Page 42 of Safari Murder Party
Three years of unspoken tension pulsed between them. He’d lost some of his boyishness since then. Cheeks slimmed and scruffed.Shoulders broader, biceps fuller. His blond curls as obnoxiously thick as ever, though, evidently immune to male-pattern baldness.
Fletcher had to clear her throat before saying, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but why would your dad have you inherit the island if you hated him so much?”
“Probably the same reason he left us all here to die. To get the last laugh.” Waylon split a grape between his teeth. “And whatright waywas I supposed to take that, exactly? You should know better than anyone how my father felt about me considering you’re the reason he disinherited me in the first place.”
Fletcher’s wineglass halted halfway to her lips.Disinherited?She forced another gulp to hide her confused frown. “You were capable of that all on your own.”
Waylon brought a hand over his heart. “Aw. You think I’m capable?”
This time, it was Fletcher’s turn to throw a seedless grape. He dodged easily, never taking his gaze off hers.
Wouldn’t she know if he’d beendisinherited? After their first encounter, Fletcher had learned everything about the Cartwrights. She’d made sure of it. The level of research she’d done bordered on criminal.
Gun to her head, she could’ve recited the addresses of Dyer’s sixteen international properties, including four purchased under three different shell companies. The numbers of five maître d’s were burned into her speed dial in case she needed to call in an emergency lunch resy—not that she’d ever eaten anywhere that nice on her own dime. The entire Cartwright lineage had been seared into her brain, so she’d always be ready for a pop quiz.
Egbert Cartwright founded Cartwright Media in 1924, excited to share tales of his travels to Bali, then Cairo, then Bermuda. (Closecall with the Triangle of it all.) Monthly issues sold like deep-fried Oreos at the Lincoln County Fair. Which was to say, a lot. Enough that when Wilmer Cartwright inherited the company in the ’50s, the brand was invincible. Impervious to his rollicking around the city with bottomless pockets, as Fletcher quickly learned all Cartwrights were wont to do.
By the time Dyer took command,Jet-Setterwas the leading travel periodical. Synonymous with extravagance and luxury, but still aspirational enough to convince flyover state farmers and their ruddy-cheeked daughters that a three-week European river tour was not only something they should want to do butcould.
Each edition had thick, glossy pages with vibrant photographs of places Fletcher dreamed about. Cabanas with billowing linen curtains. Snowcapped Alpine villages. Historic palaces, quaint country homes, pastel buildings clinging to jagged coastlines.
She couldn’t then—and still couldn’t to this day—fathom how Waylon Cartwright could hate it so much.
Everything he had, he had because ofJet-Setter, and he’d walked away from it of his own volition.
All Fletcher hadJet-Setterto thank for was a chronic stress disorder and a growing ulcer her gastroenterologist nicknamed Steven the Anarchist. An ulcer that probably started growing on a bitterly cold December evening, navy and crisp and sparkling with a dusting of snow and strings of holiday lights.
Even an eight-thousand-square-foot wine cellar was too small of a space to share with someone who nearly ruined your life, accusing you of ruining theirs.
Of all the times she relived the gala in stress dreams and sleep terrors, she never considered what happened after security had dragged a sopping-wet Waylon out by the collar of his tuxedo jacket. Business went on as usual, and Waylon went off on his own.
“We should go,” Fletcher said, adjusting her pith helmet. Oak barrels and velvet tapestries soaked up her voice. Somehow, it was still too loud. Her skin felt hive-y, her lungs too tight. She had to get out of here. Away from him.
Waylon hesitated, only a breath, before shaking off whatever lingered between them and dredging himself upright. “What’s next on your master plan?”
“Get far away from this murder house and find somewhere safe to sleep.”
“Lucky for you, the Cartwrights have a long history of glamping. We should have some sleeping bags in the observatory. I’ll grab them, and you can take the food to the garage. I’ll meet you there.” Fletcher’s face must have morphed against her will, because he refocused on her with a quizzical look. “What?”
She snapped back to attention. Her facial muscles aimed for some semblance of neutrality, like she hadn’t spent the last six hours violently oscillating between daydreams of roasting Waylon on a spit and feeling his calloused palms on her waist, her hips, her thighs. The stress was seriously getting to her.
“Nothing,” she said. “I just never thought I’d live to see the day Waylon Cartwright and I cooperated. Let alone the day you used the word ‘glamping.’ ”
A darkness lingered in his gaze. Hate, or something stronger. Loathing?
All he said was “Lie low. If you aren’t in the garage in thirty minutes, I’m leaving without you.”
Whatever camaraderie had fermented between them in the wine cellar popped like prosecco bubbles the second they stepped back onto the first floor.
Waylon veered left without a word goodbye, off to the planetarium protruding off the eastern wing, where they stored campingequipment for dark-sky excursions. The kind Fletcher might have been excited to go on had this retreat been anything at all like she’d thought it would be.
Fletcher turned right. The straps of a canvas tote monogrammed with Tiffany’s initials strained against a week’s worth of rations. The garage wasn’t far—she could totally camp out there until Waylon returned.
It was a good plan. Great, even.
Until she turned the corner and ran straight into Molly.
11
