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 the more 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 was spectacular! So, are any of you takin’ Will up on his offer of a boat ride tomorrow? I sure am. The water here is amazing, 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.
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. I only read mysteries—and romance, of course. Is there mystery and romance in your books?”
Will? Will was the one who’d invited me?