Free Dearly Departed by Hy Conrad

there was only one pen and it was empty. She could have died.
    And the kicker—the pièce de résistance, to keep the food theme going—was that just the night before, over a few rounds of brandy, Maury had grilled Peter about personal papers in the dead maid’s apartment that might get thrown out without a second glance.
    In reality, Amy’s decision to stay in Paris couldn’t have made much of a difference. The Steinbergs had remained in their room for much of the extra twenty-four hours, where Laila could have slipped “accidentally” on a bar of soap or entangled her neck in the cords of the venetian blinds. None of this happened. And Amy had spent the evening alone in her room, eating a room service burger but skipping the fries. She thought about watching something on the hotel’s pay-per-view but decided to call Marcus instead. They had Skyped for over an hour, sharing small jokes and whispered intimacies, which turned out to be much more satisfying than any romantic comedy.
    Peter and the rest of the tour were doing fine, as far as Amy knew. Her weather app was announcing fair skies. The new hotel was supposed to be great. And the wake’s venue was booked and confirmed. True, during her check-in with Peter last night, he had sounded a little stressed. But Peter was like that. It could be the end of the world or a hangnail. She hadn’t asked. And since he probably would have mentioned the end of the world, she was betting on the hangnail.
    Amy was in a window seat toward the rear of the plane, trying not to think about the trays of warm macadamia nuts being served up front. She looked out the thick glass at the rugged terrain, then reached for her in-flight magazine and checked the map in back. They must be somewhere over Bulgaria. Did Bulgaria have mountains? She was vaguely aware now of someone settling into the empty aisle seat. When she glanced up, she saw Laila smiling at her sweetly across the empty middle seat.
    â€œWhy did you stay behind?” Laila asked.
    It was unexpected, but Amy treated it as an innocent inquiry. “To make sure you were all right and that no travel complications popped up. All part of the service.”
    â€œIt was my fault, you know.” She was still a little weak from her ordeal. “Maury always warns me about having more than one EpiPen on me. Not that an incident happens often, but when you travel sometimes . . .”
    A detective friend had once informed Amy that the best way to get away with murder was to give your intended victim an “accident” in a foreign country. The change in routine made it easy. And the police were never as diligent about following through with accident-prone tourists.
    â€œWhy was your pen empty?”
    Laila looked embarrassed. “It wasn’t empty. It malfunctioned. Maury picked it up at the restaurant yesterday and had it tested. Anyway, I should have asked the waiter about nuts. Maury is always good about asking.”
    â€œNot this time.” Amy tried to say it with a smile. “This time he recommended a dish with a chestnut stuffing.”
    â€œPlease don’t tease him about that,” Laila said, her hand resting on Amy’s forearm. “He feels so bad. You saw how he was.”
    That much was true. When he’d heard the news about his wife, Maury Steinberg had rushed to the clinic and had done everything a concerned husband should. And when he’d heard that his dining suggestion had been the culprit, he’d been nearly inconsolable. Laila literally had had to pull herself out of her sickbed to comfort him. Amy had seen it personally, both of them sitting on the edge of the bed, each Steinberg apologizing to the other for enabling Laila’s near-death experience. Only a cynic would have doubted his sincerity.
    â€œAre those the Dovetails?” Laila was staring directly into Amy’s eyes, and it took Amy a few seconds to realize she was