Page 23 of No Words

“I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying we should gather more information before we make a final decision. And by gather more information, I mean hit the bar for free booze, okay?”

“No. Not okay. Have you even—”

“Have I even what?”

I’d been about to ask her if she’d even readThe Moment, then realized what I’d be admitting: that I’d read it (or had started reading it, anyway).

And that was far too humiliating a confession to make out loud. So instead I ground my teeth—something I’d been doing so much lately, my dentist had recommended that I wear a mouth guard at night to combat TMJ—and glared at all the happy partygoers around me. Most of them I didn’t recognize, but I was able to pick out Saul and Frannie exactly where I most expected to find them—standing in line for the bar—and Garrett where I wasn’t surprised to see him—pulling a “guild piece” from the ear of a well-dressedolder woman who could only be a donor, and who of course screamed in delighted surprise at the “trick.”

There was Molly consulting with an older man in a white chef’s jacket and black pants—the caterer, since they were both in Will Price’s perfect-looking, chrome-and-stainless-steel-appliance kitchen, which I could easily look into since his house was made almost entirely of sliding glass doors and none of the curtains had been drawn. That’s how I was able to see that each room was exquisitely decorated in masculine tones of beige and taupe and gray, not a thing out of place, even in the bedrooms, where each bed—king-sized, of course—was tightly made, the pillows piled high and all facing a wall on which hung an expertly executed piece of modern art. No flat-screen televisions in Will’s house (I had one in every room, of course, and kept them blaring all day long unless I was working, which lately was never).

But where was our host? How was I going to make him regret all of his life choices if I couldn’t even find him?

“Jo! Bernadette!”

We looked over as a lanky Black man detached himself from the crowd by the bar and approached us. It was Jerome Jarvis, this year’s national poet laureate, holding a beer in his hand.

“I was wondering when you two were going to get here,” he said, smiling.

“I could say the same thing about you.” Bernadette stood on tiptoe to give him a quick hello peck on the cheek. “Why weren’t you on the author bus?”

“I walked here from the hotel. It was a long plane ride from Iowa. No direct flights. I needed to stretch my legs a little. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one who had that idea—”

A piercing shriek split the air. “Bern! Jo!”

An attractive blond woman I recognized only too well from previous events separated herself from another crowd of people and lunged toward us. It was Kellyjean Murphy, whose witch-werewolf romance novels (written under the pen name Victoria Maynard) were all the rage.

“Oh my gosh,” Kellyjean cried, stumbling a little—not because she was drunk. Kellyjean, a mother of four and aromapath from Texas, didn’t consume alcohol or any other “unnatural substances.” No, she stumbled because she wasn’t used to the high-heeled gold sandals she had on. “Can you believe this place? Will Price must be making a fortune! I mean, I know his movies make a lot of money, but what kind of advances do you think he’s pulling in? Have you seen his pool? That waterfall? And the beach? All white sand. I hear he has it flown in from the Bahamas. I think I might start killing off some of my characters if this is the kind of money you can make from it. Ha-ha, I’m kidding, of course!”

Jerome looked at Bernadette and me tiredly. “Yeah,” he said. “Kellyjean is here. She walked over with me.” The look of pain on Jerome’s face illustrated what a long journey that must have been.

“Oh my gosh.” Kellyjean, once she got started, was like a faucet that couldn’t be turned off. She just gushed and gushed. Her broad Texas accent made the gushing all themore entertaining—or unbearable, depending on your perspective. “Jerome and I did walk here! And, boy, was that a mistake. I didn’t think it was going to be that far, but golly, halfway across that bridge, my toes started killing me.” She rubbed one of her tired feet. “But the view wasspectacular!So, are any of you takin’ Will up on his offer of a boat ride tomorrow? I sure am. The water here isamazing, so crystal clear, you could probably see mermaids through it if you got out far enough from the shore.”

Kellyjean was an adult woman who believed not only in witches and werewolves, but also mermaids. I knew this from having been at previous events with her. There was a Netflix series based on her books that was rumored to be one of the top-rated shows on the streaming service.

Kellyjean wasn’t stupid, though—no one with a career as successful as hers could be. She was simply a wide-eyed believer in all things mystical.

“How unfortunate,” Jerome said, after another quick slug of beer. “I think I have a panel tomorrow afternoon.”

“No, you don’t!” Kellyjean dropped her foot and playfully slapped his shoulder. “None of us have any panels tomorrow afternoon. They’re all in the morning.”

“Oh.” Jerome looked disappointed that his excuse hadn’t worked. This wasn’t his first rodeo with Kellyjean, either.

Kellyjean looked at Bernadette and me expectantly. “What about you two? Although you’re probably going to be sick of Will by tomorrow, Jo, since you’re sitting next to him tonight.”

I stared at her, unsure whether this was another one of Kellyjean’s flights of fancy or an actual fact. With her, it was often hard to tell. “What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you checked out the tables for tonight?” Kellyjean was doing some yoga stretches even though we were at what was essentially a public event and she was wearing a maxi dress. But it was a maxi dress with a floaty skirt, in keeping with her identity as the author of romantic supernatural lore. “They’re over on the beach, behind the pool with the sparkly waterfall. I always check where I’m going to be sitting first thing when I’m going to a dinner to make sure the caterer has me down for a vegetarian plate, and I saw your place card when I was looking for mine. Yours is at the Ernest Hemingway table, place of honor, right next to Will Price.”

Chapter Eight

Sitting next to Will Price was the furthest thing from an honor to me.

But Kellyjean didn’t know that.

And obviously whoever had done the seating chart for the welcome dinner didn’t know it, either.

“Uh,” I said, throwing a quick glance toward the pool. Long and rectangular, it took up most of the far side of the yard, sending wavy turquoise reflections splashing across the white terra-cotta flagstones as well as the lush canopy of green palm fronds above. A six-foot wall ran along the entire back of it, covered in bougainvillea and bright swirls of iridescent green tile. A steady stream of water flowed from the top of this wall to tumble into the pool below.