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It was behind this wall that Kellyjean had indicated that the dinner tables were arranged.

“Would you guys excuse me for a minute?” I asked. “I’m just going to go look for the restroom.”

Bernadette stared daggers at me.She knew exactly where I was going and that it wasn’t the restroom.

“Oh, sure,” Kellyjean said. “It’s over there.” She pointed in the general direction of Will’s house. “Wait till you see it. Will has the most amazing soap. It’s from Provence, France, and it’s made from all organic ingredients—pure lavender, which as you probably know soothes sadness and also helps ward off mosquitos.”

“Great,” I said, and ditched the three of them. I had a mission to complete.

This mission was going to be more difficult to accomplish than I’d thought, however, because I had my name badge dangling from my neck.

So for every two feet of progress I made toward the dining area—where I intended to swap my place card for someone else’s—I lost another foot being greeted by an enthusiastic reader—just not necessarily of my books.

“Jo Wright!” The older woman I’d seen chatting with Garrett seized my elbow. She was holding a fluffy miniature poodle and was dressed in Floridian high style: an extremely sparkly caftan, flowy white trousers, and jeweled sandals. “I’ve heard such lovely things about you. It’s so wonderful that you were able to come!”

“Thank you,” I said, politely shaking the hand she offered. Her badge said that her name was Dorothy Tifton and that she was a Gold Patron, which probably meant that she was high up there in donor status. Was she responsible for my ten-thousand-dollar stipend? “It was so nice of you to invite me.”

“Oh, that was all Will,” the woman said with a modest wave of her hand. “To be honest, I’d never heard of you until he mentioned you and said we simply had to invite you. Ionly read mysteries—and romance, of course. Is there mystery and romance in your books?”

Will? Willwas the one who’d invited me?

Was I being punked? Maybe they were starting a new version of that show, only for authors. But who would watch that?

“Um,” I said. “Yes, my books have mystery and romance. But they’re for children.” Which made it all the more strange that Will was the person who’d invited me. He’d made it clear that children’s books were so beneath his notice that he didn’t even consider them literature. “And they’re about talking cats.”

“Oh, well, then Icertainlywon’t read them.” Mrs. Tifton laughed cheerfully. “As you can see, I’m a dog person! Say hello to Daisy.”

“Hello, Daisy,” I said vaguely to the dog in her arms.

“Oh, look!” Mrs. Tifton bounced the dog up and down. The dog panted and wagged her tail. “She likes you!”

“Great. I like you, too, Daisy.” Had I stepped off the plane into an alternate reality? Now I was talking to a dog.

“Well, have a wonderful night,” Mrs. Tifton said. “Daisy and I look forward to seeing you at your events tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I said, and when Mrs. Tifton waved her dog’s paw at me as I moved past her, I waved back.

Sure. That was completely normal. A completely normal conversation on Little Bridge Island, which was a completely normal place.

No. No, this place wasnuts. I needed a drink, and right away.

Except that there was still a mad crush at the bar, and Garrett was there, too, pulling more guild coins than ever out of people’s ears.

No. Abort, abort—return to original mission. At least I was able to see that what Sharmaine had assured me was the truth: there were no underage cheerleaders—sorry, dance team members—serving or being served alcohol.

So I steeled myself and rounded the side of the pool to where Kellyjean had said dinner was going to be served.

It was a different world. After the noise and heat of the party—the chatter and music—it was like stepping from a hot, crowded nightclub into a beachside hideaway straight out of Bali.

Small, gentle waves lapped softly at a sandy white beach. Warmly lit party globes hung on strands from thick, tall palm trees, beneath which sat a half-dozen large round tables, each covered in a long white tablecloth and surrounded by ten or twelve chairs. Wineglasses and silverware marked each place setting, and glinted faintly in the half-moon that could just be seen sliding up behind the tops of the palm fronds.

I had to admit that the effect was beautiful. In the center of each table sat an old-fashioned glass hurricane lantern lit by a single dancing flame, and beside the lantern, a pile of leather-bound books. Guests determined which table they were assigned to by checking a sign at the entrance to the dining area, where a seating chart was hanging from a small palm tree. Each table was named after the author whosebooks adorned it—mostly dead authors with some affiliation to Florida, such as Tennessee Williams, Wallace Stevens, and Zora Neale Hurston.

Thanks to Kellyjean I already knew I’d been assigned to the Ernest Hemingway table. It didn’t take me long to find it—nor did it take long for me to discover that Kellyjean had been telling the truth. Someone had seated me right next to Will Price. Great.

I’d already checked the seating chart and seen that Bernadette was at the Elizabeth Bishop table. I plucked up someone’s place card from beside Bernadette’s (Drew Hartwell. No idea who she was. Possible relation to the sheriff? Was everyone on this island related to one another?) and was moving back toward the Ernest Hemingway table with the intention of swapping it with my own when a voice caused me to freeze.

“Hello?”