Toured to Death by Hy Conrad

voice carried well on the evening air.
    The sound of someone calling her name had long ago ceased being pleasant. Amy continued down the long wooden stairs from the cantilevered hotel to the beach. She tuned out the voice and concentrated on the soft rush of surf on sand and breathing in the distinctive perfume of Corsica. The sweetly scented mixture of myrtle, lavender, and a host of other wild shrubs was unique to this island, an ever-present fragrance. Napoleon once declared, “I would recognize Corsica with my eyes closed.”
    â€œAmy!” It was no longer avoidable. She waited until reaching the sand, then slapped on a welcoming smile and turned.
    Georgina Davis, sandals flapping against the wooden steps, was hurrying down to catch her. “I kept calling,” she panted. “You were so deep in thought.”
    Amy began to stroll along the beach. Georgina fell in beside her. Neither one spoke, which gave the moment a strange feeling of importance. For a while they trudged side by side, the dying froth nipping at their feet. Back at the hotel on the cliff, a Portuguese fado played on the speakers, a lament of melody and voice drifting down from the terrace.
    â€œAll those Napoleon clues today. And then Corsica?” Georgina wasn’t comfortable with too much silence. “Daryl has a Napoleon complex.” She paused for a reply that didn’t come. “The Dodos think we’ll wind up in Elba, the place where he was exiled.”
    â€œAre you pumping me?” Amy asked.
    â€œJust making conversation.” They were approaching an outcropping of rock that marched out into the Mediterranean and marked the end of the beach. “I guess when we finally do catch up with Daryl, he’ll be dead.”
    â€œI suppose. This is a murder mystery.”
    â€œYou suppose? You’re the cruise director. You must know how it turns out.”
    Lying was an effort for Amy, one that she didn’t quite feel up to tonight. “No, I don’t. There’s a packet waiting for me in Rome with the final scenes in it. We’ll find out then. Otto insisted on this kind of secrecy.”
    Georgina mulled over the revelation. “What a strange man. And you feel comfortable with this?”
    â€œNo, of course not.” Amy pivoted on her heel and began to retrace their steps in the wet sand. Georgina followed.
    â€œI see.” She spoke slowly, her face turned toward the dark sea. “In light of Otto’s death, I think there’s something you should know.” It was almost a whisper. “This mystery of ours really happened.”
    Amy exhaled with relief. She hadn’t even been aware of holding her breath. She’d done her best to forget what Georgina had told her team, to shove it as far back in her mind as it would go. Now she didn’t reply, purposely leaving a vacuum, which both nature and Georgina seemed to abhor.
    â€œFive years ago. The man was Fabian Carvel.” She said the name as if Amy would recognize it, which she sort of did. “You know. Food Services? They own several chains, including Tico Taco. Tico Taco was the very first Mexican fast food. Fabian invented the concept.” The phrases sounded memorized, a testimonial that had been passed on to her and that she passed on in turn.
    â€œWe were at his Long Island estate.” Georgina continued to fill the pauses. “There were six of us at dinner, just like in the game. Fabian’s wife, their son . . . a very similar set of circumstances.” She kept at Amy’s side, gazing down at the tiny crabs that scurried away from the vibrations of their feet.
    â€œIt was somewhere in the second or third course that Fabian left the table. He claimed to be feeling ill. I thought it might be a mood swing. Fabian had them, you know. Unlike Daryl, our real-life tycoon had been known to walk out on people.”
    â€œHow did you know Fabian?” It was Amy’s first comment