Page 77 of Safari Murder Party
Windows, on the other hand…
Fletcher shimmied down the length of the building to the farthest window.
A cursory glance inside proved it was the laundry room like Waylon said—and empty, except for a few stacked washer-dryer combos and an ironing board. No one was waiting to decapitate them, so Fletcher flung herself into the laundry room headfirst. It was less secret-agent-tuck-and-roll and more trying-not-to-flash-her-coochie.
Waylon, on the other hand, clearly led a second life as a spy. Hisentry was graceful, soundless. He whipped a hand through his goldenrod curls, brushing them out of his face. A hell of a lot of confidence for a guy who quaked in the presence of a monkey ten short minutes ago.
When Fletcher eased the laundry room door open, she could hear Sheila babbling a couple floors up and the remnants of Opal’s clipped responses, shouting as she slammed the back door shut. The ceilings stretched ten, maybe twelve feet, making everything echo. A hallway with alabaster walls and dotted with woven-cane chandeliers stretched out in front of them, a few doors on either side and a staircase in the center.
A flustered, slimy Opal stomped across the hallway and up the stairs. “Don’t you dare hog all the hot water.”
“No promises,” Sheila said. “There’s dirteverywhere.”
“I’m serious, Sheila.”
Fletcher plodded toward the staircase on quiet feet. Part home, part office, the rooms were a mix of comfort and utility: supply closets, bedrooms, a living room with rattan furniture. Nice, but notnicenice. A far cry from the manor’s top-of-the-line furnishings. Frames with faded black-and-white photos lined the walls, vintage snapshots of the island. Less polished, more wild.
“Yuck. This terry cloth is so scratchy,” Sheila bitched. She flitted across the second-floor landing, adjusting the shoulders of a robe the color of a prickly pear—and apparently the texture of one, too.
Waylon hovered at Fletcher’s back as they crowded near the banister. A protective hand snaked around her waist, like he was ready to fling her behind him if one of the Sales girls decided to attack. The other pointed a finger upward. The stairs stacked on top of each other, wrapping around to the third floor. If they skirted past the landing, they could theoretically sneak up to Carlotta’s suite before anyone knew they were there.
Theoreticallybeing the operative word.
Clouds followed Opal as she stormed the hall, blotting out the sun and dimming everything. “God, I need to smoke.”
“Relax,” Sheila said, “there’s, like, four other bathrooms here.”
“Sorry I’m finding it hard to relax with rotted fruit on my face,” Opal seethed.
“I’ll be thirty minutes. Forty-five tops,” Sheila said as she snuck past Opal in the doorway. “You know, this reminds me of the time—”
“I don’t care!” Opal shouted.
Recognition flared at the crack of emotion in Opal’s voice. It was the same Fletcher heard in Jackie’s, in Molly’s. The slide into hysteria. The splash into the deep end.
“I don’t care about your friend Penelope’s clairvoyant Chihuahua or how you almost made out with Timothée Chalamet on a yacht or how the robe is a teensy bit scratchy! I don’t care about any of it! I just got physically assaulted by some idiotic monkey, but do you hear me complaining?”
“Uh, yeah. You’re literally complaining.”
“And you’re an insufferable little brat.”
“I’m just a girl.” Sheila’s nasally voice drifted down the hall, presumably toward the bathtub. There was the sound of a faucet twisting, water running. “You know, Stavros—the hairstylist I told you about who does the Reiki sessions—said that stress shrinks your hair follicles, so if you don’t chill out, they could just close up, and then you’d go bald.”
The bathroom door shut with finality.
Opal huffed so loudly the whole house shook. “I’ll show you bald.”
Opal darted past the landing, holding a hair dryer. She marched inside the bathroom, not bothering to knock.
Completely unfazed by her sudden entry, Sheila’s voice carriedon without pause. “Whatever you do, do not try one of these bath bombs. Opposite of relaxing. There’s going to be glitter in my—”
A snap of electricity. A sigh of relief.
Opal exited the bathroom, massaging the tension out of her temples. “There,” she said to only herself, “no more stress.”
Fletcher’s heart sank, squeezed. Beside her, Waylon tensed, bracing. Under his breath, he muttered, “Fuck.”
Fuck, indeed. Sheila was a slacker and a thief and an out-of-touch, privileged nineteen-year-old kid.Was. Now? Her only qualifier wasdead. Fletcher didn’t have to see it to know Sheila had been successfully deep-fried. Her nose wrinkled against the scent of burnt hair, charbroiled skin.
