Page 19 of Safari Murder Party
He’d always been like this, stern and rule-following. He ran a tight ship on the Marketing team, constantly barking about higher conversion rates and keyword optimization. But he wasn’t her boss, and he wasn’t privy to her performance reviews.
He didn’t know she’d worked seventy-hour weeks for the last three years without a single complaint. Or how she’d reshaped her life to accommodate Cartwright Media, bending but never breaking. She’d never once snitched on Theo for expensing a VR headset to “boost team productivity,” or Joplin for making a private Slackchannel called #shit-jackie-says, or Raul for giving Deepti a hickey at the company Christmas party while her husband grabbed drinks.
She’d stayed quiet then, but she couldn’t stay quiet now.
Dyer and Jackie studied her from the head of the table, measuring her response. And Bertram watched her the way a kid with a magnifying glass watched an ant fry in the sunlight. Waiting to see her squirm.
“I’m as fortunate to be here as you are.” Fletcher smoothed her lips into a congenial grin. It didn’t reach her eyes. (Her eyes were molten-lava lasers.) “I’d never underestimate your expertise in your department, Denis. Don’t underestimate mine.”
With what could only be divine intervention, dishes streamed in through the double doors, pivoting everyone’s attention.Hallelujah.Fletcher exhaled so thoroughly she blew out three tea lights that had to be relit by gloved waiters.
Each bite was more indulgent than the last. Biltong and fig salads, mango and lobster ceviche, kudu steaks in a truffle-and-brown-butter sauce. Fletcher must have died and gone to foodie heaven.
It was almost enough for her to ignore the whispers.
After the bowls of pear and ginger sorbet had been cleared, Dyer stood at the head of the table with a glass of imported whiskey in hand. He sagged a little heavier against his cane than normal, but his smile beamed as bright as ever. “I’m so glad to welcome you all to Lydell. You deserve a chance to unwind after your dedication to our publications this year.”
A round of applause rose from the table.
“My grandfather’s island has been a second home to me my whole life. It is where I married my sweet Tiff, and it is where I spread her ashes. As much as Lydell, she was also my safe place.” Dyer’s eyes went glassy, and Fletcher didn’t dare fidget in her seat to glance at Waylon, afraid of what she’d find. Tiffany Cartwright had died longbefore Fletcher ever met the Cartwrights. “Tiff always said work brought out the best and the worst in me, and that who I become in my darkest moments defines how I will be remembered.”
A kind of wet, heartbroken laugh filtered through his lips. Jackie reached over and squeezed the hand by Dyer’s side. He glanced down at her, a gentleness in his gaze Fletcher recognized as grief.
“Wives really are right about everything, aren’t they?” he said, raising a good-natured laugh. “We always loved coming here. On Lydell, we didn’t have to worry about decorum. Here, we were free from expectations, as wild as the animals roaming the island’s grasslands and jungles. Lydell Island is a world of its own.”
Dyer looked straight toward Fletcher, and her smile moved into place on its own accord. For years, every time she’d seen Dyer, she’d pasted on this expression of cartoon excitement. Like there was nowhere else on earth she’d rather be than where he needed her. She wondered, vaguely, if she was as much of an anchor for him as he was for her.
“There is one more thing I forgot to mention,” Dyer said. He let the silence linger for dramatic effect. Ever the showman. “This will be my last company trip to Lydell. It’s time I announce my retirement.”
The entire table gasped. Fletcher included.
No, no, no.
Her insides curdled like a glass of milk that had sat in the sun for too long. Wouldn’t you mention to your executive assistant there would no longer be an executive for her to assist? Sure, they’d find a new CEO eventually, but DyerwasCartwright Media. They were synonymous, no one without the other.
Sheila glanced at Fletcher over her shoulder, the question obvious in the intern’s narrowed eyes.Did you know?
Heat flared up Fletcher’s neck because no, no she had not. Andshe should have. It was her job to know. Had there been signs she’d missed?
“Who’s taking over the company?” Deepti asked with a panicked edge.
Wasthiswhy Waylon had been invited? The heir, come to claim his father’s throne? And, what? Fletcher was just expected to become his lapdog? To sit when he saidsit, to stay when he saidstay?
Shock gave way to something a little bit lighter. Maybe Dyer retiring could be exactly what she needed to leverage her move toJet-Setter. Waylon would be happy to get rid of her.
“I’ve got all the details worked out.” Dyer’s glass lifted higher. “Tonight, we celebrate the legacies we inherit and what we choose to do with them. May you all choose wisely.”
Melv stood next to him, clapping a compassionate hand on Dyer’s shoulder. “This calls for a toast. To everything Dyer Cartwright’s legacy has brought us, and everything yet to come.”
And the table called out, “To Dyer!”
As the party lights extinguished and everyone wandered back inside, darkness clawed over Lydell. Fletcher leaned against her window and let herself feel small beneath the atlas of stars. The breeze stilled, and the grasses stopped rustling, and the night birds’ evening songs quieted, as if the entire island knew change was coming, and there was nothing it could do but brace for impact.
Fletcher’s face was wet when she woke up. Not from crying, though she considered it. Something stiff and dripping glided over the plane of her cheek, and her eyes snapped open as a giant purple tongue retreated. A slick of slime coated her cheek.
A giraffe grinned down at her like it enjoyed Frenching her and would happily do it again.
“Oh my god. Disgusting.” She wiped the slobber off her face with the sleeve of her shirt. “At least ask for consent.”
