Page 114 of My Sister is Going to Kill Me

Fiona sat ramrod straight against a stack of crates, eyes closed, LED mask switched on, the glow from it an eerie blue that matched her wide-rimmed visor. Devon was a few feet closer, poring over Stefan’s papers under a shade covering she’d rigged up from a sleeping mat and a Babette kimono.

Shade. That was a good idea. Liv looked around for her own source of relief and, finding none, settled for pulling her thin T-shirt up over her head.

Fiona and Devon. Could either of them have pulled off both deaths?

She’d put money on her theory that Babette had been poisoned with whatever had killed Justine Long. That required specialized knowledge from CareFree testing that both Fiona and Devon had. But it wasn’t at all clear how either of them could have delivered a deadly substance to Babette on the day she’d hiked in. Perhaps it had been stashed in Babette’s luggage, in a personal item they knew she would reach for during a long hike in the sun? That suggested a level of closeness and proximity that pointed to Devon . . . unless Fiona had offered Babette a new skin protection doohickey and had buried the poison within it.

Stefan’s slashed throat seemed bolder, but easier to execute. As a dermatologist, Fiona had likely performed minor cosmetic surgeries, and Devon, a botanist, was skilled with a knife. Liv remembered how deftly she’d split the datura flower to show Liv its insides, the confident way Devon ran the blade down the delicate surface of the plant.

Each woman had the means to kill Babette and Stefan. But did they have motive? Devon wanted to take over the business with her brother, and it was possible a coup might not be as bloodless as she had led Liv to believe. Meanwhile, Fiona, while invested financially in the success of CareFree, seemed to have little trust in Babette’s leadership to put out a safe version of the product. Maybe she wanted to take the company down. Or take it over. Perhaps the two women were even working together.

A two-person team. Liv felt the ache where her own partner should have been. Where was Mandy? Had she been compelled to leave, or had she left Liv behind?

If Liv was honest with herself, this was the riddle that plagued her most. Not who killed Babette and Stefan, but where her sister and dad were. Visions of Mandy flooded Liv’s brain. Mandy as a little kid, scarfing down orange dust from the mac and cheese box and begging Liv to tell their mom a stray dog had stolen the noodles. Mandy as a teenager, sneaking out to concerts with a fake ID she’d conjured from a library card and laminate. Mandy after their mom died, stunned, in pain, and drowning in her first confrontation with the fact that sometimes life’s magician had terrible tricks up its sleeve. Mandy in her twenties, skittering from job to job, apartment to apartment, accumulating hand-thrown ceramic bowls and bedazzled sunglasses. Mandy tugging Liv up a tree; into a bar; down a trail; or, just the day before, paddling beside her through walls of water, a riotous grin on her face as they smacked the river and rose again.

The memories hit Liv like heat waves, making her woozy. She pulled her shirt down off her head. The truth was that Mandy had never run away from her. It was Liv who had done that, with her judgments and foreign service assignments, her unwillingness to leap into the unknown. Mandy always wanted to be closer, to go deep with her. Liv was the one who had pushed her sister away.

Her face burned with the realization. The guilt. The loss. And the heat.

“What’s going on in that big brain of yours?”

Liv squinted up at Lucinda Duvray. Could she be a useful thought partner? Liv didn’t want to scare her, but Lucinda had handled herself calmly and capably so far. And she’d been a businesswoman before she retired. Maybe she could be some help now.

“Have you ever been involved in a corporate takeover?” Liv asked.

Lucinda looked puzzled. “A million years ago, yes.”

“Do you know of any that have gotten . . . violent?”

“You think someone killed Babette and Stefan to gain control of their skin care company?”

“Maybe,” Liv said. “But I don’t see why they would have to go to criminal extremes to do it. I thought those things were usually bloodless.”

Lucinda smiled. “You’ve never been in a boardroom, have you?”

Liv shook her head.

“They have dark hardwood tables,” Lucinda said. “Mahogany. Teak. You might think it’s for aesthetics. But really, it’s to hide all the blood spilled in the name of ‘business as usual.’”

“Things can get ugly,” Liv said.

Lucinda nodded. “In my experience, family companies are the worst. I never did business with my family. There’s something precious about the opportunity to love someone without expecting them to produce. Business is business. Family is family. Bad things can happen when you mix the two.”

Lucinda looked to the front of the boat, where Imogen was shooting a video about “survival skin care” using a spatula as a mirror. Liv could see the barefaced pleasure the older woman took in her frivolous grandchild.

“You own laundromats, right?” Liv asked.

Lucinda waved her off. “Owned. Some retail as well. Direct sales. Vending machines. Cash businesses. Simple stuff.”

“You must have gotten good at assessing what might be a worthwhile investment.”

“Those businesses didn’t require much analysis, dear.”

“But you did well.”

“I did.”

Liv liked that she owned having achieved something with her work.