Page 43

We were anchored with the bow facing the island, which meant the view from the stern was of the open sea, punctuated by the jagged rock we’d stared at while we waited for news of Tyson—a stunning vista, if it were not for the morbid memory it now evoked.

The table was situated at the end of the game deck, open to the tranquil evening, where the sun had melted beyond the horizon, leaving the sky awash in shades of pink and purple.

A light breeze blew off the calm water, flickering the candles and fluttering the petals of the white hibiscus in low vases.

Rémy was alone at the table facing the view, playing some sort of game on his phone.

He quit the game and gave me a brief smile as I approached, and my eyes caught on the glowing image on his lock screen: two pugs, one with a pink bow tie, the other with a blue one.

A strange sense of déjà vu came over me as I stared at the image.

“Cute dogs,” I commented, sliding into the banquette across from him. “I love pugs. I had one growing up.”

“Oh,” he said, staring at the picture. “Oui. Merci. Mister and Sister. Faces only a mother loves.” He laughed. “But of course, I am the mother.”

“They have English names?” I asked.

“My partner, he is English,” Rémy said.

“Ah. Well, they’re adorable,” I said, racking my brain for why the hell I would know Rémy’s dogs when I hadn’t even known he had dogs until thirty seconds ago.

Suddenly it struck me. The dog shit. The pile I’d so unexpectedly stepped in on the helipad what felt like years ago but was actually mere hours ago. The woman who’d helped me had said there were two pugs here earlier.

It seemed like a stretch, but was so coincidental that I had to wonder whether the pugs that were here this morning could possibly be Rémy’s.

But what on earth would they be doing on the boat?

Could his partner be the person whose name Tyson had refused to divulge? That too seemed awfully coincidental.

I glanced at Rémy, but before I could ask him a follow-up question, Samira collapsed next to me on the banquette.

She was no longer crying, but clutching the stem of her martini with a steel grip, as though it was all that was keeping her afloat.

I noticed that her hand shook as she brought the glass to her lips and drained it. She looked so fragile.

In her current state it seemed implausible she could have killed her husband, but she certainly had a motive, and she was an actress.

Laurent slid in on the other side of me, while Gisèle claimed the chair next to Samira at the head of the table, never more than arm’s distance from her friend. Gisèle, who’d been there when Samira’s first husband died, too. Another coincidence?

“Should I go get Cody and Allison?” Jennifer asked, glancing toward the stairs that led up to the office as she hovered behind the seat next to Rémy.

No one answered, and she eventually sat.

White wine was already poured in our goblets and our plates brimmed with Lyonnaise salad, topped with bacon strips and a poached egg. I ripped off a piece of warm French bread, salivating as I coated it with salted butter.

“I’m starving,” Jennifer said, picking up a strip of bacon with her fingers. “I can’t wait for them.”

Samira simply stared at her food as the rest of us tore into our dinner like a pack of wild animals.

It felt inappropriate to enjoy such delicious food at a time like this, but we had to eat, and it was impossible not to appreciate the taste of the chef’s efforts.

I wondered whether Tyson would have rolled back his rules to dine with us tonight or sulked from his spot at the head of the table, disapproving of our vulgar appetites while he slurped his murky green concoction.

What a tragedy that he’d had all this, and not been able to enjoy it.

I’d just finished my salad when Cody and Allison finally emerged from the office, looking spent.

“Everything okay?” Jennifer asked as Cody took his place at the head of the table.

Cody frowned at her as though she was speaking a language he didn’t understand. “Okay?” he echoed.

I liked Cody—had always liked Cody—and he certainly seemed broken up about his brother’s death, but I couldn’t help thinking of their fight this morning. Had Cody finally had enough of Tyson’s shit and snapped?

And what of Allison, whose perennial mask of impassivity made her so difficult to read?

She reached for her wineglass as she settled next to Rémy, her sleeveless gray silk camisole showing off her toned arms. She was certainly strong enough to have killed Tyson, and quicker than any of us in the water.

And she had cause, with Tyson standing between her and the money she needed.

It wasn’t hard to imagine her taking him out.

Cody had just opened his mouth to speak when a handful of crew members emerged from the stairwell bearing a second course of cheese soufflés steaming in individual ramekins.

He held his tongue as they set them before us.

“We’ll let you know when we’re ready for the next course,” Cody said once they’d refilled our wineglasses. “Please, leave us until then.”

“There is a phone there.” One of the girls pointed to the wall. “Ring the kitchen when you are ready.”

Cody nodded, and they all filed down the stairs and out of sight.

But he seemed to have thought better of whatever he had been about to say.

Instead, he raised his wineglass in a toast. “To my brother, on his birthday.” His voice cracked.

“Tyson always marched to the beat of his own drum. Yes, we all know he could be difficult, but he was also a genius—as he so often reminded us—and he did more good for the world than…than…” He broke off, choked up.

“To Tyson,” Allison finished for him, stoic. “A giant among men.”

Everyone raised their glass and drank, except Samira, who clasped her goblet to her chest, her tears splashing into her wine. Gisèle reached out to pat her on the back. “Have some bread,” she encouraged. “It’s still warm.”

Jennifer considered Samira from across the table, her head slightly tilted. After a moment, Samira looked up at her, not bothering to wipe the tears that cut tracks down her puffy face. “What?” she demanded.

Jennifer shook her head. “Nothing.”

“You are looking at me like that all evening,” Samira said. “If you have a problem with me, say it.”

“I don’t have a problem,” Jennifer said, raising her hands.

“We’re all upset tonight,” Cody said, rubbing his temples. “Let’s not—”

“No. I want to hear what she has to say,” Samira said, her eyes focused on Jennifer.

“It’s just…” Jennifer sighed. “He treated you like shit.”

“He treated everyone like shit,” Samira returned, “because of the great insecurity inside of him.”

“It’s true,” Cody murmured.

“Okay, sure,” Jennifer said. “But last night—I know you were all drunk, but I wasn’t. I remember clearly every vile thing he said to you. And you told him you hated him, you wished he was dead—”

“Do you have to remind me?” Samira choked back a sob. “We were fighting, I was angry. It doesn’t mean I didn’t love him. I didn’t mean—” Samira stopped, inhaling sharply. “Mon Dieu, you can’t think I killed him?”

Her shock seemed incongruous, considering that everyone who’s ever watched a true-crime show knows nine times out of ten it’s the spouse.

Jennifer shook her head, though. “I’m not saying that. But if I were you, I might have.”

“It’s true you stand to gain the most,” Allison said, studying Samira.

Samira’s head whipped toward her, her jaw slack for a moment before she let out a bitter bark of laughter. “We were married only fourteen months. I do not get a cent until we are married three years.”

“That’s the prenup, not the will,” Allison said.

Samira sighed. “He assured me it was for both. Everything goes to his children.”

I took a sip of water to wash down the bite of soufflé that had lodged in my throat as Jennifer shook her head, mystified. “And you still loved him?”

“Oui—yes, yes!” Samira cried. “Did I always like him? No. Would I have been married to him forever? Probably not. But I did not murder him.”

Samira was certainly convincing, and my heart went out to her, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t entirely possible that she was acting the part of the grieving wife.

“Okay, if we’re going to play this game”—Allison fixed her eyes on Gisèle, a hint of amusement playing around her lips—“was it you?”

“Me?” Gisèle furrowed her brow, bewildered. “No. Why would I—”

“For Samira,” Allison said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “So she could be free of him.”

Gisèle’s mouth opened slightly as she stared at Allison, dumbfounded.

“I did not kill him,” she said finally. “But you are right I am not so sad about his death.” She glanced at Samira apologetically, softening her voice as she switched to French.

“He dimmed your light and I am glad for your sake that he is gone.” She returned her focus to Allison.

“What about you? You were under the water longer than anyone.”

“And it’s no secret that both Cody and I disagreed with him on a lot of things,” Allison admitted. “I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t fantasize about killing him sometimes.”

Cody gave Allison a discomfited glance. “Don’t bring me into this.”

“But I didn’t do it,” Allison said. “Not that I’d tell you if I did,” she added dryly. “I’m just saying, we all had a motive. Even you might have killed him on Cody’s behalf, Jennifer.”

“Okay, okay,” Cody said.

But Allison was on a roll, turning to Laurent.

“And I don’t know what it was that he was holding over your head, but he trusted you, and he never trusted anyone he couldn’t ruin.

” She pointed her fork at me and Rémy. “Even you two. I don’t know either of you, but you show up and then he’s dead. That’s pretty suspicious.”

Beneath the table, I felt Laurent’s fingers brush my thigh, lingering on my skin, and I wished I could trust him. But would he trust me, if I told him the whole truth?

“I never met Tyson before today,” Rémy said.

“How do we know you are not lying?” Gisèle asked, her tone more sardonic than accusatory. “You could be anyone. You could be a person you hire to kill.”

Jennifer guffawed. “A hit man?”

I’d had the same thought, of course. But while it was possible, it was also improbable.

This wasn’t a spy novel. What I found more intriguing was the question of Rémy’s dogs.

Did he have a connection to Tyson that neither of them had wanted anyone to know?

And whatever that connection was, could it have driven Rémy to kill him?

Rémy shrugged. “I could be this hit man, maybe. But, no. I did not kill Tyson.”

“And neither did I,” Cody said, his patience growing thin. “This is ridiculous.”

“It will be more easy to run the company without him, no?” Gisèle prodded, her gaze bouncing between Cody and Allison.

“No.” Cody’s chair scraped the deck as he pushed it back and stood. “You know nothing about it.”

Samira raised her chin, a note of warning in her voice. “You will be surprised how much he told me.”

“At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised by anything my brother did,” Cody said darkly as he strode toward the phone on the wall. “But that doesn’t mean I had anything to do with his death.”

“Which brings me back to my earlier point,” Allison said coolly. “Tyson was a complicated man, and we all had complicated relationships with him. It doesn’t do us any good to turn on each other.”

“But one of us did kill him,” Jennifer pointed out.

“And that person isn’t going to confess just because you accuse them,” Allison leveled.

She was right about that. Accusations would only make the killer more careful about covering their tracks.

“We’d like dinner now,” Cody said into the receiver. “And please send up staff to take care of us. We no longer wish to be left alone.”

He hung up and spun to face the table. “Enough of this. We’ll have a civil dinner.”

As he sat heavily into his chair, running his fingers through his hair exactly the way his brother used to, I had to blink to make sure I wasn’t seeing a ghost.