Page 165 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

“This is it?” Connor says.

“No, it is up the stairs. A little journey, but it is worth it.”

“Where are the BookFace Ladies?” I ask Harper, shading my eyes with my sunglasses and wishing, once again, for a hat.

“Up there.” She points. “In the town square, I think.”

“You sure you’re okay to do this alone? Inspector Tucci did tell us to stay together.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Don’t worry. I’ll back in a few minutes.”

“Meet us at Wine and Drugs,” Sylvie says. “It is at the top of the stairs.”

“I’m sure I’ll need both by then.”

She leaves, and Oliver replaces her at my side. I’ve been keeping my distance since Inspector Tucci stirred up my suspicions during my interrogation. He’s given me a couple looks, but I’m hoping he thinks that I’m feeling shy or confused after last night.

Which I am.

I mean, you would be, too, if you half thought you’d slept with someone who was trying to kill you and they’d made you orgasm twice.

“Wine or drugs?” he says with a glint in his eye.

“I should probably stay away from both.”

“Given what’s happened I tend to agree with you.” He reaches out his hand, and I take it, my doubts melting away. A man who looks at me like a snack he can’t wait to have can’t be plotting to kill me, can he?

Then again, isn’t an orgasm also called a little death?

Sometimes I hate my brain.

“Ready for the climb?”

“The Miley song?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

We head for the stairs. They’re steep and twisty, and I’m sweating and out of breath by the time we get to the top of them. I definitely need to get back to my morning swims and throw in a run or two for good measure.

At the top, I turn and look out at the view, which is breathtaking. Unlike in the other towns we passed through, there are a lot of trees in Ravello, and the shade makes a huge difference in the temperature. The water is blue and calm, the sky is clear, and even the tourists seem less frazzled than they did in the hustle of Amalfi.

If someone weren’t trying to kill me, I’d say that this was the prettiest spot in all of Italy.

“Here we are, right this way.” Sylvie motions to a small shop whose black door is cut into the stone. The sign, WINE AND DRUGS, swings above it. “We will have a delicious wine tasting and then we will have lunch.”

We follow her inside, and a shopkeeper in his mid-fifties greets us. The store is lined with bottles of wine, and there are several set out on oak barrels ready for our tasting.

“Where are the drugs?” Guy asks.

“What? Oh, the name,” the shopkeeper says. He has a pasta belly and a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. “There are no drugs.”

“No drugs,” Guy says.

“No.”

“Well, that’s bullshit.”

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