Page 51 of No One Was Supposed to Die at This Wedding

Simone locks eyes with me, and for a moment I think she’s not going to take the hint and leave, but then she does. I wait until she’s gone back around the bend she came from, then turn to Emma, holding her close to me.

“I could havedied.”

“Yes,” I say, stroking her head. “But it could just be a short.” I hug her tight. “So let’s not freak out, okay? Let’s get changed and go to lunch?”

She shudders in my arms but relaxes. “Yes, okay.”

“Do you want me to come to your villa with you?”

“No, I’ll be all right.” She pulls away. “Good thing Harper’s phone fell in the water.”

I smile at her. “Good thing she broke the rules, you mean.”

“Ha. Yes.”

“I’ll figure out what’s going on, I promise.”

“I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“Harper’s right. Terrible pun or not, you’ve had a shock. Go get changed and we’ll see you at lunch. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I hug her again; then we separate and she walks down the path Harper and I came up.

Harper stands next to me. “Why does it feel like we’re back in Italy?”

A chill runs down my spine. “We’re not in Italy. We’re inWhen in Rome.”38

I fill Oliver in on what happened as we get changed for lunch, and we have a few serious moments trying to decide what to do. Because it’s becoming clearer by the minute that there’s a killer on the island with us. Or, at the very least, someone who wants to scare Emma out of going through with the wedding and doesn’t care if someone gets killed in the process.

Which is pretty much the same thing.

And all of which points to Tyler.

But he doesn’t strike me as the type who’d do something like murder.

Not himself, anyway.

He’d get his assistant to do it.

But for now, there’s nothing we can do about it other than stick close to Emma and keep our eyes peeled, so the three of us make our way to the Descanso Beach Club.

The club is nestled at the bottom of the hill in a private white-sand bay. Large and white with a gray-tiled roof, it pops against the bright green trees and shrubs surrounding it. Palm trees dot the shore, with sail-covered teak daybeds nestled in between them. There’s a beachside restaurant and bar, but the lunch is set upinside, in the same room where the wedding reception will take place tomorrow.

It’s a cavernous space with a bank of Pacific-facing windows, papered in paisley wallpaper with crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The view out the windows is unparalleled—the sea is azure, and the moored boats tip up and down in the sunlight.

For the wedding, Emma told me, it will be filled with flowers and flowing fabric, making it romantic and intimate. It’s low-key today, though, with a buffet set up across one end of the room and a dozen eight-tops with white tablecloths and centerpieces made up of local wildflowers and Catalina poppies.

We check the menu, which is posted on a placard near the entrance. The signature drink is something called Buffalo Milk,39and the menu is heavy on local fish and salads because Hollywood. I doubt there’ll be any bread in sight all weekend.

A waiter in black pants and a white shirt with the club’s logo on it—two leaping dolphins in a Grecian blue—leads us to our table. I wave to Shawna, who’s sitting with Ken, Fred’s stand-in.

He’s a nice, affable guy who’s worked with Fred for much of his career, being patient while shots are being set up so Fred can stay in his trailer and play video games or whatever else he does in there. His physical resemblance to Fred is uncanny—from the back, they’re indistinguishable—but there are important differences in their faces; Ken is like the missing link between Fred and Connor.

Shawna gives me a harassed smile. She’s wearing headphones similar to the ones she wears on set, and she’s got a clipboard with a long checklist next to her.

“Shawna seems stressed,” Harper says.

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