situations like this.”
“Shek died when we were together,” I say. “I’ll take my chances.”
“I don’t leave anything to chance,” Guy says. He turns and reaches into the bookshelf, moving a book aside and pulling out a gun.
“What the…” Harper says.
“I didn’t want it confiscated in the search.”
“So we have a murderer among us, and you have a gun,” Connor says.
“I’m not the killer.”
“Why not?” Allison says. “You have just as much reason to kill Connor as anyone. And you must’ve been in on those robberies. You were a team back then. Thick as thieves.”
“This is the first time I’m hearing about it.”
“I find that extremely hard to believe.”
“Enough,” Harper says. “Enough. Guy’s had the gun the entire time and he hasn’t done anything with it. Let’s just stick to the plan and get out of this room. Okay?”
She looks around at all of us, waiting for our buy-in. Eventually, it’s Isabella who comes to our rescue.
“Is the dining room still open?” Isabella asks. “I’m starving.”