Page 186 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

He doesn’t, though, just slumps down in his chair in a way that makes me feel sorry for him.

That’ll teach me.

And maybe it does, because it occurs to me that Connor and I, we’re the same. I was taken in by him for his scheme, and he was taken in by Isabella for hers. It could happen to anyone.

That’s what I tell myself.

We spend the morning bandying about theories; then the hotel serves us lunch. We have a choice between gnocchi alla Sorrentina222 and spaghetti Nerano223 with a dessert of delizia al limone, a lemon cake with a sweet glaze. I have the spaghetti, and it’s creamy and wonderful, and it reminds me of how Shek just wanted a plate of carbonara. Maybe he’s eating at an unlimited pasta bar in the Good Place.

I hope so, at least.

I spend the afternoon on the balcony, watching how the light shifts across the water, wishing I were on one of the crisp white boats that dot the harbor. Or maybe Capri when the crowds dissipate. Despite everything, I love this place. I hope it’s not ruined now for me, forever.

When we’re starting to think about cocktails and dinner, Inspector Tucci comes back.

He’s been asking questions today, too, he tells us, and he has some answers. Not from Isabella—she’s still not talking—but from the fruits of their investigation, he says, a bit proudly, because he has something to prove.

Some of it we’ve worked out for ourselves and some of it is news. Marco the boat captain is a relative, too, for instance. Sylvie’s brother. Sophia’s brother.

This murder plot was a family affair.

“But what about the blackmail?” I say. “Was that them, too?”

“No, that was Mr. Botha.”

“What?” Harper says. “Seriously?”

“How?” Emily says.

“We found an encrypted app on his phone…”

“That’s how they communicated with me,” Connor says. “Whoever was blackmailing me.”

“Yes, we found the messages.”

Connor puts his hands on his hips. “So Shek was blackmailing me? That’s just a coincidence?”

“No,” Inspector Tucci says. “It was not.”

“I don’t follow,” I say.

“He was working with them.”

“With the Giuseppes?”

“Yes. I understand he lost a significant sum of money in an investment with you, Mr. Smith?”

Connor puffs up his chest. “That is not quite what happened, but he might see it that way.”

“How did they know?” I think it through. “Oh, wait, Marta? Marta was his publicist, too?”

“Yes.”

“He confided in her?”

“She encouraged the relationship, I believe… A young, sympathetic ear.”

“See, I’m not the only one who fell for it.”

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