Page 42 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

“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.