Page 74 of Safari Murder Party
“I meant about Jackie. God, do you even have a brain in there?”
No.No. No way was Sheila blowing her cover right now. Not when Fletcher wouldn’t have a chance to explain herself to Waylon. If they spilled the beans, her feeble truce with Waylon would disappear faster than a happy hour martini.
Fletcher’s body moved before her brain caught up. One leg jutted out—hard—in front of Waylon, and he tripped over it. The two of them tumbled into the brush with matchingthuds. Her knees and palms screamed as they skidded against the earth. A stiff breaththrough Waylon’s nose was his only external reaction, but the look he gave her could fill libraries.
Sorry, Fletcher mouthed.
“Was that…” Opal trailed off into an unsettling quiet until, finally, she said: “Forget it. Let’s just find Rick before somebody finds us.”
When they finally peeled themselves off the forest floor to follow Opal and Sheila, Fletcher gave the saleswomen a wider berth, just in case. Their voices grew faint. Any gossip blessedly unheard.
Dread gathered behind Fletcher’s ribs as they paraded onward. Every step charted toward the staff building’s little charcoal dot on the map. What should have been a quick in-and-out to grab the master key was proving to be anything but.
Summoned, the building rose out of the jungle in front of them, all stone walls with terra-cotta shingles. Large windows had been framed with dark wood shutters, watching them. Waiting for them. The jungle encroached on its territory with drooping branches and strangling vines. Bright red blossoms dolloped the stone exterior, the hand-carved doorways. Everything smelled sweet in a way that made Fletcher sick to her stomach, like overripe fruit forgotten in the sun.
Welcoming them with a gunshot salute was Asshole Rick.
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Staked in front of the staff building was a hand-painted trifold board that readKeep Out Jerk-Offs Only Sales Allowed.
Respectfully, it could have used a little more punctuation for clarity. Was itKeep out, Jerk-offs, orJerk-offs only? Inquiring minds longed to know.
Rick paced out front, cosplaying Chuck Norris. If Chuck Norris had spent the last decade in a cubicle. Mud and moss clung to the hem of his belted trousers. The sleeves of his pin-striped dress shirt had been torn off. His five-o’clock shadow had five-o’clock shadow.
Strapped around his chest was a horribly concocted weapon of mass destruction—a spear tied to the end of a sawed-off shotgun. The salesman slung the abomination over his shoulder and greeted Opal and Sheila with varying degrees of success. Opal went for a handshake when Rick opted for a hug, so they landed somewhere awkwardly in the middle before he turned to the intern. Meanwhile, Sheila barely acknowledged him at all, breezing in through the open front door and saying something about a Jacuzzi bathtub.
And somewhere inside, they’d find the master key.
“What’s the plan, chief?” Waylon whispered.
She had one, but right now the only thing that came to mind was:I should have listened to Bertram.
He’d initially tried to ice her out, exile her to the jungle to sleep in the staff building, and Fletcher had the gall to be offended. But this villa was hardly a downgrade from the main manor. She could have traded every traumatic event from the last forty-eight hours for relaxing in the porch hammock. At least until Asshole Rick showed up and started man-caving the place.
Bandannas had been strung like pennant banners across the porch, marking his territory. A few lopsided spears like the one tied to his rifle had been staked in front of the entry stairs, sparkling clean and unused. He’d probably survived on Keurig coffee and break room snacks, but she had to appreciate the dedication to the bit.
When Opal joined Sheila inside, Rick resumed his patrol. He strode a wide path, eyes glued to the horizon for any oncoming threats. So, the front door was off-limits. This wasn’t going to be the Central Park stroll Fletcher hoped it’d be.
A balcony jutted off the second floor, tempting. But the thought of clinging to a tangle of vines ten feet off the ground while Rick took shots at them sounded worse than sitting through one of Finance’s budget-review meetings.
There had to be windows facing the back, maybe a door if they were lucky. They had options.
Fletcher nodded her head to the left as an unspoken answer to Waylon’s question. Even with her plan in this nebulous state, she knew it could not commence here. One stray glance away from the worn path, and they’d face off with Rick’s makeshift bayonet.
They crept, crouching, and Fletcher guided them toward theflanks of the building where the ceilings sloped lower, the jungle’s presence grew thicker, and their chances of imminent death decreased by at least 20 percent.
“What’s the floor plan like in there?” she asked. Which was code forOn a scale of one to ten, how screwed are we, because the number feels high?
“Everyone’s got bedrooms, shared bathrooms. Garages, laundry, and kitchen are off the back. The third floor’s Carlotta’s suite, but the main stairwell off the foyer will take us straight to it if we can make it there.”
Rick about-faced, and in unison, Fletcher and Waylon slammed to the earth.
“Emphasis on theif,” Fletcher muttered after spitting out a mouthful of leafy greens.
They waited until he pivoted again to hop back to their feet. Her body groaned in protest with every cautious step. Waylon, however, clearly hadn’t gotten the memo onsneaking. He trailed behind her, footsteps noisy in the underbrush.
“You could at least try to be quiet.”
