The flight flew by (pun not intended, but it pleased me). One of the flight attendants had brought some hydrating face masks, so I did one of those, then rested my eyes for a bit before reviewing the month’s statements for the bakery. Gabe worked on lesson plans or grading or something. I had nothing to do for the nonprofit, which was weird, but then I realized it was because Lina wasn’t here to give me papers and numbers and stuff. I’d need to find a new assistant ASAP.
Kevin Miller had cleared space for a long runway on his island to prevent himself and his guests from having to do the annoying move of having to land somewhere else and take a ferry over. It did kind of take away from the ambiance of the private island, I thought as we disembarked. When my family got a private island—assuming we didn’t already have one; lawyers were still sorting through all my grandma’s byzantine holdings—the maximum airstrip I’d want was one for small planes.
I told Gabe all this as we taxied to the resort. He looked faintly green, which was quite an accomplishment for someone who was brown. “I didn’t realize you got airsick,” I said.
“What?”
Just then the resort came into view. It wasn’t technically a resort, I supposed—it wasn’t like it was open to the public. But Kevin liked to call it a resort because it was as big and luxurious as one, although only for guests he invited: beautiful rooms with en suite bathrooms overlooking the sea; a private spa in the basement; multiple pools and a kitchen and bar that turned out food and drinks as good as any restaurant. (Aside from the desserts. The tropical ambiance was making thoughts of coconut conchas and pineapple upside-down cakes dance through my head.) “All my mother wanted was to vacation on the beach, but she spent so much of her adulthood working nonstop to provide for me,” Kevin had said. “She died before she ever got to go on a plane. That’s why I named the island for her.”
Ann-Marie Island. The name made me think, with a pang, of Andrea, my childhood nanny and Gabe’s mom. Had she ever gotten to take her kids on vacation? Or had all of her time away from home been about taking care of little Aftons?
Mental note: take Andrea on the best vacation of her life. Surely one of my friends could lend us their private island for a weekend.
Kevin greeted us himself in what was part lobby and part living room. “Pom, so happy you could come,” he said. Instead of kissing both cheeks, as I leaned in to do, he reached out to give me a firm handshake.
“So are we,” I gushed. “Happy birthday! You remember Gabe, my boyfriend.”
Kevin turned to Gabe with a polite smile. “Of course I remember Gabe. One of my fellow regular people in this rarefied world. It’s nice to have a comrade around who wasn’t born into all of this.”
“Right.” Gabe shifted, looking uncomfortable even though I’d specifically given him some of the most comfortable clothesever to exist: soft, supple leather sandals with loose white shorts and a pink silk Hawaiian shirt. “I was thinking maybe later—”
“Anytime.” Kevin slapped him on the back, making Gabe stumble a full step forward. He nearly hit me, which would’ve been unfortunate, as I was wearing way less comfortable (and way less stable) cork heels. “Anyway, let me find someone to bring your things up to your room. You’ll be in the Diane Suite, one of my favorites. I think that’s where you stayed last time, Pom.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Kevin glanced around, saw nobody, then began to frown. I was surprised that, as someone who loved to talk about how normal and regular he was, he didn’t offer to do it himself. Gabe did it for him. “Don’t worry, we got it.”
By that, of course he meant thathegot it. This ultrasmooth gemstoned manicure was not made for carrying my own bags. By the time he’d lugged all of our luggage—okay, by the time he’d slung his one small bag over his shoulder and then lugged all ofmyluggage—up two sprawling flights of stairs and into the Diane Suite, he was breathing heavily, beads of sweat sparkling on his broad forehead.
The king-size bed was soft and plush, covered with a peach-colored feather blanket and a seafoam-and-periwinkle quilt that might have looked homemade but that I recognized from Gilda Traynor’s 2021 collection. Various depictions of the sea, from stormy to pastoral, hung on the walls, and the sliding glass door on the far side of the room that led out onto a private balcony showed off the real sea, which sparkled merrily beneath the sunlight. It was warm enough here that I’d have to go in for a dip later. We were here to investigate a murder, of course, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t enjoy ourselves too.
I turned away from the view as Gabe said, “Wow.” For a moment I thought he, too, was admiring the view—of me from the back—until I realized he was looking at something sitting atopthe room’s desk. A book. A Bible? The Afton had phased out leaving Bibles in every room—they kept getting stolen, which was ironic.
But no. Or maybe it was a Bible, just of a different sort: Kevin’s famous first memoir, the one that had catapulted him to the late-night shows and TED Talk stage. A version of our host from ten years ago, one with fewer silver hairs and somehow looser skin on his jaw, grinned up at us, arms folded across his chest. I snorted. “He really thinks a lot of himself.”
Gabe stared at the photo for another moment. “You know, at the gala, he cornered me for an interrogation.”
“Interrogations are a lot more fun when you’re the one giving them,” I said. “What was he interrogating you about?”
“He wanted to know about where I’d grown up, that kind of thing. He’d heard that my mom had worked for your family and wanted to know if it was true, then wanted to know if I’d be working for the family business.”
I’d never thought about it before, mostly because there was no way anybody would accept him working for the family business unless he changed his last name to Afton, which, actually, why not? Feminism and all that. Men could change their names too. I certainly wasn’t changing mine. “Do you have any desire to work for the family business?”
“Not really,” Gabe said. “I don’t know anything about hotels, except that I don’t usually like them. They always smell weird.”
“You could be the Afton’s chief officer in charge of smells.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass,” he said dryly. “When I told him that, he lost all interest in me and made an excuse to get away.”
“Probably it wasn’t an excuse,” I said.
“It was 100 percent an excuse,” Gabe replied. “He said he wanted to grab one of the gazpacho shooters. Who feels that strongly about cold soup?”
I shrugged. “Well, we’re not here for him. We’re here for Cora.”
Gabe took a deep breath, shaking out his shoulders as if he was nervous. “Right. Of course. That’s what we’re here for.”
Something about his tone struck me as weirder than the smell of some random hotel. “Is everything okay?”
