Page 5

Chapter Five

Unfortunately for Kate, there were any number of guests that weekend who could have leveled such an accusation her way, and she wasn’t keen on confronting any of them. But there was only one person in the world who called her exclusively by her last name, claiming it was far superior to boring old Kate, and Kate’s mouth fell open in shock as a compact white woman with dark brown hair dyed a deep red at the ends appeared from a side room.

“Marla!” Kate said. “I didn’t know you’d be here. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“Hello to you, too,” Marla said wryly. “Nice to see your communication skills haven’t improved any since college.”

Kate met Marla Lynch her sophomore year at University of Washington, when Kate had been floundering as a business undergrad with secret dreams of being a writer. Marla was the queen bee of the UW literary scene, dubbing their group the Nights of the Round Table after the central fixture in their meeting space, and all Kate had ever wanted was to be in her orbit.

“Sorry,” Kate said sheepishly. “I’m just surprised! I mean, I guess you’re technically closer to Hempstead Island than I am now, since you moved to the artists’ colony on Orca. I just didn’t think weddings, or Spencer, or Spencer’s weddings were your thing.”

“And here I was thinking public appearances were no longer your thing,” Marla said in her smoky voice.

Kate winced at the implied accusation. After Spencer broke things off with her and her life went to hell, Kate had sort of gone MIA on everyone, Marla included. She’d left Marla in the lurch on more than one occasion and, based on their last text exchange, Kate wasn’t sure their friendship was on the most solid ground. “I guess people are still… mad that I missed the alumni awards?”

“If by people you mean me, who had to drag her happy ass on a three-hour ferry ride back to Seattle to present the distinguished alumni award to you, only to receive a series of increasingly deranged texts from you about having an obviously fake case of mono.”

“It was real!” Kate said, far too defensively. “I had a doctor’s note and everything.”

“Mono is for filthy middle schoolers with loose lips, not hermits whose lips haven’t touched more than a takeout order of eggrolls in the last year. But I convinced the dean to pick up the tab for dinner that night, so no lingering bad vibes, babe.” Marla’s lips quirked into a smile, turning her attention toward Jake. “Besides, I’m just happy to have some stimulating company this weekend. Is this Jake the Hotstralian, finally in the flesh?”

Jake returned her smile, holding out a hand. “And you must be the Marla Lynch I’ve heard so much about over the years. Seattle’s Rising Literary Star, eh?”

Marla was the first among the Nights of the Round Table to get an agent and a book contract, and she was also the reason Kate met Spencer that fateful evening during a Round Table discussion. Marla had just signed with Spencer, and Kate had been so in awe of meeting a real, honest-to-goodness publishing professional, that she’d basically begged Spencer to let her buy him a coffee. That coffee had eventually turned into her first gig as a ghostwriter on a Simon Says project.

Marla made a face. “Don’t believe everything you read. It’s been a lot less literary output and a lot more boozy input lately. You know us artists. So, you and Kate, huh? After all these years she finally worked up the ovaries to make it happen?”

“That’s not… we aren’t here…” Kate paused. Would it cause problems for Jake if she outed him now as not her plus-one? Kate tried to swallow, her throat suddenly sticky and dry. “Did I hear there were cocktails?”

Marla snorted. “Come on, Valentine, let’s get you nice and liquored up, let all your little secrets come out like they do after a couple Jolly Rancher martinis.”

“Oh god, don’t bring those up,” Kate groaned as she followed Marla down the side hallway where she’d first appeared. “I still can’t smell watermelon candy without dry heaving.”

Marla navigated the halls like an expert, already familiar with the layout that still made Kate anxious if she tried to think about how to get back to the main entryway. She’d never imagined a single house could have so many twists and turns, or rooms, or cabinets full of old toddler-size dressing gowns with suspicious stains on them. But when Marla pushed open a door with a flourish and a little “ta-da,” Kate had to hand it to her. She’d hit the mother lode.

“Are these wine crates?” Kate asked as Marla pulled a bottle from a crate.

“Don’t get too excited,” Marla said as she poured. “It tastes awful, but it drinks the same as any alcohol. I was trying to find the good stuff, but apparently they keep it under lock and key somewhere. I’ll find a way. I always do. Like the time we drank Professor Gould’s Glenlivet.” Marla lifted her glass. “To Rebecca Hempstead and her cheap-ass booze.”

“Do you know Rebecca Hempstead?” Kate asked, thinking of the letter.

“I know of her,” Marla said, waving it away like it was no big deal to know one of the richest women in the country. “Everybody in the San Juans does. She donates to the commune, along with a billion other nonprofits. She throws her money around so she can keep everybody in her stranglehold. But I’m not interested in the evils of inherited wealth, I want to know more about the infamous Jake Hawkins. We used to take bets that you were an AI-generated Ken doll that Kate invented since you never came out when we invited you.”

“I didn’t realize I was being invited places,” Jake said, giving Kate an arch look.

Kate’s face warmed. “It was a work thing! I was keeping it professional!”

She hadn’t been keeping it professional at all, and she had absolutely kept Jake away on purpose, though she’d rather guzzle all the cheap wine in the room than admit it. Marla had always belonged more to the “free love, nobody belongs to anybody” camp of dating, courtesy of her hippie artist dad. She didn’t let things like school policy stop her from sleeping with her professors, and she didn’t let a little thing like Kate’s long-standing crush on a guy get in the way of hooking up with him after a rowdy session of the Nights of the Round Table. So yeah, maybe she kept Jake to herself a little.

“That’s Kate, the pinnacle of professionalism,” Jake said. Something about the way he said it made Kate feel like she’d done something wrong.

Marla drained her glass. “But this weekend isn’t about boring professionalism or lab room sex or Kate’s extremely fake case of mono.”

“I had a doctor’s note!” Kate protested weakly.

Marla filled their glasses, raising hers. “This weekend is about getting back on track. Eye on the prize. Onward and upward. And the free booze, obviously. To the weekend!”

“To the weekend,” Kate echoed, sipping her wine. She could certainly cheers to getting back on track. She’d burned so many bridges the last few months—cancelling book tours at the last minute, asking for deadline extension after deadline extension, ignoring even her own mother’s calls. She’d thought she had torpedoed her friendship with Marla along with the rest of her life, but maybe this was a chance to piece together her shattered existence, starting with the two people in this room.

“Here you are!” Abraham said, looking slightly put out as he appeared on the threshold. He glared in disappointment at Marla and the open bottle on the table. “I am afraid those are for the rehearsal dinner, and you are not meant to be in here, Ms. Lynch.”

“Just… inspecting the goods,” Marla said, her lips quirking as she polished off her wine.

“You two, with me!” Abraham announced, turning on his heel and marching out.

“Guess that’s our cue,” Kate said reluctantly, setting her glass down. “We’ll see you at the rehearsal dinner, though, right? We can sit together.”

“Mmm, seating for all meals has been carefully arranged by our illustrious hosts, thank you,” Abraham said, shooing them along.

“Don’t worry, Valentine, you know I always find you,” Marla said, giving her a wink as she shamelessly cracked open a new bottle of wine. “Maybe we’ll even find the good booze!”

“We will!” Kate promised as Abraham dragged her away, her spirits already buoyed by their conversation.

“This is Jean-Pierre,” Abraham said as they reached the main hall and an impeccably dressed young man joined them, his curly hair arranged in an artful bouffant. “Jean-Pierre, this is Ms. Valentine.”

He made meaningful eyes at his assistant, whose only response was a thorough, almost insulting perusal of Kate’s full figure.

“Oui?” he said, drawing it out. “Comme c’est intéressant.”

“Indeed,” said Abraham, his brows going up and down. “Miss Kennedy selected your room especially for you, aren’t you so lucky? See them to her room, please. I need to check with Henri about the hors d’oeuvres.”

“Tell him not to touch my bruschetta,” Jean-Pierre said. “He knows what I’ll do to him. Upstairs, you two. Quickly, if you would.”

Jean-Pierre moved awfully fast, and Jake, with his perfectly taut glutes and calves, was right behind him, leaving Kate to bump along with her rolling case in tow. They’d disappeared by the time she reached the second floor, and she stood helplessly on the lush wine-dark carpet looking in either direction for them. Of course, in this house she was more likely to run into the twins from The Shining instead.

“Hello?” she called. “Jean-Pierre? Jake?”

Kate wandered down one stretch of hallway, passing a room with a plaque that read Zebra Suite and wondering how literally they meant it. Probably very literally. The hallway was deathly quiet, which was why the low hum of conversation from a room several doors down caught her attention and drew her forward. Maybe it was Jean-Pierre and Jake. She moved gratefully toward it.

“She’s pushed me to this, Richie,” said a tightly controlled voice. “If she torpedoes this deal, I’m fucked. You understand that, don’t you? Tell her she needs to listen to me. Otherwise, she won’t like what happens next.”

Kate halted, body tilted toward the door, ear cocked at a prime listening angle. The voice was definitely not Jake, and lacked Jean-Pierre’s accent, which meant this was a private conversation among strangers. A normal person, respectful of boundaries, would quietly move on. But this was another side effect of writing murder mysteries—she assumed all tense, private conversations were meant to be eavesdropped on. Like the bathroom conversation Loretta “overheard” in A Dark and Stormy Murder , when Loretta was trapped in the bar during a hurricane with several patrons, one of whom ended up strangled in the supply closet.

“If there’s anything she doesn’t respond well to, it’s threats,” said a much younger voice, presumably the Richie in question. “You’re pushing her too hard, Steven. Give her time.”

“Time is the one thing I haven’t got!” said Steven, his tightly controlled voice losing some of its edge. “It has to be this weekend. Rico is on my back. This is my last chance.”

“Fine, fine,” said Richie, sounding bored. “Can we go to the party now? Gomez Addams down there was real stingy with the pour.”

“There’s still the rehearsal dinner to get through,” said Steven.

“Such a helicopter daddy,” Richie said, but his tone was playful. Teasing.

“Don’t let your aunt catch you,” said Steven.

“My aunt is a prude,” said Richie, his tone dancing between bored and playful. “You’re not a prude, are you, Stevie?”

“Talk to her, Richie, I mean it,” said Steven, his voice stiff. “Before it’s too late.”