Murder Takes the High Road(72)

“That could be significant.” Rose pointed at Yvonne. “If anyone refuses to take part, that might mean something.”

“It means I’ve had more than enough of all of you,” Yvonne said.

“Might I make another suggestion?” Elizabeth said. “Lock your door and don’t leave your room until breakfast.”

“Thank you,” Yvonne said. “I have no intention of leaving my room until the boat arrives to take us back to the mainland.” She walked from the room.

In the silence that followed, Edie said, “Maybe Sally’s right. If someone here did commit murder, he—”

“Or she,” Sally said, eyeing the doorway through which Yvonne had disappeared.

I said, “Is not going to take kindly to being outed.”

Vance burst out, “You do understand that it’s one of us, right? One of us killed her? Someone sitting at this table killed her.”

“Shut up,” Trevor told him.

Vance stared. “Shut up?”

“Yes. Shut up. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

There were protests and indignation—not about Vance making a fool of himself, but at the idea one of us was a killer—but the objections faded out to a few mutters and comments. There were a few suspicious glances cast as we finished our drinks, and, not long after, we collected our candlesticks and retired to our rooms.

It was a relief to close my door behind me. I set my candlestick on the dresser, locked the door and leaned back against it, studying the room. By daylight it had seemed quaint but cozy. By candlelight, it was definitely creepy. The glass eyes of the mounted raven glittered.

Sally said her room had a portrait with moving eyes, and the Poe sisters said their room had a secret panel that led into a larger closet.

I checked my phone but there were no messages, no texts. That was most likely due to the storm, but I hoped John was all right. It would have been great to hear his voice. Even a text would have meant something.

How was it possible that I missed John after four days as much as I had missed Trevor after three years?

Probably part of why I missed him was I was scared and feeling out of my depth, and that always goes better with company.

Not that I thought anyone was coming after me, but all the same I didn’t expect to do much sleeping that night. I stretched out on the bed to think.

Someone tapped softly on my door.





Chapter Twenty-Three

I got off the bed and went to answer the knock.

I thought I knew who would be standing on the other side, so it was a surprise to see Nedda in the hallway, wrapped in a green-and-brown-striped flannel bathrobe.

“Can I speak to you?” she asked softly.

“Sure,” I said. I moved aside. Nedda waved to Wally, who—candlestick held aloft—was watching us from the doorway of their room. He nodded, retreating and closing the door.

I shut the door after her. Nedda gazed at me as though trying to make up her mind.

“She was murdered, wasn’t she?” I said quietly.

Nedda’s voice was barely above a whisper. “There was a tiny puncture mark on the back of her neck, beneath her hair. My best guess? Someone jabbed her with a hypo when her back was turned.”

I swallowed. “She was poisoned?” It’s one thing to suspect. It’s another to have your worst fear confirmed.

“It’ll take an autopsy to determine. But that’s my thought. Yes. She was probably injected with a powerful, fast-acting sedative such as gamma-hydroxybutyric acid.”

“Vanessa used GHB in Little Boy Dead.”

“Yes. I remember. That’s one reason I thought of it. Not only does it take effect very quickly, it disappears from the bloodstream after twelve hours.”

“Twelve hours. Then it’s probably already too late for the drug to show up in an autopsy.”

“Yes. The injection site will show up though.” She showed me the photo on her iPhone. There was nothing inherently dreadful about that image of a discolored mark on the nape of someone’s neck. It was only knowing that the neck was Vanessa’s and that she was dead that made me feel queasy.

I said, “In theory it’s a prescription drug, but you don’t have to be a doctor to get hold of GHB. It’s used for everything from date rape to fitness training.”

“I won’t ask how you know that.”

“Research is my life.” For once I wasn’t kidding.

“You also don’t need to be a doctor to use a hypodermic needle. Not the way that was done. There wasn’t any finesse about it. Anyone could have done it.”

“But anyone didn’t do it,” I said. “Vance was right about that. It’s someone from our group. It has to be.”

Nedda looked worried. “I suppose so. I suppose it couldn’t be...”

“What? A fan angry that she ended the MacKinnon series? A reviewer irate about being left off her ARC list? A rival mystery author?”

Actually, given that Vanessa’s motive for killing Kresley was supposed to have been jealousy over his winning a writing prize she believed should have been hers, maybe that wasn’t so off.

“John was a cop, wasn’t he? I suppose he did really leave the island?”

I said hotly, “He’s an insurance investigator. John had nothing to do with it. And yes, he did really leave the island. I watched him go myself.”