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“Well,” observed Patrick, “when you fall as far as Orlov did, the sorts of bruises or scrapes you might get in a struggle—you know, fighting for your life at the top of a cliff—might be lost amidst the more cataclysmic injuries. The fatal ones.”
“Of course,” I agreed politely. There was something sly about where this was going, and I wasn’t able to read the room. They couldn’t possibly think I was strong enough to win a “struggle” with Yevgeny Orlov at the top of a precipice. Perhaps I was a seductress who enticed him to the edge and gave him one good push from behind. But a cage fight above an abyss? No. “So, what does this mean? It’s terrible whatever happened, accident or suicide, and you move on? We all move on?”
“Where were you last night?”
“Ah, that. Your raison d’être for popping by today.”
Patrick looked confused.
“The princess wasn’t a very good student, but the royal family all speak French,” I told him.
“I wasn’t—”
“Don’t give it a thought,” I said. “No, I wasn’t at Fort Knocks. I can assure you both that was my sister.” When they remained quiet, I continued, “I’ve already seen the pictures of her on the Vegas entertainment blogs and the photo in the newspaper: the article about Futurium hoping to buy this patch of earth.”
“Everyone there thinks it was you,” Felicia told me. “Everyone.”
“I expected that.”
“We spoke to your sister this morning.”
“This morning? Why in the world didn’t you speak to her yesterday?”
“Investigations move at their own pace,” the woman said, not answering my question.
“Well, I suppose you confirmed that she was at Fort Knocks last night and she was out at Red Rocks on Sunday. And she took my car that day.”
“We confirmed nothing of the sort. Now, I did point out to her that both your mother and Orlov died in a similar fashion.”
“God. Did she dredge up meaningless family history and bore you with her amateur psychology about us? About me?”
Again, Felicia and Patrick looked at each other. Instead of answering me, Felicia said, “Your sister claims she wasn’t at Red Rocks on Sunday. She and her lawyer were firm about that.”
“Her lawyer? She already has a bloody lawyer?” I didn’t ask, but I was confident that her attorney was someone from Futurium.
“She does. She was clear: she was at the natural history museum on Sunday, and she was in her apartment last night.”
“And you believe that?”
Felicia pressed on. “We tried to find video of this writer—Britt Collins—at Cocoon. The one you insist you had brunch with.”
“Good. I’m pleased we have that corroboration,” I told her.
She shook her head. “They have no video at the restaurant.”
I felt a prickle of paranoia. “How convenient,” I murmured.
“That means that while we have no reason to doubt your story, we also can’t confirm it. We haven’t been able to find your Britt Collins.”
One of the flaps to my cabana fluttered in the breeze, and there was a cerulean column of sky. “What about our brunch receipt?” I asked. “She picked up the tab.”
Patrick shook his head. “Doesn’t seem to be the case. Now, there were tables with two women.”
“Okay, then. There is a witness I was there.”
“The waitress says no woman looked like you. Or, I guess, Lady Di,” said Felicia. “We showed her pictures.”
“So, they’ve bought the staff at Cocoon. Futurium has.”
