Chapters 6-11

This is Murder on Sex Island by Joe Firestone, read by the author, Joe Firestone. And that's me. In the last chapters... Luella has been going undercover as a contestant on Sex Island. She recently found David G. in her bathtub. Tasha, who's missing a thumbnail, was the last one to see him.

Chapter 6 It took me a few seconds to get my bearings. It had been a short-lived relief encountering no-live intruders. But someone had been in my apartment during the six hours I'd been gone and dropped a dead body in my bathtub. From the looks of it, he'd been dead for quite a while. Timing of it all made me wonder if Tasha's off-compound outing was a planned distraction.

Anyway, someone out there wanted me to know that David G. had been murdered. I knelt down to get a closer look. I would have put money on the fact that he'd been dead for at least 24 hours, maybe more. I'd been teaching myself forensic science with books from the library and embarrassingly old episodes of forensic files. In the 24 to 72 hour window, the internal organs decomposed and the body began to smell.

He was definitely ripe. I touched his arm and it was no longer stiff. Rigor mortis had subsided. Another sign it might have been more than 24 hours. David's hair was disheveled. His skin looked pale, almost gray, but he was fully dressed in dark jeans and a white t-shirt that was somehow spotless. Somebody must have redressed him at some point.

From where I was kneeling, I could see there was some skin discoloration on the back of his neck. His blood had likely pooled there before relocating to my bathtub, which meant he must have been lying down at the prior location. I imagined his back was discolored too. With his t-shirt on, I couldn't be sure, and I was hesitant to move his body too much before the police arrived. I scanned for any obvious cause of death. There were no wounds, no blood, no random bruises, no signs of asphyxia.

Maybe an overdose? Poison was possible. I noticed a strange circular cut under his navel, but it didn't seem to be a fatal wound. I looked at his face. His eyes were open, but they were glassy and dry. I kept thinking how young he looked, but I needed to keep my emotions at bay. At that moment, it was imperative I operate with a scientific brain. If I let myself feel what I really felt, I'd be inconsolable.

I took some pictures with my phone and went to sit on the toilet to type out some notes and nearly fell in. Whoever had been in there had left the seat up. How did I not notice this before? I called John. He answered out of breath. I'm on the elliptical. What's up? I found David G., I said. What? Where? My bathtub. You're joking, he said. I heard beeping, then the whoosh-whoosh of the elliptical machine stopped. Looks like murder, I said. Don't call the police. I'll be right there.

In general, I answer to the check signers, but it felt wrong not involving the authorities at this point. David G. wasn't coming back to life anytime soon. I called Stephanie and told her the same thing I told John. Does John know, she asked.

It was her first and only question. Yes, I said. I'll be there soon. I figured I had about ten minutes to grab a robe and put away any of my belongings that screamed double identity before anybody got there. I was never one to futz with the crime scene, but I wasn't trying to out Luella as fictional either. Apparently, I had misjudged the time because I heard a knock at the door about 90 seconds after I hung up with Stephanie.

I shoved the rest of my wigs in an empty suitcase, zipped it, and kicked it under the bed. I ran to open the door. John stood there, out of breath. You got here fast, I said. Well, he heaved. You know. I let him in, but John wouldn't go past the middle of the living room. I gestured toward the bathroom. He's in there. John looked down. Uh-huh. Did you, uh, call Stephanie? Is she coming? I should probably call Stephanie, right?

He took out his phone and began fiddling with it. On her way, I told him. John paced the floor, then stopped. He looked up. You called her? Yeah. What'd she say? Just then, someone else knocked on the door. We both jumped. John lowered his voice to a stage whisper. Are you sure he's dead? I'm sure. Shit! Stephanie's gonna make this a whole thing.

It is a whole thing, I said. Either John was guilty of something horrible or on very good drugs. No, I know, I know. I just don't think we need the police involved yet. It'll make everything a nightmare. He was pacing so fast I thought he might forge a small road down the middle of the fake wooden floor. John, he's dead. Are you sure? he asked. Yes.

But why is he here in your room? It's like, did someone know you were investigating his disappearance? I don't know, I said. I didn't tell anyone, but maybe Stephanie did, John said, biting into his raw thumb. The more I talked with John, the more I felt like an accomplice to something I didn't want anything to do with. The knocking had become more insistent. John plopped down on the couch and put his head in his hands. I went to answer the door.

Stephanie stood in the doorway looking like hell, truly like a cat that got run over by a large truck and managed to live. In retrospect, I should have left her there, because the minute she entered the apartment, I think she lost her mind. She brushed past me, only addressing John on the couch. What the hell is going on, John? Did you call the police? If John was at an 8, Stephanie was at an 11. John stood, waving his arms over his head and walking in a circle.

I don't know what's going on. I just got here two minutes ago, he screamed. Well, then call the police. Stephanie's face was now a shade of red I'd categorized as true beat. I hadn't seen this side of her before. Are you sure? John hissed. Because once we do that, we are opening a huge can of worms, Stephanie. Do you want to see him? I asked. No! They both yelled at the same time. Only Stephanie followed me into the bedroom.

In my haste to let John in, I'd accidentally closed the bathroom door, making this moment feel much more dramatic reveal than I'd intended. I glanced over at Stephanie hoping she had a strong stomach. I opened the bathroom door and the ferret smell hit us again. Stephanie screamed. She staggered backward out of the small bathroom, then slowly made her way back in. Over and over, she moaned, no, no, no, no.

as if that might bring him back. Stephanie couldn't take her eyes off David G.'s face. I scanned the bathroom for any clues I'd missed earlier, and that's when I saw my tooth case. On the sink. Out in the open. Just to be clear, what I'm talking about is a small red plastic case that says dental prosthetics do not eat on top in case someone very stupid mistakes it for a snack cake holder.

I looked to Stephanie, hoping she was still focused on David G. Of course she was. I crossed over to the sink and palmed the case. And that's the moment Stephanie lost interest in the dead body. What's that you've got, she asked. What? What are you holding? I racked my brain for something one could find in a bathroom. Lube, I finally said. Oh, Stephanie replied.

but I could tell she wasn't buying it. She shifted her focus back to David G.'s dead body. She peeled back the plastic shower curtain and took another good look. She put her hand over her mouth and sank down to her knees on the cold tile floor. I'm sorry, I said, studying her face. She looked devastated. She closed the curtain but stayed kneeling. John doesn't think we should call the police, she said in a very small voice. What do you think we should do?

Call the police, I said. Yes, yes, I think so too. It's going to make producing this TV show a living hell, but David G is, oh God. Stephanie took a deep inhale, stood, and left the bathroom. I shoved the toothpaste into an empty drawer near the sink and joined her where she'd taken a seat on my bed. She'd pulled out her phone and started dialing the police when John walked in.

Stephanie, what are you doing? John looked sweaty and pale. I'm calling the police. We can't hide this. Stop. Hang up. John was practically foaming at the mouth. But it was too late. An operator had picked up. Hi, my name is Stephanie Hilson. I'm a producer with Sex Island. There's a dead body at 30 Beach Street, apartment 7E. John resumed his anxious pacing in my bedroom, which suddenly felt very small with three grown adults in it.

Stephanie, are you listening to me? John shouted. Stephanie looked up at him angrily, holding her hand over the phone. What? she whispered. You're going to deal with this yourself. I'm out of here. And with that, John stormed out of the apartment and slammed the door behind him. Stephanie and I looked to each other. Why was John so afraid of the police seeing David G.'s dead body when he couldn't even look at it himself?

I tried to ask her about John, but she just sat there softly weeping. I offered her a glass of water, which she took but didn't drink. The terrible part of me wondered whether her tears were genuine. About 30 minutes later, the police came. The two lead detectives introduced themselves, a Detective Sandro and a Detective Johannes. Johannes had a mustache that would have made Tom Selleck jealous. He put us in the living room and told us to sit tight.

Eventually, he and Detective Sandro sat down and asked us some basic questions. Do you know this man? Where did you find him? How did you find him? Have you noticed anyone acting strangely today? More police came. They took pictures and dusted for fingerprints. Ultimately, they bagged David G.'s body and wheeled him out on a stretcher. As they squeakily made their way down the hallway, I saw one door open just a little bit. All I could see inside was someone's long, black hair.

Chapter 7. After the detectives had left for the night, Stephanie suggested I relocate to an apartment on the fourth floor, seeing as my current place was considered an active crime scene. She kept insisting it was for my safety.

I figured if someone could break in and drop off a dead body on the seventh floor, they could probably do something just as horrible three floors below, but I didn't say anything. She stood watching me from the living room as I threw everything into two suitcases as fast as I could.

Stephanie gave me the key fob for my new apartment and told me to call her if there were any issues. She looked like she might collapse. When I asked if she was okay, she insisted she just needed some rest. Did you know David G. before coming here? She asked. I didn't, I said. It's just strange. You show up here and a day later he turns up dead in your bathtub. What are you saying, I asked. Sorry, I must be tired. Good night, Luella.

Night, I said, but she was already halfway down the hall. The new place had the same layout as my old one, so I made myself at home pretty quickly. An hour later, I got a text from Issa. Hi, Luella. Tomorrow's shoot is canceled. Enjoy your day. Seeing as a cast member's dead body had just turned up, enjoy seemed like an odd verb choice. Issa certainly was a strange bird.

That night I didn't get much sleep and when I woke up the next morning it was somehow already 9am. Thursday. I hadn't worked as Luella in a while and my body felt sore from all the activity. I took a long shower in an untainted bathtub and ordered delivery from that cafe I'd gone to yesterday. A raspberry croissant, hash browns, and a breakfast quesadilla. It arrived a half hour later, and I ate it all within 90 seconds.

John was obviously unhinged, but I couldn't stop thinking about Stephanie. Her reaction to seeing David G.'s body in the bathtub was so odd, to say the least. She was both distraught and removed, and our conversation from last night was haunting me. I drank a pot of coffee as I read up on her file. Stephanie Hilson was recently divorced with two kids, both of them now tweenagers who lived with their dad back in L.A. She'd worked as an executive producer of Sex Island for the last five seasons.

Before that, she'd been a producer on a show called Roamers, which I sort of remembered being about guys who drove around trying to competitively pick up women. High-quality stuff. Her birthday was November 2nd.

I looked up her astrological sign for kicks. A Scorpio. Loyal, devoted, passionate. Sure, why not? I got dressed and decided to pay Stephanie a visit, check in on her. I texted her, asking her which room she was in. She responded right away, 7F. So Stephanie lived on the seventh floor just next door to my old place. Could she have heard someone or something going into my apartment yesterday?

In my opinion, everyone involved in the show was living way too close together. No wonder somebody got murdered. Maybe it was the case of the too loud stereo or the incense that incensed so much anger that someone killed somebody else. All right. Sorry. I know. Real dead guy. Not funny. I put on the wig and the teeth, some red lipstick, and a short white knit dress I felt I couldn't really pull off even as Luella. I took the elevator up to the seventh floor and walked down the hall to 7F.

There it was, separated from my first apartment by what I assumed was a very thin wall. I knocked twice. Stephanie opened the door within seconds, looking scarily radiant. Her eyes were rimmed red, but she had her brown hair pulled back in a high ponytail, and she was wearing a blazer on a Thursday morning inside her apartment. Very weird.

Her apartment had the same layout as both of mine, but she had little personal touches everywhere. Framed photos of her with her ex-husband and kids, a large tapestry on the wall, a blanket on the couch. A tea kettle whistle sounded. Tea, she offered. Sure. Stephanie poured hot water into a big yellow teapot. Is green okay? She sniffled. Cookie?

Less than 12 hours ago, we both saw a dead body and now she was offering me cookies? You okay? I asked her. She was moving around like a hummingbird. A crying hummingbird. Huh? Oh, I'm fine. I'm glad you stopped by. I wanted to talk to you. Sit, sit. She blew her nose into a tissue and threw it into the garbage. From where I was standing, I could see the can was nearly full of them. I sat down on the couch next to a sequined throw pillow that said Girl Boss.

Stephanie handed me one of two steaming mugs. She sat beside me quietly blowing on her tea and staring straight ahead. Stephanie? She quickly shook her head and looked at me. Oh, I meant to tell you you're doing really well on the show. What? Ratings-wise, people love you. They think you have a lot of potential for sexual chaos. That wasn't a sentence I'd forget any time soon.

I felt a renewed gratitude that my ex-husband hated reality TV. If he saw me like this, I think his head would fall off. Fall off and roll right out the door. Our Staten Island house was unleveled. Well, thanks. She took a sip of her tea then carefully set her mug down on a coaster. It had one of those drawings of a 1950s woman on it and it said, I drink for your health. I read it a couple times over before it started to make sense to me.

Maybe I needed more coffee this morning. She clapped her hands together and turned toward me. Luella, I wanted to ask you, are you planning to continue your investigation? Yes, I said. I only ask because I'm sure the local police are going to conduct their own investigation independently. I'm going to continue, I said. Okay, well, do what you need to do and let me know if we can be of any help. She took another gulp of tea.

I nodded and took a sip. Lord almighty, it was hot. How was she drinking this? What's John's deal, I asked. At that, Stephanie shoved a shortbread cookie into her mouth. She seemed to swallow it whole like a snake would do to a small beaver. Oh, he's fine. Last night he wasn't acting normal. Yeah, I asked, blowing on my tea.

I only met him when we started working together a few months ago, and he doesn't tend to socialize outside of work. I'm sure, like everybody, he's got some skeletons in his closet. She smiled at me, then grabbed another tissue and blew her nose. I wondered what kind of skeletons. Stephanie continued. I think he and David Jean knew each other from way back. She paused. Luella, do you think this was a suicide?

She searched my eyes for something between reassurance and corroboration. I don't, I said. Well, that's too bad, she said. That's too bad, I asked. Oh, you know I didn't mean it like that. She waved her hand in front of her. So what will you do today to investigate? I was going to talk to the cast, I said. Where, she asked, with what seemed like a tinge of passive aggressiveness.

Where do you suggest? You don't know about Cantina? She asked. I shook my head. Well, on days off, the cast mostly hangs out at this bar in town called Cantina. They're not supposed to leave campus, but keeping them all within the compound can be like herding cats. Anyway, you might learn something useful if you go. I couldn't get a good read on Stephanie. Was she actually trying to help me?

She'd clearly been crying, but lots of people cry for all kinds of messed up reasons. One time in the Port Authority bus station, I saw a finance bro bawling his eyes out. And when I asked what the trouble was, he said he was just really tired and his tooth kind of hurt. Anyway, I figured this was my cue to leave. I stood and nodded to the mug. Thanks for the tea. Oh, Luella.

I realized with the rush we didn't tell you some of the move-in basics. There's a pantry and group fridge on two. Take whatever you want. She rummaged in her pocket and pulled out a key. And here's your mailbox key. Your mailbox number will correspond to your original room, 7E. Copy that, I said. I took the mailbox key and she brought me in for a big hug. Take care of yourself, Luella. What the hell did that mean? I left Stephanie's room feeling strange, like she didn't trust me at all. But why?

As I took the elevator down, I checked my phone. I had five messages, all from Sophie. Your cats stink. Mail was piling up. Why is mail for Luella Van Horn coming to your house? She is on Sex Island. Your friend? I love her. Why is she friends with you? For the record, Meatloaf and Meatball did not stink, and in fact, they both smelled incredible. But I was comforted knowing they were getting some company, even if it was from the grumpiest woman alive.

Weirdness with Stephanie aside, I did want to figure out the connection between John and David G. I intended to read up on John's file, see where it might overlap with David G.'s personal history. First, I wanted to check my mail. You never knew. Maybe whoever left David G. in my bathtub also sent me a thank you note. Or maybe there was some tie to whoever lived in 7E before me. I arrived on the first floor and eventually found my way to the mailroom, a small area behind the elevators.

I found 7E's mailbox and unlocked it. Inside, there was a grocery store coupon, an advertising mailer for a local sandwich shop, and a small black envelope. The envelope was made of a heavyweight, high-quality paper like a wedding invitation. I turned it over, and then my heart stopped. In black-white print, the envelope was addressed to Marie. I looked around, and finding myself alone, I opened the envelope slowly.

Chapter 8 Most people assume a random scary envelope might contain some kind of airborne horror powder, but for whatever reason I wasn't getting an anthrax vibe. I got the sense that whoever sent this letter wanted me scared, but not dead. Why else would they address the note to Marie? My blood ran cold thinking of all the people who could have sent it. Possibly the convicted murderer, Taylor Bill.

Or Mark Lasseter, the man I wrongfully sent to jail before I realized Taylor Bell was the bad guy. Maybe my ex-husband, if he'd had a few too many beers and got to digging around. I still wasn't sure how much he knew and didn't know about Luella. Nothing like an ominous letter to make me realize how many men out there wanted me living in fear. Inside the envelope was a 3x5 inch black card. In neat white writing, it said, I know who you are.

I can help. Was this why Stephanie told me to check my mail? Did she send this to me? If so, why would she have hired me in the first place? Why the Tea and Cookies Act? I got the feeling she thought I was the one who killed David G. Was this all some kind of trap? There was no address on the envelope, just my name. Whoever sent this to me must have lived within the compound.

Who here would know to call me Marie? Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe there was another person named Marie who lived in 7E just before me, who needed some anonymous person's help. Doubtful, but it was briefly comforting. I tried to put Taylor Bell out of my mind for now. Just then I heard someone coming. I shoved the letter into my purse and tried my best to look like I wasn't on the brink of a panic attack. I yanked on my mailbox key, but it was stuck in the lock.

I turned it to the left, then to the right, but the stupid little key wouldn't budge. I tried wiggling it up and down, which didn't do much besides make a whole lot of metal jangling noise. I needed to get out of this mailroom or my heart would explode. Little chunks of Luella would be plastered all over the mailboxes. I'd ruin so many people's J.Crew catalogs. And that's what Phil walked into. Hot Phil.

Phil, who as it turned out, smelled like sunshine even indoors. Hey, you okay? he asked. Fine, I'm fine, I said shaking the little key like my life depended on it. He shook his head and laughed. These things take a little getting used to. Here, watch. May I? I nodded and Phil stepped in, brushing my elbow with the back of his hand. He pushed the key in, lifted it up, and removed it like it was the easiest thing in the world.

I felt both embarrassed and angry, 60-40. Also, unfortunately, a little turned on from the hand-to-elbow contact, so more like 60-40-10. The math works because, well... Because Luella gives 110%. Don't feel bad. It took me like three weeks to learn how to do that, and now I'm going to show off, he said. I tried to laugh, but no noise came out. That envelope weighed in my bag like an anvil.

Hey, what are you doing right now? He asked, lightly punching my arm. Nothing, I said, trying desperately to sound upbeat. Let's get a cup of coffee on me. You can get one of those... Caramel mocha looties or with whipped cream and the pumpkin milk or whatever. Mocha looties, I asked. Yeah, they can do mocha looties with soy milk or almond milk or pumpkin milk.

No way. I was smiling in spite of myself. Come on, you look like you could use a pumpkin milk with extra pumpkin. He put his arm around me playfully. I couldn't tell if he was actually charming or just reminiscent of those cool boys in high school I never stood a chance with. I was exhausted and overwhelmed, and I had just been threatened through the mail, and yet...

And yet, I felt a flicker of excitement at being taken out to coffee by hot Phil. And maybe this wasn't a date. Maybe Phil knew something about the David G. situation. Maybe this was all part of the investigation. It was unlikely, seeing as he was dimmer than a busted light bulb, but I'd been surprised before. Chapter 9

Phil took me to a nearby Starbucks on the Sex Island compound. Over pumpkin-flavored lattes, Phil told me goofy stories of his childhood. Finding a lost dog and naming her Stinky, a competitive local turkey trot. Climbing to the top of a tall tree only to realize he didn't know how to get down, Wisconsin lore. Talking with Phil felt like a respite. He had such a nice smile. At one point he did hold up a sugar packet and ask me, what is sugar?

But besides that, he made for fairly good company. My coffee cup had been empty for a bit. I could have kept sitting there for another couple hours if I didn't have a murder case to solve and all. He asked if I wanted to get some food. I should head back. I told him. Damn, he said, revealing that dimple again. He was unfortunately unbelievably attractive. We laughed the whole walk back to the apartment about what I have no idea.

I looked at the time and realized I'd been off the clock for too long. Crap. We got in the elevator and he pushed the button for the seventh floor. You live on seven? I asked. No, you do. He smiled. I don't. I said, smiling back at him. Yes, you do, he said with a laugh. I don't. Yes, you do. He was twirling a lock of my wig now. I hoped he didn't realize it was fake.

I really don't. He dropped the smile, looking concerned. Where do you live? Not telling you. I poked his chest. His rock-hard chest. And then I saw something that looked... like anger flash across his eyes. The elevator dinged at seven, the doors opened, and neither of us got out. Where do you live, I asked him, trying to sound playful.

What happened to our mood five minutes ago, I wondered. It suddenly felt tense, like he was either going to kiss or kill me. Then he held the back of my head and brought me close and kissed me. He tasted like vanilla and smoke. His lips were soft and forceful at the same time. I felt tingly everywhere, like I was melting, like my head was about to float off. It was a fantastic kiss.

And then I felt the wig slip under his grasp. Oh, that stupid, stupid wig. I awkwardly extricated myself, shifting my wig back to the front from where it slipped. He smiled at me. He had my red lipstick smeared all over his mouth. I gotta go, I said. Okay, I'll take the stairs. You take the elevator. That way we can both keep our secrets for now.

He winked at me and backed out, maintaining eye contact as the elevator doors closed on him. See on, sit. I felt like I was high. I needed to get it together. I was here to solve a murder case. I'd gotten a threatening letter in a mailbox that meant somebody knew where I was and, more disturbingly, who I was. Just then, my phone buzzed. To my great relief, it was another text from my elderly cat sitter, Sophie.

You hear Sex Island David G. body found? What's your friend know? Nothing, Sophie. Well, nothing yet.

Chapter 10. I got back to my apartment and decided the rest of the day would be a wash. I wasn't thinking straight and figured some sleep might help. I'd start fresh the next day. So I took out my teeth, hung up my wig, and went to bed at 8 p.m. I woke up the next morning at 5 a.m., my brain abuzz. Friday. I made a pot of coffee and began to theorize.

The apartment smelled vaguely like a woman's perfume, but I didn't think much of it at the time. After a good night's sleep, I already felt better, clearer-headed, ready to solve this thing. I took out a notebook and jotted down what I knew so far. The way I saw it, David G. was not a random killing. The fact that he was found dead in my bathroom raised a red flag. This was internal.

The only way to get into the building was with a key fob. So that narrowed down the suspects to the people who lived in the building. Or friends of people who lived in the building. Or friends of friends of people. Okay, and we were back to square one.

Something about this situation made me think his killer knew him, maybe even knew him well. I remembered there were no visible signs of struggle except for that strange incision around his belly button. I started paging through all the documents the producers gave me. crew lists, cast lists. There had to be a list of everyone who lived in the building, but the closest I found was a chart of everybody's dietary restrictions. I checked to see if David G. had any allergies. Just clams.

Murder by clams did seem innovative, but no, no. There would be signs of an allergic reaction. According to the crew list, there were approximately 75 people working on the production of Sex Island. Then there were the 30 original cast members, which by now had dwindled down to the final seven. Eight, if you counted me, which I didn't. Perhaps one of the 22 disgruntled ex-cast members had returned to seek revenge?

But Stephanie and John had claimed there'd been no outside visitors. It seemed like security around here was minimal, but maybe there were measures I wasn't told about. I thought back to my first day on set. How many crew people had I made regular and direct contact with? The other cast members, the producers, the hair and makeup ladies, and Issa. Issa was interesting to me. Young, smart.

underappreciated and overworked. She must have had opportunity, but what motive could she have? Maybe she and David G. had something going on the side? Maybe David G. was a monster off camera and this was her ultimate act of revenge? It was certainly a possibility. I wrote down Issa on my list of suspects. The hair and makeup ladies, Carla and Hannah, were also overworked and underappreciated, but they didn't strike me as the killing type.

They were connected at the hip. If one of them had done it, the other would have known about it. Maybe they did it together? I put both their names under Issa's. I wondered about the director. I still hadn't met him yet, but I assumed he knew David G. pretty well. His name was George Stryker, and according to his file, he directed every season of Sex Island since season three.

I knew from the message boards he had a reputation for sleeping with contestants and a bottomless pina colada policy while he was on set. Seemed more like a sleazebag than a killer, but I'd hate to underestimate his potential. I wrote his name down and made a note to seek him out once I got to set that day. I felt strangest about the producers.

For some reason, Stephanie didn't trust John, and John didn't trust Stephanie. I didn't trust either one of them, and at least one of them didn't trust me. Both were put on the suspect list. That left me with the cast. So far, I'd only really talked with Tasha and Phil. Tasha seemed more sad than anything else, but I'd caught her spying on me twice now, so I couldn't quite rule her out.

Frankly, Phil was an attractive idiot, and I wasn't sure how much he was actually capable of besides stacking blocks. Even Legos seemed a bit advanced for Phil. I'd have to get to know the rest of them, the other women, Sarah and Blair, and the other men, David N., Nate, and Ethan. Being a devoted viewer, I knew Sarah had also slept with David G. before coupling with David N. And Nate was best friends with David G. for a while, but...

Then David G. gave Blair a rim job the same night Nate planned to give Blair a rim job. That drama spanned over three whole episodes. And I remember Ethan tried to form an alliance with Tasha, but just last week Tasha abandoned him to get back together with David G. It was a tangled web they wove. I threw all their names on the suspect list for good measure. Suspects. Issa, Karlyn, Hannah, George Stryker, Stephanie, John, Tasha, Phil, Sarah, Blair, David N., Nate, Ethan.

I counted the people on the list, 13 suspects so far. Any of these people could be a killer, sure, but why? What could David G. have done to deserve such a fate? I was knee-deep in thought when I heard a single knock at the door and nearly jumped three feet in the air. I panicked, put a wig on backwards, and ran to look through the peephole. Nobody was there.

I slowly opened the door a crack, looked around for any sign of human life, and then I saw it. A basket of three dozen yellow roses had been left in front of my door. My initial thought was that it was probably a bomb, so I kicked it a few times. Just so we're clear, this was not good bomb protocol. It was very early in the morning, and my judgment was still asleep.

After all the kicking, I assumed they were safe and snatched up the card. I opened it so fast I gave myself a paper cut. The envelope didn't have a name on it. The note inside was typed. It said, Can't wait to see you again. I figured it could have been from the producers, but three dozen roses seemed a little romantic, if so. Strange. Who else knew where I lived? A small, stupid part of me hoped they were from Phil.

Chapter 11. After getting the flowers, I fell back asleep on the couch. A social worker might say oversleeping when one has so much to do is a poor coping mechanism, but who's got time for that mumbo jumbo when I had so much to do? I woke up to loud knocking on the door and Issa's bird-like voice chirping. Good morning, Luella. We're leaving in five minutes. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. The clock said it was already 6 a.m.

There is nothing more disorienting than waking up after napping for 30 minutes. DARE officers love telling kids about the dangers of drugs, but I think they should also warn them about short morning naps. We were back on set today, so I took what I call a gentleman's shower, don't ask, then stumbled around trying to drink what was left of the coffee and attach my wig at the same time. Not recommended. I think I might have swallowed a bobby pin.

Issa knocked again. What the hell happened to those five minutes? I quickly dabbed on some makeup and the result was, unfortunately, Picasso-esque. Luella, time to go. Maybe Issa was a sadist. I was moving Issa up on the suspect list after this. I had my hand on the doorknob when I realized I'd forgotten my Luella teeth. Definitely needed the teeth. Where on God's green earth were the teeth?

Ah, yes, they were to the left of the sink. I scampered to the bathroom, but the teeth were not to the left of the sink, nor were they to the right of the sink or below the sink or even in the toilet. I would gladly contract a case of Giardia in that moment. if it meant finding the damn Luella teeth. Isa knocked again. Coming! I screamed using the nicest Disney princess voice I could muster.

I retraced my steps of moving into the new place. I could have sworn I packed the teeth. No matter where I was, I always put the teeth to the left of the sink. Maybe I didn't peck the teeth. Maybe they were still upstairs in 7E. But no, I wore them yesterday with Stephanie with Phil. Where could they possibly be? More Issa knocking shit, shit, shit.

Luella, I'm sorry. We have to go now. Ugh, and of course today was the day I was supposed to talk with George Stryker and all those cast members. The one day I wouldn't be able to open my mouth. I opened the door and Issa greeted me with a smile that seemed to say, you're trying my patience. That morning she wore a long French braid with not a single hair out of place. This woman got up early and wanted everyone to know it.

Sorry, I mumbled, my hand hovering over my mouth. Issa looked down at her clipboard. Oh, David G is dead. Producers say it's a suicide. R.I.P. David G. Issa nodded with her eyes closed, almost like she was mimicking empathy. Suicide was certainly an interesting interpretation of the events. Issa continued. So today they're having you guys do an orgy vigil. Hmm? A what? I tried saying without opening my mouth like an amateur ventriloquist.

Everyone will say a few words about David G's passing and then the grief will be too much and the plan is for you all to have an orgy. Oh no. Might be a long day, she added. That was one way to put it. This has been chapter 6 through 11 of Murder on Sex Island, read by the author, Joe Firestone, and that's me. It's produced by Barry Fingal. This episode was edited by Gabrielle Lewis. Our music is from Blue Dot Sessions.

The book goes officially on sale October 17th. But if you need to get it before then, you can go to the book release show, which is on September 12th at the Bell House. With that ticket comes a free book. Well, it's not free. It's the price of the ticket.

Those books, there's only a limited number of them. After that, you have to wait a whole month. Does this make sense? No, this was poorly planned. I did this. I did this to my, I didn't mean to, but this is part of the perils of self-publishing. Anyway, keep those dates in mind. Episode 4 comes out next week. I'll be reading the 12th and 13th chapters.

What will Marie do at the orgy vigil? I mean, as a detective, what will she do? But also physically and emotionally, what does someone do at an orgy vigil? Till next time.