Read Online A Killer Retreat by Tracy Weber - Free Book Online Page B

that—more intimate. She touched Helen’s shoulder and whispered into her ear, apparently comforting her. The connection between these two women seemed deeper than blood. They had to be friends.
    The rest of the group seated at the table ranged in age from mid-teens to mid-seventies. I recognized some as fellow resort guests. Others were, I suspected, locals. The locals slouched comfortably in loose-fitting clothing. The New Yorkers wore rigid postures and facial expressions that seemed almost as tight as their well-tailored formal wear.
    I entertained myself by mentally sorting them into categories:
    Orcas Islander yes, Orcas Islander no. Orcas Islander yes …
    Michael interrupted my pseudo-scientific study of human nature.
    â€œKate? Care to join the conversation at this table?”
    I felt my face redden. “Oh, sorry.”
    â€œI asked if you’d like to get a bottle of wine.” Michael said.
    I tried to be a good girlfriend and pay attention, at least long enough to answer Michael’s question, but Monica’s voice boomed across the restaurant, drawing my attention back to her table like a magnet.
    â€œI’m telling you, Emilee. That was no squirrel outside my cabin, it was a rat!” She gestured toward the kitchen and spoke even louder. “I’ll bet this place is crawling with the scaly-tailed vermin. We’ll be lucky to get out of here without catching the plague.”
    The room hushed. Emmy cringed and looked down at her wine glass. Josh sat up straighter, but said nothing.
    Bruce put his hand on his wife’s forearm. “Please, Monica, keep your voice down. I’m sure it was a field mouse.”
    â€œField mouse, my ass. That thing was bigger than Bandit. Probably even has rabies.”
    Emmy gripped the table so hard her knuckles turned white. Her upper lip trembled.
    Michael tapped his finger on my shoulder. “Earth to Kate—are you with us?”
    I waved him away. “Shh, I’m eavesdropping!”
    Emmy’s mother leaned across the table until her face was less than six inches from Monica’s. Her lips pulled back in an angry sneer. “I swear to God if you don’t—”
    The waitress picked that moment to deliver our salads. “Which one of you ordered the dressing on the side?”
    â€œThat would be her,” Michael said. “The rude one.”
    I gave the waitress a distracted smile. “It’s mine, thanks.”
    I tried to keep spying on the other table’s conversation in between sweet, crunchy bites of baby greens, roasted pumpkin seeds, and dried cranberries, but it was useless. The clamor had died down, and I couldn’t make out their words. I turned my attention back to my own meal.
    Rene played with her salad, barely touching it.
    â€œDo you want my dressing?” I asked her.
    She pushed the plate aside. “No thanks, I’m not in the mood for salad.”
    I assumed she was saving room for double dessert.
    â€œLet’s order some bubbly,” Michael said.
    â€œNone for me, thanks,” Rene replied.
    Sam’s expression was worried. “Still not feeling good, honey?”
    Rene smiled at him wanly. “I’m OK. It kind of comes and goes.”
    The waitress set a basket of freshly baked bread and roasted elephant garlic on the table. I pulled back the cloth cover, releasing the pungent aroma of warm, spreadable deliciousness.
    Rene’s face turned pasty gray—the color of contaminated putty. “The garlic smell in this place is pretty overwhelming.”
    Now I was concerned. The world according to Rene had four major food groups: chocolate, sugar, caffeine, and pasta. Garlic was practically her middle name. Skipping salad to save room for dessert? That was classic Rene. Not savoring the smell of elephant garlic? She must be dying.
    I laid the still-steaming slice of bread on my plate. “Are you sure you’re OK?”
    Rene never