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, âI would recognize Corsica with my eyes closed.â
âAmy!â 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. âI kept calling,â she panted. âYou were so deep in thought.â
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.
âAll those Napoleon clues today. And then Corsica?â Georgina wasnât comfortable with too much silence. âDaryl has a Napoleon complex.â She paused for a reply that didnât come. âThe Dodos think weâll wind up in Elba, the place where he was exiled.â
âAre you pumping me?â Amy asked.
âJust making conversation.â They were approaching an outcropping of rock that marched out into the Mediterranean and marked the end of the beach. âI guess when we finally do catch up with Daryl, heâll be dead.â
âI suppose. This is a murder mystery.â
âYou suppose? Youâre the cruise director. You must know how it turns out.â
Lying was an effort for Amy, one that she didnât quite feel up to tonight. âNo, I donât. Thereâs a packet waiting for me in Rome with the final scenes in it. Weâll find out then. Otto insisted on this kind of secrecy.â
Georgina mulled over the revelation. âWhat a strange man. And you feel comfortable with this?â
âNo, of course not.â Amy pivoted on her heel and began to retrace their steps in the wet sand. Georgina followed.
âI see.â She spoke slowly, her face turned toward the dark sea. âIn light of Ottoâs death, I think thereâs something you should know.â It was almost a whisper. âThis mystery of ours really happened.â
Amy exhaled with relief. She hadnât even been aware of holding her breath. Sheâd 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 didnât reply, purposely leaving a vacuum, which both nature and Georgina seemed to abhor.
âFive years ago. The man was Fabian Carvel.â She said the name as if Amy would recognize it, which she sort of did. âYou know. Food Services? They own several chains, including Tico Taco. Tico Taco was the very first Mexican fast food. Fabian invented the concept.â The phrases sounded memorized, a testimonial that had been passed on to her and that she passed on in turn.
âWe were at his Long Island estate.â Georgina continued to fill the pauses. âThere were six of us at dinner, just like in the game. Fabianâs wife, their son . . . a very similar set of circumstances.â She kept at Amyâs side, gazing down at the tiny crabs that scurried away from the vibrations of their feet.
âIt 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
âHow did you know Fabian?â It was Amyâs first comment
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley