I cried out, and that was a good thing, because the arm that was cutting off my air moved so he could slap a hand over my mouth.
“Do you want to be the second one to die?” the man said in my ear. I didn’t recognize the voice. It was low and rough with an affected accent, like somebody doing a Batman imitation. It could’ve been anybody.
“Mmm-mm!” I hoped he knew I was saying “no.”
“Then quit nosing around where you’re not wanted.” He pushed me harder against the railing as he held me up, and my feet actually left the ground, kicking, trying to find purchase on the guy. I grabbed for the railing and missed. The ground seemed to spin far below me. The tenth floor felt even higher when it looked like you were about to fly off it.
Then he dropped me to the floor and clocked me on the back of the head.
I crumpled to the concrete, covering my head, terrified, anticipating the next blow.
But in a few seconds, I realized he was gone. A door opened and closed. I looked up, shaking and nauseous. Which door? I grabbed a vertical on the railing, yanked myself to my feet and opened the door I’d come through. The hall was quiet. Could he have gone to a room? Grabbed an elevator?
I let the door close again and turned to the stairway door and pushed it. That’s the sound I heard. This was the door he took, I was sure of it. I paused and listened. Were those footsteps? Maybe, deep in the tower. The sound was soft and echoey. Was it my attacker or someone else? I decided heading down those stairs wasn’t such a great idea. I wasn’t completely stupid.
I still wore my messenger bag, cross-body like I usually did. I had a cocktail knife in there. I had a ton of crap in there. But the chances of me finding anything quickly that I could’ve used as a weapon were zero to none. It would’ve taken me ten minutes, minimum. Maybe I needed to start carrying around my own giant muddler.
At least my phone buzzed and lit up like a beacon amid all my junk when it rang. And it was ringing. I eased inside the tenth-floor foyer before digging it out. I didn’t want to be near a balcony right now.
I saw the caller ID and answered. “Neil?”
“I’m glad you’re still talking to me. I wanted to make sure you made it home OK.”
A little sob escaped me. “Somebody attacked me.”
There was half a second’s silence, and then he said, “I’ll be right there.”
The call ended, and my first thought was, That’s pretty dumb. How did he know where I was? I could’ve been tied to the drawbridge by terrorists, for all he knew.
But it really didn’t matter. When I saw him coming down the hallway at a run, I burst into tears and ran at him, too.
He looked shocked when I fell into his arms. “Why are you here?”
“I was getting my breath on that little balcony there by the stairs and someone came up behind me and grabbed me and told me I could die too,” I said between sniffles.
“And you wonder why I worry about you,” he whispered, but he held me tight. “Do you want to come to my room?”
“No!” I didn’t want to repeat our earlier scene and get stuck in an infinity loop of sexual frustration and scary attacks. “But you can walk me back to my room.”
“I can take you to a doctor.”
“No.” I disentangled myself, a little embarrassed now, and we walked to the elevator. He pressed the button, looking around as we waited, ready to head off any bad guys. I noticed he’d changed into jeans and a black Death & Co. T-shirt. One of the bars he’d visited during his tour of New York with Val, no doubt. On the back it showed a reclining skeleton holding a cocktail and said “Time Flies.”
That could’ve been me. A drunk skeleton. Though with my diet, I had a long way to go before I became a skeleton.
“We should call the cops,” Neil said.
“Please don’t.”
“Your attacker could attack someone else.”
I fumed for a second. “I know. But I’m tired. I don’t want to deal with it. I’ll tell Barclay’s dad tomorrow, OK?”
“I’ll text him and let him know.”
My reply was dry. “Great.”
Once we were in the elevator, he turned to me. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. Maybe a little bruised. He pushed me around and hit me on the head. Not as hard as he wanted to, I’m guessing.”
Neil looked furious. “Who was it? Can you describe him?”
“My back was to him the whole time, and he had this fake growly voice. He grabbed me. He could’ve dumped me right over the balcony if he wanted to. I guess he just wanted to threaten me.”
“Exactly what did he say?”
“He said, ‘Do you want to be the second one to die?’”
“Holy hell. Was it Winston?”
My eyebrows lifted. “I don’t think so. I looked in the hallway right away. I assume he would’ve run back to his room. And it didn’t sound like him. Whoever it was smelled like rum.”
“That narrows it down,” he quipped.
“My thoughts exactly.” The elevator doors opened, and we stepped out and walked toward the lobby and the passage to the other buildings. The lobby bar still had a few hardy drinkers, but it was mostly empty now.
“I guess it could’ve been any of the people we talked to today,” Neil said. “No accent?”
I thought back. “Like I said, it was a fake voice. It did almost sound like someone trying to do an accent. Like when actors who aren’t American try to do an American accent.”
“Could it have been English? Nigel Dashwood? Mark Fairman?” He smiled. “Alastair Markham?”
I laughed. “Thank you for that. Alastair couldn’t knock down a feather pillow, and besides, he has no motive that we know about. Because I’m assuming that whoever did this also killed Fizz Martin.”
Exiting the lobby, we went through the doors that led to the second-story outdoor hallway and began the long trek to my room.
“Could it have been Val?” Neil sounded troubled by his own question.
“I really thought it was a man. But she’s tall enough. However, I don’t think she was in any condition to play ninja.”
“True. I don’t think she attacked you, either. It’s not like her. But I’m still wondering about the link to Fizz. I guess you could have been attacked by someone else—not the murderer, I mean—for some reason we haven’t divined yet.”
“Now there’s a pleasant thought. Not one but two homicidal rum-swilling maniacs at Hookahakaha.”
We turned the corner to my wing of the building. Neil put an arm around my shoulders. I knew I couldn’t read anything into that, but I was grateful for the comfort just the same.
“Do you want me to stay with you?” he asked.
I rolled my eyes. “I have an innocent roommate who would think it was weird.”
“It would be innocent.”
“Ha,” I said. “Not if I can help it.” Neil looked amused, which was not necessarily the reaction I wanted. “And I don’t want her complaining to her brother about me. Plus, Astra can protect me.”
“I’m sure she’d happily intercept any threatening hamburgers.”
“She’s a good dog!” I objected, but his humor made me smile. Made me feel a little better.
We stopped outside my door. This was like that awkward moment after a terrible prom date. Was a kiss appropriate? Or would he file a restraining order?
After a moment, he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, keeping his lips there for an extra second so I could be sure I didn’t imagine it. “Call me if you need anything. And I’ll see you in the morning.”
I just stood there for a moment, feeling the burning impression of his lips on my skin. He nodded at the door. I nodded at him, pulled my key card out of the one inside pocket in my bag (I’m not a total disaster), and let myself in the room.
It was dark, and for a second, I had anxiety again, wondering what waited for me there. But then I registered the strangely comforting sound of Gina snoring. And a furry shape bounded out of the darkness and put her paws up on my legs.
“Oh, Astra,” I whispered, picking up and hugging my dog. She licked my face. “Let’s get some sleep, baby. At least I know you’ll go to bed with me.”
The Wicker Wharf kitchen was even busier Friday morning, if that was possible. The pool bars would open at noon, plus there were cocktail seminars in the afternoon and room parties tonight. The only event the volunteers and bartenders didn’t have to prep drinks for was the late-afternoon mermaid show at the Wreck Bar over on the beach.
There were more staggering numbers on the white board, and today the work seemed to center around bananas, strawberries and syrup-making—new batches of falernum and orgeat. Plus limes. Always limes.
Barclay, Luke and Melody showed up just after I did and took on halving, slicing and squeezing. Barclay seemed totally unfazed by the squeezer of death, so he cheerfully risked his digits.
Neil beat us all there, of course. He was working on sugar syrup and large batches of tea to use in the Planter’s Punch we’d serve later at our room party, one of several hosted by select bars and teams in rooms that faced the courtyard.
I got stuck with trimming mint for garnishes, making sure we had manageable stems with the bottoms snipped and the lower leaves removed. Later, just before garnishing the drinks, we’d spank it—smack the mint to bring out the aroma of its oil, gently enough so we didn’t break it and release the plant’s bitter chlorophyll.
There wasn’t a lot of chatter. Barclay, Luke and Melody talked a little about their adventure at a bar in Miami Beach the previous night, but I sensed a hangover hovering above them like a cloud. And it’s not like Neil and I could go into detail about our evening, given all the ears around us.
Neil asked me how I was doing, and I repressed a whole lot of feelings and muscle aches and just said “fine.”
We were ticking along when Val showed up, looking only slightly the worse for wear, her pink hair mostly hiding her weary eyes. She checked with her second-in-command, who brought her a hot mug of Earl Grey, and they spent a few minutes going through a thick, color-coded binder. And then she started working the room, commenting on technique, teasing a couple of guys about the night before and checking out everyone’s ink. She came to us last.
“Neil.”
“Val,” he said.
“Pepper,” she followed up.
“How you feeling?” I asked.
She scowled like I’d committed the most egregious sin. She leaned in close to me and spoke so softly, only Neil and I could hear her.
“I’m feeling nothing.” Her eyes burned into mine. “I feel nothing, OK? And no one gets to think about me feeling anything. What I said last night? Forget it. I mean I never want to hear mention of it ever again. Anywhere. From anyone. You got me?”
This was scary Val. Not boisterous, drunk Val.
I tried to sound brave. “Cool.”
Her eyes narrowed at me. She glanced at Neil, who just smiled and nodded sympathetically. Sympathy from Neil clearly wasn’t as offensive as me asking how she felt.
She eyeballed me again, then walked away to yell at someone who was chattering while holding the cooler door open.
I glanced at Neil, who seemed amused. I wasn’t. Val looked murderous enough talking to me. What if she’d gotten Fizz alone for five minutes at Pau Hana?