Page 78 of Safari Murder Party
Finding Waylon’s hand, she clenched her fingers tighter around his in three simple pulses.I’m right here. He pulsed right back. His presence kept her steady on her feet as they climbed the first set of stairs.
Distracted by the distant sizzling, they’d failed to remember how vulnerable the open stairwell was. Opal paced back out onto the landing, eyes locking onto Fletcher’s. Surprised, then darkening.
At that moment, a white-hot flash burst through the seams of the shutters, followed instantly by whip-crack thunder that buzzed in Fletcher’s teeth. The electricity flickered. Faded. Shadows flooded the staff building as rain hammered down.
For a harrowing second, the three of them stood in a saloon shoot-out. The part before everybody draws their guns, where they’re just mean-mugging one another and wondering which of their life choices landed them in this situation.
Then Opal sprinted toward them, a woman possessed.
“Get upstairs,” Waylon said, voice low. Shielding Fletcher from Opal’s catlike claws, he thrust her toward the next staircase, and Fletcher didn’t have to be told twice.
As she pawed clumsily through the darkness, the third-floor suite revealed itself in bursts and flashes each time lightning struck. A kitchenette, a bedroom with an en suite, and a final door that opened to an office with a vaguely wilted potted orchid, a few crowded filing cabinets, and a cluttered desk.
Fletcher knew Carlotta only in email chains and long-distance calls. Her habits, her quirks—those were mysteries. Where would the groundskeeper hide the master key?
A crash boomed through the building. Not thunder. More like someone getting body-slammed. Peering through the dark doorway, all Fletcher could make out were Opal’s and Waylon’s sparring silhouettes, but by the sound of it, Opal was winning. She needed to look faster.
Where where where?
Plain sight made sense given their location. But the desk, while tacked with sticky notes and scribbled reminders, was devoid of keys.
Cabinets? Filled with paperwork, a pile of books, a framed photograph of Carlotta and her son. No key.
Drawers? Snacks Fletcher pilfered and swore to repay Carlotta for, a pair of scissors, pens and pencils. Also, no key.
Inside the decorative vases? No. Freaking. Key.
A flurry of elbows and knees tumbled into the office. Unlike the Brians with their reliance on machinery or Bertram’s intimidation factors, Opal’s fast reactions made her slippery. Every time it looked like Waylon had everything under control, she slithered out of his grasp.
“Chair me,” Waylon said.
Fletcher swiveled, slamming the useless drawer shut, and pivoted toward a green roller chair. “Yes, Chef.”
The chair sailed across uneven floors, bumping over a crooked board in the middle. Waylon stripped the phone off the desk andlassoed Opal with the curlicue landline cord, reeling her into the seat. Teeth clacking, she gnawed at his arms as he roped the phone line around her shoulders.
“We don’t have to hurt each other,” Fletcher said.
“Yeah, right,” Opal bit back. “I saw what you did to Molly.”
“Molly?Who tried to stab me relentlessly and only stopped because she impaled herself after getting tranquilized by someone who wasnot me?”
Opal breezed right past rational. “For all I know, you probably whispered in Dyer’s ear, orchestrating this whole thing.”
The storm raged on outside and in Fletcher’s chest. “Opal. Do you hear yourself? What makes you think I wouldeverwant this? All I’m guilty of is wanting to earn a living wage. I came here as completely unaware as you, and you—youjust killed Sheila. With a Dyson. Who does that?”
It was hard to tell in the dark, but Fletcher was pretty sure Opal rolled her eyes. “Does Dyer’s little lapdog ever quit barking?”
“I’m a nervous chatterer!”
Waylon tied a knot in the phone line, spinning Opal to face him. “That’s enough out of you.”
“You know, Waylon, I’m glad Eliza left you,” Opal snarked. Fletcher’s stomach clenched like she’d been the one hit. Eliza. Lefthim? “Without Daddy’s money, you’re just an arrogant son of a bitch with an attitude problem. Makes me feel less bad for wanting you dead. Wait until I get Rick in here. Rick! Ri—”
Fletcher slapped a piece of packing tape over Opal’s mouth. The saleswoman fumed with muffled arguments.
Waylon’s protective devil-may-care grin seeped into his words. The sound of walls going back up. “A pleasure, as always.”
Without another word, he wheeled Opal out the doorway and sent her spinning toward Carlotta’s bedroom.
