“What does that mean?” I ask as a frisson of anxiety works its way up my spine.
I wish he’d stop doling out tidbits of information like he’s narrating one of the Vacation Mysteries.
It’s so annoying when an author does that, right?
“Care to explain, Connor?” Harper says.
“It has to be someone in Italy. With what happened at the Vatican, and then again today.”
“But I didn’t know the woman who took my purse,” Harper says.
Connor makes an annoyed gesture with his hand. “She’s working with someone else, clearly.”
“Someone on this tour?” I ask. “Who wants you dead?”
“Isn’t that what we’ve been talking about?”
Harper and I share a glance.
It is what we were talking about before he came up behind us, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t hear that part of the conversation.
At least I hope not.
I might be impulsive, but I know better than to drop that information on Connor without any prior warning. I’m going to have to find a way to cushion the blow.
Hmmm. I never realized how many common expressions are related to death and violence until I started thinking about killing Connor.
Does everyone have murder on their mind?
“You think it’s one of the BookFace Ladies?” I ask. “I could see Crazy Cathy doing something like that.”
“I doubt it.”
“Because they all love you.”
“Because how would they have gotten on the tour?” he counters.
“They could’ve entered the contest,” Harper says. “It would be a good cover.”
“But they couldn’t guarantee they’d get in,” I say. “Depending on that would be a risk. Plus, then why try to kill him in California?”
Harper shrugs. “That didn’t work. Plan B, I guess.”
“But that was only a couple of weeks ago. Not enough time to get on this tour unless—”
“Can you two stop talking about me like I’m not here?”
“You interrupted a good point,” I say.
“What?”
“That you’re right.”
“How’s that?”
“If they wanted to kill you in Italy, or if that was their plan B, then they’d have to know in advance that they were going to be on it. When was the tour announced again, Harper?”
“Six months ago.”
“And the BookFace contest?”
“Three months, but the winners were only announced last week. You had to guarantee you’d be available on the tour dates to enter. A couple of the winners couldn’t make it, so they went to the alternates.”
“Is that how Cathy got on?”
“Marta never called me back.”
“That’s annoying.” I think it over. “So, yeah, Connor, you’re right. I mean, if someone is attempting to murder you, which I still think is unlikely, then they’re probably one of us.”
He gives me a satisfied smile. “As I was trying to tell you—”
“Connor! There you are, darling.” A young woman floats up and plants a kiss on Connor’s cheek. “Am I late?”
He wipes the worried look off his face and kisses her back. “Not at all, not at all. We were just finishing up. Let’s go in, shall we?”
He takes her by the hand and leads her into the restaurant, leaving Harper and me momentarily speechless.
“Did he … bring a date to a dinner with someone he thinks is trying to kill him?” I say.
“Looks like.”
“That man.”
“He has flair, you have to give him that.”
Let me set the scene.
The restaurant is a delight—old stone walls, high ceilings, and a glass-enclosed kitchen where you can watch the chefs at work. The tuxedoed maître d’ takes us to a private room on the backside of the rectangular kitchen, where there’s a long table laid with what looks like enough courses to serve a king.
There are only two empty seats, and one of them is next to Connor. I take that one so Harper doesn’t have to, and she sits to my right. Oliver is across from me, in between a woman who must be Emily on his right and Allison on his left. Shek53 is at the head of the table because Shek thinks he’s the king, and Guy’s at the other end.
Connor’s guest is on the other side of him—a Canadian girl whom he introduces as Isabella Joseph. He claims, under cross-examination from Shek, to have met her on the plane over here.
I don’t know why I say “claim.” It’s entirely believable that he’d meet someone on an airplane and invite her to join him for dinner with a bunch of strangers.
As Alanis Morissette says, I oughta know.
Isabella is twenty-five,54 and this is her first trip to Europe. First trip anywhere, she says, then giggles. She’s gorgeous, with thick red hair and startling green eyes.55 Her dress is short and sparkly, more for clubbing than this staid dinner.
Though maybe it’s not so staid after all.
If Connor’s right, one of us is plotting to kill him. Maybe tonight.
I look around at everyone’s faces—Oliver and Allison, Shek and Guy,56 Emily and Harper. Does someone here want Connor dead?
I mean, obviously, yes. Like in an Agatha Christie novel, we all have our motives. But it’s a long way from motive to action. Take me, for example. I’ve wanted to off Connor for months57 and I’ve barely put pen to paper,58 let alone come up with an elaborate plan to do so.
And why in Italy? Why the first attempt in California? What’s the motive? Some financial scheme, he’d said, which could exclude a couple of people.
Guy, Allison, and I have financial ties to him, but the rest of them?
No way Oliver would ever give him money, and I can’t see Shek doing it either, not after that whole fight they had when Connor was supposed to act as his consultant on some script Shek had written.59
Emily doesn’t even know Connor, so that’s her out. He did something to Harper—something I still have to ferret out—but Harper isn’t violent. She’s too placid, if anything.
Which leaves … me.
And what kind of writer would I be if all the clues led to me being the most likely suspect?
The waiter arrives and takes our drink orders, then explains that they’ll be taking us through an entire Italian menu—primi, secondi, etc.—but with their takes on it.
“Just bring me some carabinieri,” Shek says, already into his second glass of house red. The top of his half-bald head is shining under the overhead lighting, and his cheeks are tinged with red. He got here “directly on time,” he announced when Harper and I arrived, then looked pointedly at his watch.
“He means carbonara,” I say to the waiter, not sure why I’m explaining for him.
Shek has one of those bellies that protrudes from his body like he’s pregnant, so I think he knows what kind of pasta he likes.
“He thinks it’s funny.”
“Uh, yes, miss. We don’t have that on the menu…”
“What? Your fancy chef can’t whip some up? For the amount we’re paying…”
I hold up a hand. “You’re not paying for anything, Shek. Just go with the flow, all right? It’ll be a cultural experience.”
His face flushes a darker red, and he mumbles something about “not needing any cultural experiences, thank you very much.”
I tell the waiter he can bring things out at whatever speed they planned, and to do the full wine pairing as well. If I have to sit through this three-hour meal, then I might as well get good and shit-faced.
Connor orders a Negroni, his signature drink. He told me once, in a vulnerable moment, that wine makes him feel jittery, and he can’t drink anything in the Champagne family at all.
How sad.
“How many courses is it?” Emily asks, sipping from her glass of Prosecco. She speaks with the flat accent of a Manhattanite, and she’s wearing a black cocktail dress that shows off the cut of her collarbones. She’s in her late twenties, very thin, and her thick black hair is in a blunt cut at her shoulders. She looks more like a model than an author.60
At least my kind of author. No wonder everyone always thinks Harper’s the famous one.
“Not sure,” I say. “Ten, maybe?”
“Ten!”
“They’ll be small. Don’t eat it if you don’t want to.”
She turns up her nose, and I feel a twinge of sympathy. You can only be that thin through genetics or starving yourself, and I’m guessing she’s chosen the second.
“Congratulations on all of your success,” I say, raising my glass. I catch a startled look from Oliver,61 who’s been quiet since I sat down. “Here’s to you and your book. May you stay on the list for as long as possible.”
“Oh … um, thank you. Yeah, it’s been a whirlwind. But you know what that’s like.” She looks at Connor as she says this, but he’s busy talking to the Canadian girl. Isabel? No, Isabella.
“You should enjoy it while it lasts. It can all go away in an instant.”
Emily puts her glass down carefully. “That won’t happen to me.”
“That so?”
“I won’t let it.”
“Well, good luck with that.” I look at Oliver now. He’s wearing a dark blue suit without a tie, and his white dress shirt brings out the tan on his face. He’s always cleaned up nicely.62
“Have you read her book, Oli? You might like it.”
“Oh?” The side of his mouth is twitching.
“Isn’t When in Rome your favorite book of mine?”
“Ohmygod! You wrote When in Rome?” Isabella says. “My mom loves that book.”
“Thanks.”
“No, like, seriously. She’s ob-sessed. She has all your first editions in this little nook … Connor! Why didn’t you tell me who Eleanor was.” She gives him a playful whack on his shoulder. “My mom is going to freak when I tell her I met you. Can we get a selfie?”
Before I can say anything, she’s up and out of her chair, pressing her face next to mine. She smells like hotel soap and an aftershave I’d recognize anywhere—Connor’s.
She holds the phone out from us, raises it, and snaps a picture. She checks it on her phone. “Perfect. I’m texting her now. She’s going to die.”
See what I mean about the violent metaphors?
Once you notice, they’re everywhere.
“I can sign something for you if you like. For her.”
“Maybe at the signing in a couple of days?” She plops down in her seat as she sends a text.
“You’re coming to that?”
“Connor invited me.”
“You didn’t have your own plans?”
“She did,” Connor says. “But she changed them.”
I try to think of something cutting to say but come up empty.
Instead, I angle my body away from him so his arm doesn’t brush against mine, a move that doesn’t get past Oliver. I look away from him and go back to perusing my suspects.
Harper’s talking to Guy about the Colosseum, and Emily’s staring at me over the rim of her glass, trying to make out what I meant by the When in Rome comment, I assume.
Did she honestly think I wouldn’t notice that she stole my plot?
I mean, I didn’t, but I would’ve if I’d ever read her book.
I drain my glass as the waiters enter with the first course.
“What’s this?” Shek asks, poking his fork around the dish with a look of disgust.
“Grilled octopus and artichokes, sir, with olive oil.”
“Oh, no,” Isabella says. “We can’t eat octopus.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because they’re so intelligent,” Emily says. “It’s like eating a human.”
“Surely not exactly like eating a human,” Oliver says, and Allison snorts into her glass. Unlike most of the people at this table, she seems to be thoroughly enjoying herself.
I wonder how she does it.
No way I’d spend time with someone who slept with my husband, no matter how innocently.
Emily pushes her plate away. “Well, I won’t eat it.”
“Wait!” Isabella says, pointing her fork at Emily. “I know who you are! You’re Emily. @EmilyBooks!”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Your book is, like, everywhere.”
“Thank you.”
“I haven’t read it yet. But I will.”
Emily gives her a tight smile. “Okay.”
“I’m not much of a reader. But I do want to write a book one day.”
Oliver catches my eye. “Ten minutes,” he says.
“A land speed record.”
“What does that mean?” Emily says.
“It’s just this game we, uh, used to play. How long it takes before someone tells us that they’ve always wanted to write a book.”
“She didn’t say it to you, though,” Emily says. “She said it to me.”
“Now, now, Emily,” Connor says. “Play nice.”
A look passes between them, and Emily narrows her eyes, then turns her head.
Holy shit.
They have met before.
The plot thickens.63
“My God, Connor,” Allison says with a laugh. “Is there any female at this table you haven’t slept with?”
He looks at each of us slowly as if he’s considering it. “No.”
“Is this necessary?” Oliver says.
“I don’t see what the problem is. Allison asked a question, and I answered it.”
“Can’t we just enjoy the meal?” I say.
“This?” Shek says pointing to his food. “It isn’t even pasta.”
I let out a long sigh, then stand up and tap my glass until I have everyone’s attention, like I’m about to make a toast at a wedding. “What’s wrong with all of you? We’re in an amazing restaurant, and the kitchen staff is staring at us because we’re complaining like a bunch of babies. Do you know how many people would kill to be in our position?”
Boom! There it is again.
I clear my throat. “If you don’t want to be here, go home. If you stay, then enjoy the meal, drink the wine, and try to make the best of it.”
There’s an odd silence after I finish speaking. I can hear the kitchen behind me, the clink of metal, the hiss of liquid as it hits a hot pan. Then Oliver raises his hands and starts to clap.
A small smattering of applause follows. Harper, Isabella, and, surprisingly, Guy join in. Then it stops, and I sit down feeling foolish.
But my little speech seems to have had the desired effect. Everyone finishes their first course, while Guy regales us with a story about an old case involving a widow who killed her husband for the insurance money.
We’re almost having fun when there’s a commotion just outside the room.
“But I’m invited!” a voice that I think I recognize says.
“Signora, the table is full. If you will just come with me.”
“No, I won’t…” There’s the sound of a scuffle, and then Cathy stumbles into the room. She’s lost the BookFace T-shirt and is wearing a black cocktail dress. She almost looks like she belongs at the table except for the wild look in her eyes. “You didn’t wait for me,” she says accusingly.
Harper stands quickly and walks to her side. “Cathy, I’m sorry, but this portion of the tour is only for the authors.”
“You’re not an author.”
Harper flinches, and I stand. “She most certainly is.”
Cathy barely looks at me as she scans the room. Her eyes stop on Isabella. “Who is she?”
“She’s my guest,” Connor says.
“She’s in my seat.”
“No,” I say, my voice more assured than I feel. “Cathy, we’ve talked about this. You know you have to stay at least a hundred feet away from me.”
Her eyes swing back to me. She has this discomfiting way of staring at you without blinking. “But I was invited. I can show you the email.”
Oliver stands and walks to her. “Why don’t we find you a table in the restaurant? Here, come with me.”
He does it so neatly that she’s out of the room as quickly as she entered. The waiter apologizes for the disturbance and fills our glasses with the next wine pairing. Oliver comes back a few minutes later and says that she’s been set up at a quiet table in the front of the restaurant.
“How did she know we’d be here?” Connor asks.
“She must’ve gotten a copy of the itinerary somehow,” Harper says.
“From your purse?” Connor says with a hint of alarm.
“Was she the one who mugged you?” Allison asks.
“No,” Harper says firmly. “It wasn’t her. Maybe the publicist screwed up. I’ve been trying to reach her … I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Aren’t there supposed to be more courses?” Shek asks, unconcerned. The tip of his nose is red, and I’m glad it’s not my job to make sure he gets back to the hotel tonight.
I signal to the waiter, and in a moment, he and a colleague bring out a delicate piece of fish in a white wine emulsion with fried capers and lemon. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted, and I try to savor it despite the company and the interruption from Cathy. Tomorrow, I’m going to make sure she’s off this tour, but for now, I take a sip of the excellent wine, then put the last piece of fish on my fork.
I want to relish this moment of peace, the delicate flavors, the fine wine.
That’s my mistake, though, letting my guard down.
Because it’s only an instant later that I stop being able to breathe.
And now, for the first time on this trip, I’m truly scared.