Page 130 of No One Was Supposed to Die at This Wedding

He’s not...You don’t know him, Cecilia.

CECILIA

I do, though.

CHARLES GUY

No. Youdon’t. And I’ll give you some advice. You should walk away. Walk away and don’t look back.

CHAPTER 21

Is Murder Usually Served at Midnight?

It’s coming up on sunset, and it’s finally time for Emma’s wedding.

It’s been a whirlwind afternoon. After dropping the bomb that Tyler was still on the island, Officer Anderson explained that he didn’t make it onto the ferry after all and had been hiding out in his room since this morning. She was on her way to question him and, if her suspicions proved sufficient, to place him under arrest until her colleagues could get here.

In the meantime, with it looking like Tyler was behind everything that had happened so far, we got the green light to go ahead with the wedding.

Once that was established, I sprang into maid of honor mode.69That meant locating Shawna and Harper, advising the guests that we were going ahead, tracking down the photographer fromPeople, and making sure Emma still wanted to go through with it.

She assured me she did, but then started to fret about the smaller details—like who’s going to do her makeup (her, we decided) and my makeup (also her) and press out her dress (me)and get the flowers together (also me, plus Shawna and Harper) because her glam squad and florist were scheduled to arrive today, but that’s out with everything that has happened.

What else?

Oh. The storm is getting closer.

The sky has darkened, and the surreptitious peek I took at my cell phone confirms Hurricane Isabella has moved up the coast and is threatening San Diego as we speak.

As I write. Whatever.

The point is, in a couple of hours the wind that’s already tossing the palm trees against the villa in a spooky rat-tat-tat and littering the paths with debris is going to increase to seventy-five miles an hour. And the clouds, which look so pretty with the sun reflected through them, are going to turn black and release inches of rain.

That’s what’s coming.

But before all that is a moment of, well, calm.

“I’m getting married today,” Emma says, looking at me through the mirror she’s seated in front of. Her hair is swept back off her face and tumbles to her shoulders in waves I can never get my hair to make, because she’s good at hair, too, and I’m kind of hopeless with girly things.

Oh, well.

Can’t be good at everything.

Not that I’m good at everything.

We just established that I’m not.

We’re alone in the bedroom in her suite. It’s filled with light from the French doors that lead out onto a back patio, and there are rose petals strewn on the bed.

We’ll walk down to the Beach Club together in a few minutes, but for now, it’s just us and a glass of Champagne each.

Okay, maybe two or three glasses, but who’s counting?

“I’m happy for you.”

She meets my eyes in the reflection. I’ve cleaned up pretty nice, too, with her help, and the eggplant-colored dress I’m wearing suits me, even if the taffeta in the skirt is itching a spot on my hip where the slip has a gap. It’s a small price to pay for the happiness I see in front of me.

“Are you?” Emma asks.

---