Page 24 of Safari Murder Party
Waylon sucked in a breath too loud for the silent living room. Had he known?
Dyer smiled, and it was so familiar that Fletcher’s own heart squeezed. Disbelief coursed through her veins. Yesterday had been the last time she’d ever see his mischievous grin in person, and she hadn’t evenknownit was the last time. It felt unfathomable, his sudden departure. But here it was. Fathomed.
“There were treatment options. Procedures I could do. Surgeries to be had,” he said. “Or I could come to Lydell, drink something a little extra stiff, and lie down in the bed I shared with my wife one last time, listening to the sounds of the wilderness we loved so much.”
A gasp worked through the crowd. He had died the same way he had lived: according to his own rules.
“I’ve always known the company would go on without me. That’s why this hard drive contains two items. This video, and my last will and testament.”
Next to her, Molly inhaled shakily. Fletcher’s breathing felt just as uneven. She picked a thread loose in her skirt, trying to keep the nausea at bay. It wasn’t working. All she could think about were the taxidermied animals dotting the manor’s halls. Would Dyer want to be embalmed and stuffed, put on display for the rest of eternity as immortal as he always felt? Were billionaires into that kind of thing?
It was a little too easy to imagine him taking up permanent real estate in his penthouse office, perched in the corner case with a Madame Tussauds smile.
Then she’dreallybeg to transfer to Design.
“Melv,” Dyer said, peering to the side. It happened to be the side Melvwasn’tsitting on, but it was a valiant effort. “You’ll take the liberty of reading all the paperwork, I’m sure, but I’ll cut to the chase. Everyone here knows there is only one remaining Cartwright.”
Fletcher’s eyes cut toward Waylon. She was certain she wasn’t the only one who found her gaze drifting his way. The rightful heir. Not even Sheila—Waylon’s mom’s sister’s daughter—was a Cartwright by blood.
Waylon leaned his elbows on his knees, rolling the heirloom cane in his hands. Barely even bothering to watch. Couldn’t he at least have the decency to look interested in inheriting the entire Cartwright legacy?
A brief glint of affection splashed across Dyer’s face—real, genuine—before vanishing behind his usual theatricality. “To my son, Waylon Cartwright, I leave Lydell Island, its animal inhabitants, as well as all of its structures and assets. It’s what your mother would have wanted, and you know I’ve never trusted anyone more than Tiffany to protect what I love most.”
Big surprise. Next, he’d inherit the yachts, the planes, and the Bora Bora home. Then, the Upper East Side penthouse, and the stocks and bonds. Cartwright Media and all affiliated assets. The whole kit and caboodle.
Dyer cleared his throat. “The rest I leave to fate.”
Her colleagues inched forward in their seats, but Fletcher shrank back into her cushion, coiling her knees toward her chest.To fate?In all the years she’d known him, Dyer had never left anything to the whims of others.
WhenJet-Setter’s Amsterdam issue spawned a national outcry about marijuana legalization, it coincided with Cartwright Media’s lofty donation to a running politician whose platform miraculously aligned. When the board of directors feared stagnation, Dyerorganized a last-minute meeting to absorb a smaller publication. When everyone else was exclusive to print, Dyer usheredJet-Setterinto the digital age.
He’d always navigated speed bumps with an innate charisma Fletcher often envied. But more than that, he didn’t merely extricate himself from sticky situations. He’d orchestrated them entirely.
One hundred years of periodicals had been printed under this banner. What kind of leader would leave that up tofate?
Dyer stroked his chin in the video, leaving plenty of dead air for dramatic effect. He was sitting in his office. When had he filmed this? How had she missed it? The moment lasted entirely too long. Finally, he continued. “I’ve always heard publishing is a cutthroat business, and nowhere is that truer than on Lydell. I’ve gathered each of you here for a reason. For your tenacity. Your instincts. Your gumption.”
The word flared through Fletcher like a flint strike.
“You’ll need it to run Cartwright Media.”
Murmurs turned to unashamed whispers. The Brians craned their heads together, chatting. Deepti blew her nose like an elephant trumpeting and then folded the handkerchief neatly in her lap, curiosity piqued.
“This is my will here. I’d like to read some of it for you.” Dyer shuffled through some papers until he found a stack latched with a gold binder clip. “As of the announcement of this will, all invited guests on Lydell Island are eligible for the inheritance of the remaining assets, including ownership of Cartwright Media, all mutual funds managed by Dyer Cartwright, and domestic and international properties deeded to Dyer Cartwright.”
“Eligible?” Asshole Rick asked. “Why eligible?”
Dyer, of course, didn’t hear him.
Half the room turned to Melv, waiting for the lawyer to makesense of this completely nonsensical sentence. Melv was rapt with attention, literally on the edge of his seat.
“You may have noticed,” Dyer continued, “the manor is a little quieter this morning. I’ve sent the staff off the island. All wireless connectivity and phone lines have been disabled and will remain offline for the next five days. What happens next is only between us.”
Reaching beneath his desk, Dyer extracted his ivory cane, the same cane now in Waylon’s hands.
“My grandfather carved this from the tusk of an elephant he’d killed here on a hunting trip. It’s a depiction of the beasts found on Lydell. Vicious animals in a lawless land, but at the top—”
Past a winged vulture, elephant, zebra, giraffe, cheetah, and maned lion, Dyer unfurled his fist to reveal the grip, the double barrel of a shotgun.
