Everyone's Dead But Us Read Online Free Page A

on Korkasi even managed to convey the message to Scott that his cash wasn’t quite up to their standards.
    When Sherebury finally shut up with his explanations and excuses, I said, “Henry Tudor is dead. He’s in our room with a bullet hole in his head.”
    I got a no-holds-barred, wide open gape from him. This time he looked at me like I existed. “What?” he managed to mumble. He looked to Scott. I explained what we’d found.
    Sherebury said, “I’ve got to call the police.”
    “Who has jurisdiction here?” I asked. In all the time we’d been coming to the island there had been no sign of any kind of official. I’d always assumed the island was officially part of Greece. Nobody ever patrolled. I presumed the staff on the island handled any dust-ups among the clientele. Then again, I’d never seen any dust-ups among the clientele or among the staff. Then again, Korkasi was the kind of place where the rich were pampered and elegance, not dust-ups, was the lifestyle of choice.
    The archeologist was back. She stomped up to Sherebury and whapped him on the shoulder and said, “I demand to see the person in charge.”
    Sherebury said, “He’s dead.”
    She looked at Scott and me then back to Sherebury. She said, “Are you kidding?”
    “No,” Sherebury said.
    I said, “We’re just beginning to deal with the problem. He is dead.”
    She looked abashed and she and her minions began to retreat back toward the sea, whether to regroup for another assault or to surrender, I wasn’t sure. Sherebury picked up his phone. He listened for a moment. “It’s still not working.” He pulled a cell phone out of a Louis Vuitton valise. I knew most cell phones didn’t work on the island. It was far from any practicable service area. He attempted several numbers then gave up. “We’ve got to tell someone,” Sherebury said. “Maybe we can send someone in a boat to Santorini.”
    I looked out at the storm. We could hear the raindrops pummeling the ceiling of the glass dome. Scott said, “Unless it’s a fairly large boat, it won’t last long in this storm.”
    I said, “If they won’t let any boats leave from Santorini, we shouldn’t ask anyone here to try it.”
    “Is a delay going to make a difference?” Sherebury asked. “I have to talk to the owner. Oh dear.” He put a hand up to his lips. “I guess the day manager is in charge for now. I’m not sure what to do. Our guests won’t want to be connected to something this unfortunate.”
    Privacy and being left alone were the desiderata of the clientele. The island prided itself on keeping out paparazzi and any other dregs of the tabloid press. One legend was that in the sixties when one of the loathsome creatures from the most egregiously vile publication had snuck onto the island, he’d been unceremoniously dumped from the top of the castle tower into the sea below. Depending on which version of the ending you believed, he either hit the rocks below and died instantly, or he managed to hit the water but drowned before he could swim to shore, or he landed in the sea, swam to safety, and left, never to return. I preferred to believe the first two stories, but I suspected the latter was closer to the truth.
    “What about the damn yacht?” Scott said. “That thing should be able to get through anything.”
    Sherebury said, “That’s not my decision to make. I’m sure whoever the new owner of the island is would want this handled discreetly.”
    “Sending the yacht for help isn’t discreet?” Scott asked. “Who cares about discreet when there’s a dead body running around.” The English teacher in me did not blurt out a correction to this impossibility.
    Sherebury said, “The rich will care no matter what.”
    It was true that whatever official investigative group got told and when didn’t matter to the dead guy. He wasn’t going anywhere. But there was a killer loose on the island. That had to be dealt with.
    “You could e-mail someone,” I