I nodded.
“Enjoying Happy Hour?”
“Yup.”
“Brilliant.” Bending toward me over the counter, she remarked in a confidential tone, “The discounted drink specials always cause a bit of a lag in response time.” Her expression turned solicitous as she looked beyond me. “Blimey,” she whispered. “Poor Mr. and Mrs. Martin. The dishy girl who fell off the cliff was in their party. I can’t imagine how dreadful they must feel about the accident.”
I turned around nonchalantly to observe Victor being ushered from the reading library by Bobbi and Dawna, who’d each grabbed an arm and were assisting him across the lobby. Virginia trailed behind, stone-faced and aloof, her makeup untouched by tears, appearing ill-tempered and bored.
“He looks devastated,” the purser rasped.
And so did the girls. They were both red-eyed and weepy and didn’t look as if they’d bothered to retouch their lip gloss or comb their hair, which said a lot about their mental state. They actually looked crippled by grief, which kinda surprised me because, based on their performance last night, I wasn’t convinced they were capable of being affected by someone else’s misfortune.
Did they regret acting so snotty to each other at their last meal together? Victor’s proposed bonus had really brought out the worst in them. But if Krystal’s assessment of her sales record had been correct, and Bobbi and Dawna knew she was the undisputed top dog, why had they gone out of their way to insult her? I mean, why waste your breath if you already know who’s going to win?
As the foursome entered the main corridor, I realized that Krystal’s death had changed the entire dynamic of the Mona Michelle group. The prize would now be awarded to one of the other contenders because, as of this afternoon, the “sure thing” was out of the picture.
A frisson of unease pricked my spine as I watched the girls disappear.
Gee. How convenient.
ten
Four hours upriver from Caudebec-en-Caux sits the capital of Upper Normandy—a medieval port famous for having the highest church spire in France and infamous for having burned a nineteen-year-old peasant girl at the stake. It’s called Rouen, and when we moored alongside its north bank after breakfast the following morning, the sky was clad with angry storm clouds that were drenching the city in a torrential downpour.
From behind my balcony doors I looked out at the rain lashing the pavement and tried to decide which pair of favorite sandals I’d be forced to ruin on our port walk.
Knock, knock, knock.
“We voted to skip the walkin’ tour,” said Nana when I answered the door. “The final tally was eleven yeas, one nay, and one abstention.”
“Eleven and two? Isn’t that … thirteen votes?”
“Yup.”
I regarded her narrowly. “You only have twelve people in your group.”
“We got thirteen now. We’re makin’ Jackie an honorary member on account of them two blondes are tryin’ to kill her, so we’re puttin’ her under our protection.”
Oh, God. I pulled her into my room. “No one is trying to kill Jackie.”
“We figure it’s better bein’ safe than sorry.”
I sat her on the bed. “Her conspiracy theory is imaginary. She’s inserting herself where she doesn’t belong because she doesn’t know how not to make everything about herself. I know. I was married to her. Him. Her.”