Page 60 of No One Was Supposed to Die at This Wedding

“You’re not jealous, are you?”

“What?”

“Excuse me, what are you doing here?”

I turn around. There’s a man in his mid-thirties in a pair of brown coveralls walking toward us. He looks like he works outdoors—his hands roughened, the ridge of a tan around the edge of his hat. His complexion is darkened by the sun, his black hair in an unruly mop that partially covers his eyes.

“We’re looking for José.”

“That’s me. But you can’t be back here. This is a staff-only area.”

“Yes, we know, but we need to talk to you.”

His eyes shift left, then right, but there’s no one here but us. “What about?”

“That electrical short that happened at the pools today.”

“That was...unfortunate. Thankfully no one was hurt.”

“Yes, that is good news, but was it unfortunate?”

He frowns. “I don’t get your meaning.”

“We have reason to believe that it might’ve been done deliberately.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

I point to me and Oliver.

“And who are you?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m Eleanor Dash and this is Oliver Forrest. We’re guests at the wedding that’s taking place tomorrow.”

“Are you the police?”

“No, we write detective fiction.”

“So I don’t have to answer your questions?”

“Why wouldn’t you want to answer them?” Oliver asks. “Do you have something to hide?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, then.”

José looks back and forth between us. “Are you doing research for your next book?”

“No,” I say. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because that other guy was here earlier asking the same thing.”

“What other guy?”

“He said his name was Inspector Tucci.Hesaid it was research for a part.”

My heart sinks. We were beaten to the punch by an actor pretending to be a detective.

Of course we’reauthorspretending to be detectives.

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