Текст книги "The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty"

Автор книги: Amanda Filipacchi

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“Please breathe the other way. You’re triggering my gag reflex.”

“Okay, well, have a pleasant evening, Adam.”

I walk to the elevator, concerned that his problem might be getting worse. He’s becoming less inhibited, less careful. He allowed a taxi driver to hear him. Who will be next? Someone who might get him fired?

Once I’m in my apartment, my mom calls and tells me she saw the interview and that I was good, but that tragically the camera added ten pounds on top of the dozens of fake pounds already on me.

IT’S THURSDAY MORNING. Only one day left. The NYU students arrive. By three p.m., they and I have finished searching my apartment for weapons and have found nothing, which raises my spirits slightly. Maybe the killer is not as determined as I feared.

Late in the afternoon, I decide to go shopping. I need a change of scenery. I buy a cuckoo clock, in case we become complacent during the evening of Strad’s death. Every hour, the bird will pop out and scream “Cuckoo” to remind us there is one among us. It’ll keep our nerves on edge, where they should be.

THE DREADED FRIDAY has arrived. The effort of trying to think of and guard against every possible murder method has drained me.

In the morning, I decide to bake a lemon chocolate cake. I’m not a fan of the cake because I don’t like cakes in general and Jack isn’t a fan of it either because he doesn’t like lemon, but the rest of our group loves it, and baking it usually helps me unwind.

As I’m grating the lemon peel, my phone rings. I assume it’s one of my friends with a last-minute point of anguish.

But no. To my surprise, it’s Peter Marrick, the news anchor.

“I just wanted to thank you for coming on the show,” he says. “You were great. And your friends, too. Captivating, all of you.”

“Thank you. It was fun doing it.”

He then asks me if I’d like to have dinner with him some time, adding, “I so rarely meet anyone I find interesting.”

He meets politicians, actors, scientists, some of the most important and powerful people in the world. I’m a little confused by his compliment, though I tell him I’d be happy to have dinner with him. He asks if tonight would work.

“Oh, I can’t tonight,” I reply. “I’ve got something I wish I could get out of, but it’s impossible. Though I could have dinner another night.” Unless a murder takes place, in which case it might be some time before I’m up for dating.

“How about tomorrow night?”

“Ah . . . tomorrow is not ideal either,” I say, thinking I may have to stay in bed all day and evening to recover from tonight’s stress. Or we may need tomorrow to hide the body. Or to prevent Lily from killing the killer. Or to deal with any number of other possible horrifications. “I can do Sunday, though. Or next week.”

We settle on Sunday.

I get back to my cake. As I mix the ingredients, I think about how nice that was, talking to Peter Marrick. And rare. Ever since I’ve been wearing my disguise, men simply haven’t shown any interest in me romantically—not that Peter Marrick’s interest is likely to be romantic, actually.

Chapter Ten

When I’m done with the cake, I lock up all my cutlery, my hammer, my screwdrivers, and anything else that could be used as a weapon, such as items made of glass, that could, in a split second, be smashed and slashed across Strad’s throat. I bought plastic cutlery and paper cups and plates for the dinner.

AT SEVEN, MY friends arrive, as planned. Strad is supposed to get here at 7:30 p.m., and the danger is supposed to start at eight. I thought it was best to get Strad here well in advance of the danger so that if he’s running a bit late, he won’t risk being assassinated on his way here by a hired gunman.

I frisk my friends carefully and then search them with the metal detector, which I practiced using on the NYU students yesterday. Everyone is wearing pants, as I’d instructed. No one sets off the metal detector, which means they didn’t conceal razor blades on or in their bodies. It’s nice to know I won’t have to worry about them whipping out a razor blade when they go to the bathroom. I will only have to worry about them whipping out a piece of broken glass encased in a nonmetal tube inserted in their bodies in the fashion of a tampon or suppository. Frisking them every time they exit the bathroom should be enough to guard against such a danger. Metal detecting won’t be necessary again.

I confiscate bags, cell phones, and shoes.

I then stand before my friends and say, “I want you to be extremely vigilant this evening. The killer could be swift. Be on the lookout for any abrupt movements from any of you, and be prepared to pounce. If the killer is Jack, we should be particularly alert because he’s stronger than the rest of us and will be more difficult to restrain.” They all nod, including Jack.

I continue with, “The rules are: No one goes near the kitchen area; no one near the food before it is served; from the moment it’s served until Strad has finished eating, we should all keep a close eye on Strad’s plate and glass to be sure nobody puts anything in them; everyone stays in the living room at all times, no wandering in the rest of the apartment; and nobody goes to the bathroom unaccompanied.”

They all nod again. “Sounds good,” Jack says.

“Oh, and let’s not forget to try to act natural, for Lily’s sake,” I say. “We don’t want him to think her friends are weirdos.”

“I appreciate that,” Lily says.

“Even if we’re weirdos, we’re still the Knights of Creation and he knows it,” Georgia says, scornfully.

We wait for Strad as 7:30 approaches. It comes and goes. We look at one another. At 7:45 p.m., I instruct Lily to call his cell phone. She does, on speakerphone. He says he’s on his way, had to take a cab because there’s a problem with the subway.

I stare at my cuckoo clock as eight o’clock nears. I ask Lily to call him again. She does, again on speaker. He says he’s two blocks away, that maybe he’ll get out of the cab and walk the rest of the way because there’s traffic.

“No!” I exclaim. If he’s out on the street alone when eight o’clock strikes, who knows what could happen, what the killer might have planned. “No,” I repeat, more calmly, and whisper: “Tell him not to worry, to stay in the taxi until it reaches my building.”

She tells him this. He says he’s now one block away. It’s three minutes before eight. He says he’ll see us soon. He says he can’t wait. Lily hangs up.

I stare at my intercom, waiting for the doorman to buzz me. Finally, he does. It’s Adam, and he softly says to me, “You clownish fool, someone is here to see you, don’t ask me why. His name is Strad. I don’t envy him. He’s in for quite—”

“Send him up,” I say, having no time for his disorder right now.

“Jee-zuss!”

“Real fast, please,” I add.

“Fine, cunt,” he says, and hangs up.

I look at the clock. We’ve got two minutes left before the danger starts.

Ten seconds left. He’s still not here.

“CUCKOO!” shrieks the bird eight times at eight o’clock.

I hear a grim voice in my head saying, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, let the games begin.”

Ten minutes go by, and still no Strad. Perhaps he got lost in the building. This is a common problem in my building, which is huge and consists of four towers, requiring visitors to take two elevators, which are separated by a long hallway and some turns.

I tell Lily this, to reassure her. She nods, chewing her lip.

Strad finally arrives at 8:11 p.m. and sheepishly confesses to me in the entrance hall that he got lost in the building.

“Yes, it’s very complicated,” Georgia calls out from the living room, her sarcasm unfair because it is.

Strad is carrying a shoulder bag, a violin case, a bunch of mixed flowers, and a bottle of red wine. He hands me the flowers and wine. “Thank you so much for inviting me,” he says, following me into the living room. “You can’t imagine how . . .” He stops mid-sentence as he steps across the threshold. He gazes around the living room at the masked and costumed furry mannequins. “Wow. Amazing. Wow.”

“Aw, we love eloquent guests,” Georgia says.

“Your decor is spectacular,” Strad says to me.

“Thank you,” I say.

He puts down his bag and violin case. He notices that none of us is wearing shoes, so he takes his off and puts them by the door.

Then he goes straight for Georgia. “Man, what an honor it is to finally meet you!” He takes her hand in both of his.

“Thank you,” she says.

“No, thank you. For all your books. Spending this evening with you will be such a blast.”

“A blast, possibly.” She turns to the rest of us and asks, “Did we cover that possibility? That it might be a blast?”

“Many times,” Jack says.

“And? What did we decide?”

“That it can’t be a blast as long as he’s with us.”

It’s true, we did cover the possibility of a small bomb and quickly realized that the killer would never use a method that had any risk of hurting the rest of us. As long as Strad is with us, no explosive would be used on him.

So I’m outraged at Jack and Georgia’s unnecessary exchange and offensive double meanings aimed at insulting Strad. Have I not just told them to act normal? Do they not care how their weird behavior will reflect on Lily? I guess they don’t, come to think of it.

Trying to hide my annoyance, I say, “I thought we decided not to be eccentric tonight?” I put a little water and Strad’s flowers into a small plastic vase. “If I detect even a whiff of eccentricity this evening, you will not hear the end of it.”

I take Strad’s belongings (except for his violin case, which he’ll need) and put them in my bedroom, because the killer might have cleverly hidden a weapon in Strad’s bag or coat earlier.

I then pour the wine into a lidded plastic jug and I lock the empty wine bottle in my bedroom with all the other glass items.

Strad strolls around my living room, looking at the costumed mannequins. He stops in front of my ballet bar and asks me, “Why do you have a ballet bar if you don’t use it?”

“What makes you think I don’t use it?”

He looks me up and down. “Wild guess.”

I feel slapped in the face on behalf of overweight people who do use a ballet bar. “The previous owner installed it,” I explain. “She was a ballet dancer. And I do use it for my costume design work with actors.”

“Fun piano,” Strad says, standing in front of the mirror piano. “The sound must suffer a bit in that kind of casing, but it’s great-looking. Am I right, Lily, that the sound suffers?”

“Yes, it suffers,” Lily says.

The thought of suffering reminds me that we’re due for some, right about now. “Speaking of music, weren’t you going to play a little something for us?” I ask him.

“Oh, yes, why don’t you bless us with some of your music,” Georgia says, with an impressive lack of sarcasm.

“Sure!” Strad goes to his violin case.

I follow him. He opens it.

“Can I see this case? It’s so beautiful,” I say.

“Sure.”

I hold the case, caress the lining, examine it thoroughly inside and out and when I’m relatively certain that it’s safe, I say, “And can I see your violin too?”

He hands it to me. I’m not sure what could be hidden in a violin, but why not be thorough? As for the rest of him, I didn’t use the metal detector on him because I didn’t want to freak him out. Plus, no one is supposed to touch him. If anyone stashed a weapon on him in advance and tries to pickpocket him during the evening, we’ll put a stop to it before anything can happen.

I give him back his violin and he positions himself in front of the couch area, where we all take a seat.

Georgia raises her hand. “Oh, I’ve got an idea. Maybe Lily should accompany Strad on the piano. That would be so nice.” Her motive is all too clear to me: she’s hoping Lily’s music will mask Strad’s. But the pretext she gives is, “This way, Strad, you’ll be able to hear for yourself if the piano suffers from its casing.”

“Sure,” Strad says. “If you want to join me toward the end, Lily. I’ll signal you when I’m ready.”

Lily nods and sits at the piano. He plays for ten minutes, which is mildly unpleasant, before he gives Lily the nod.

She starts improvising, and I don’t know if my perception of her playing is influenced by my knowledge of her feelings for him, but her notes seem to coat his in silk. Her playing wraps itself around his in a manner that does not take us long to sense is rather erotic. Her sounds are caressing, clinging to his sounds, dripping from them, climaxing with them. Her notes are practically raping his notes, though the one thing they’re not really able to do is to beautify them. Lily’s power is not quite strong enough to counteract the mediocrity of his art.

When they’re done, Strad plops into an armchair. “That was exhilarating! I don’t think the sound from the piano suffered much.”

“Oh, I think it suffered,” Georgia says.

Jack starts talking to Strad about his acting ambitions.

Georgia walks by the low side table next to Strad’s armchair without noticing that the bottom of her long cardigan is getting caught on the bouquet of flowers Strad brought me. Jack is the only one besides me who notices what’s about to happen and lunges at the vase to steady it before it topples over and spills.

The only thing the three women notice is Jack lunging in Strad’s proximity. Misinterpreting his abrupt movement as an attempt on Strad’s life, they hurl themselves at him and he falls under their weight. On his way down, his lip and nose get smashed against one of my ottoman cubes. He is now face down on my thin rug, the women on top of him holding his arms and sitting on him like hens.

“Stop! Stop!” I cry, hurrying toward them. “Get off him. I saw everything.”

They stare up at me, not convinced, and not getting off him. They’re waiting for me to offer an explanation, which they know I can’t give them in front of Strad.

“I order you to get off of him right now,” I tell Georgia, Penelope, and Lily in a calm but commanding voice.

They finally obey, reluctantly. Not only can I not give them an explanation, but they realize they now have to help me come up with a fake one because Strad is watching us, horrified.

“Why did you just attack him?” he asks them.

Jack struggles to his feet, his nose and lip bleeding. He touches the side of his face, where he’ll undoubtedly have a bruise.

He gazes down at the floor. There lie the flowers and plastic vase on the wet rug.

Strad looks at all of us, waiting for our explanation.

We stare back at him, stumped, having no idea what to say.

In the silence, the cuckoo clock tick-tocks like a metronome.

I try to buy us some time by fetching a paper towel and an ice pack for Jack.

Perhaps I could say the women thought Jack was headed toward the stereo, and he has terrible taste in music.

“Why isn’t anyone speaking?” Strad asks. “Lily? Why did you pounce on Jack?”

Lily doesn’t reply. Instead, she busies herself picking up the flowers and wiping up the spill.

I can’t stand the silence anymore, so I’m about to blurt out my absurd answer, but just before I do, Georgia casually says, “Training.”

I exhale softly, having complete confidence in her powers of fabrication.

“Excuse me?” Strad says.

“It’s training.” She shrugs.

“Training? To be what, Charlie’s Angels?”

“No. We’re training him. He asked us to attack him at unexpected times as part of his ongoing maintenance program. It keeps his reflexes sharp.”

“Is that true?” Strad asks Jack, with a twinge of excitement.

“Yes. It improves my reaction time,” Jack says.

“For what?”

“For my job. I’m a cop, you know.”

“I thought that was over. I thought you worked at a senior center now.”

“Only part time. I’m also an undercover cop.”

“But I thought you couldn’t be a cop because of your limp and your cane and the fact that you can’t run.”

“That’s why it’s a great cover.”

“So you can run?”

“No, that’s why it’s a great cover.”

“What’s a great cover? Not being able to run?”

“Yes. That’s what makes it really good.”

“But how can you be an undercover cop if you can’t run?”

“By doing special training, like you just saw.”

“That makes up for not running?”

“More than makes up for it. You saw how intense it was. The women did an excellent job, I must say. I’d been reproaching them lately for not going at it with enough conviction.” He takes the paper towel and ice pack and presses them to his face. “I just never thought they’d attack me when a guest was here. Which, of course, is why it’s the perfect time to do it.” He chuckles and turns to his aggressors, giving them a thumbs-up. “Nice work, by the way.”

Even though Jack is usually not the one who comes up with the ideas, he’s quite good at riffing off them once they’re out there.

Blood is still running out of his nose. He wipes it again with the now mostly red paper towel.

“I don’t know, this seems weird,” Strad says, shaking his head, looking suddenly skeptical again.

“It’s a form of conditioning, like Pavlov’s dog,” Jack says. “When you get attacked and hurt on a regular basis and at various random times, you start jumping at the slightest abrupt movement because you know pain is coming. That jumping is a desirable state of conditioning.”

“It is?” Strad says. “Like those kids who shield their faces if you make an abrupt gesture near them because they get slapped at home regularly? That never seemed good.”

“But for adults it’s good. Especially for cops. That’s what average people don’t realize when they watch those big Hollywood action movies. In those movies, it takes a lot to faze the heroes. But in real life, it’s the opposite. The toughest, most effective guys, the best fighters, the police heroes, the army heroes—all the best ones—they jump at the slightest abrupt movement.”

I’m struggling not to smile. My friends too. The tension has left their faces. You’d think the threat had left the room.

“Thanks again, guys,” Jack says to his trainers, giving them each a high-five. He spins back to Strad. “Oh, and just so you know, they’ve asked me to put them through the same rigorous training, so we may be attacking each other at various times. Don’t be too startled.”

The three women chuckle uneasily.

I tell everyone it’s time for dinner.

We move to the dining table. I serve them a cold meal of fancy sardines in herb sauce, which I bought already prepared from a nearby gourmet shop. I serve Strad last, and once his food is in front of him, I don’t take my eyes off it. I can’t believe he’s the only person in the room I can absolutely trust.

We scare easy tonight. At one point Georgia sneezes. It practically gives me a heart attack. A few minutes later Penelope drops her plastic fork. We stare at her with terror.

Things get misinterpreted. The slightest sounds. If someone laughs, the rest of us hear it as evil and expect the worst.

“Wow, you guys are like jumpy, high-strung thoroughbred horses,” Strad says. “You’ve really honed that flinching trait.”

A few grunts is the only response.

No one tries to make conversation during dinner except Strad, but he doesn’t get very far. He asks me about my costumes. I give him brief, bland answers. I’m not capable of more. The others don’t seem to be either. So he gives up. The ticking of the clock is noticeable in the silence. There isn’t even the familiar clanking of cutlery—typical of conversationless meals—since everything is plastic and paper. I spend long stretches of time in a sort of trance, staring at Strad and his plate, lost in thought, trying to make sure I haven’t overlooked any killing methods or schemes the murderer might have come up with.

While Strad chews on his food, Lily, too, stares at him. But hers is a very different look from mine. Her look is one of adoration.

Strad gazes at all of us sitting there stiffly, and says, “Do you guys always have this much fun?”

Georgia can’t help laughing.

When the fake bird flies out of the clock at nine, screaming “CUCKOO!!!” we all hit the ceiling except Jack.

“I saw it coming,” Jack explains.

Three more hours to go. Why did I think marking the slow passage of time with this clock would be a good idea?

“Ah!” shouts Strad, slapping the table, which scares me even more than the cuckoo did, “I have been wanting to ask you something for ages, Georgia!”

“I’m all ears,” she says.

“What in the world is the anagram for ‘Whiterose’ at the end of your novel The Liquid Angel? I’ve been racking my brains for months. I simply must know.”

“Otherwise what? You’ll die?” Georgia says.

He chuckles. “Uh, something like that.”

“And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” She pauses. “Which is why I’ve given you the answer.”

“What do you mean you’ve given me the answer? No you haven’t.”

She turns to the rest of us, “Have I?”

We nod.

She turns back to Strad. “You see. I have.”

“When?”

“A few seconds ago.”

After a pause, he says, “You’re not going to give it to me in a way I can understand?”

“Guess not,” she says. “I’m a little sadistic, I suppose.”

Nothing much but chewing goes on at the table for a while.

Strad gets up. “Where’s the bathroom?” he asks me.

We all get up. He looks surprised and says, “No, please, you don’t need to get up.”

“It’s all right,” I say. “Jack, will you lead the way?”

“Certainly,” Jack says, and proceeds toward the hallway. I keep an eye on Strad’s plate until everyone has left the table. We begin escorting Strad to the bathroom.

“Uh, what are you guys doing?” he asks.

“Showing you to the bathroom,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. “We’re almost there.”

We go through the hallway, turn a corner, and there we are, all crowded in front of the door.

“Please make way,” I say, and open the bathroom door. I take a quick look, to triple-check that everything seems safe, and show him in.

Strad steps inside, closes the door, and we hear nothing. After about thirty seconds he says, not very loudly, “Are you still there?”

I don’t answer right away, unsure what to say. Finally I answer, “Yes.”

Softly, he says, “Why?”

After a pause, I say, “In case you need anything.”

“I don’t need anything. You can go back to your seats now. I’m sure I can find my way back even though I got lost in your building.”

I don’t think this requires a response, so I give none. We still hear nothing. Time passes and still we hear absolutely nothing. I get worried. Having him out of my sight makes me nervous even though I’ve searched that bathroom multiple times and found no danger. I imagine things. Impossible things, perhaps, but when they’re dwelled on, they start to seem possible. I imagine a lethal gas seeping through the bathroom vent. I imagine a deadly electrical current connected to the metal faucet knobs and activated only when Strad is in the bathroom. I imagine that maybe I was not vigilant enough about staring at his plate and that now he’s quietly dying from poisoning.

I’m straining to hear the slightest sound. My fingertips are against the thin wooden door that separates us.

And then I hear him say softly, “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I reply, almost as softly.

“I’m a bit uncomfortable with you all standing out there, you know,” he says.

I nod and murmur, “We know.” That wasn’t meant for him to hear and I don’t think he did.

There is the sound of the sink faucet going on, and a second later, the bathwater running. I have a preposterous vision of the killer having arranged for these faucets to turn on by themselves. The door would be locked, jammed, no way to unlock it, the faucets would keep running, no way to shut them off, and the tiny bathroom would fill up like a fish tank.

“Are you okay?” I ask through the door.

“Fine, fine.”

Finally, despite the racket of the running water, we make out the sound of him urinating.

A few moments later, the water noises stop and he comes out of the bathroom, intact.

Relieved, I’m about to take him back to the table, when Lily says, “I need to go, too.”

I give her permission.

“But I’m not sure I’ll be able to, with you all standing here,” she says.

Strad decides to make her feel more comfortable by masking her sounds. He fetches his violin and plays The Four Seasons by Vivaldi, right outside the bathroom door.

Upon her exit, I frisk her, prompting Strad to ask me, “What are you doing?”

“Just routine,” I reply.

“I need to pee, too,” Georgia says, and slips into the bathroom.

Strad plays “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”

When Georgia emerges, I frisk her very carefully.

“Did she steal anything?” Strad asks.

“Uh, it doesn’t look like it,” I say.

“You didn’t frisk me,” he says.

“Not yet.”

As I’m about to give Strad his token frisk, I get a better idea. “Lily, frisk him.” Why not give her some gratuitous pleasure?

She stares at me hard with embarrassment, and then slowly advances toward Strad. She pats his arms, from wrist to shoulder, then his chest. Her hands seem a little shaky as they descend toward his belly. She is carefully mimicking the way she saw me frisk her and Georgia—she does no more and no less. She strokes Strad’s waist, his hips, his pockets—which are bulky, but she ignores them—then his legs and ankles. She walks around him and frisks him from behind. His back pockets have some bulk in them as well, but she does not explore.

“All good?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.

“This is surreal,” Strad remarks to me, as we escort him back to the table. “You have me frisked, my pockets are bulging with things, and yet you don’t ask to see what’s in them. It could be your soap, you know. I could have stolen your soap.”

“I trust you.”

We take our seats and finish our sardines.

The time has come for the table to be cleared for dessert. The problem is, I don’t want any of my friends to take the dirty dishes to the kitchen because of the opportunity it would give the killer to sprinkle sleeping powder on the fruit salad I’ve prepared (which is sitting on the counter) or in the coffee pot. We’d all fall asleep and the killer could kill Strad at his or her leisure. Or while setting the dessert plates, the killer could apply some poison directly onto Strad’s plate or plastic spoon or fork.

One way to avoid these risks would be for me to clear the table, but this will not work either because I’d have to take my eyes off Strad’s still unfinished cup of wine.

Therefore, there’s really only one option that’s completely safe.

“Strad, you may clear the table now,” I say.

“Excuse me?” he says.

“We’re ready for dessert. You can take the dirty dishes to the kitchen, and please don’t eat out of anyone’s plate.”

He gets up, a little baffled, muttering, “Sure, I don’t mind helping,” and takes his plate to the kitchen.

He sees that no one else has gotten up. “Am I supposed to help or am I supposed to do it all by myself?”

“The latter,” I say. “We prepared the meal. It’s only fair.”

“Oh, this is very original,” he says, full of good humor. “The guest waits on the hosts. So this is what it’s like having dinner with the Knights of Creation.”

A few minutes later, I say, “Thank you very much, Strad. When you’re done, you can set our dessert plates and serve us the fruit salad and lemon chocolate cake. Then if you wouldn’t mind pouring us some coffee, that would be great.”

“You really pull out all the stops when you entertain, don’t you, Barb?” he says. “Not only do you bring out the fancy paper plates and plastic knives and forks and serve wine in these beautiful paper cups, but you ask your guest to clear the table and serve you.” I think I detect a mixture of indignation and awe in his tone.

“You guys are so unconventional, it’s delightful,” he adds, taking my plate to the kitchen. He carries the plates one at a time, which drags out the process. He obviously hasn’t had much practice helping clear tables. Three plates are still left. But that’s okay, we’ve got all the time in the world.

We hear music. It’s Strad’s cell phone.

He answers it and hangs up after a moment.

“Now this is weird,” he tells us, looking tickled.

“What?” I ask.

“There’s a present for me downstairs!”

“Ignore it; it’s a trick,” I blurt.

“Who’s it from?” Penelope quickly asks, undoubtedly attempting to cover up my strange comment, which I appreciate.

“She didn’t say,” Strad replies. “It was a woman on the phone, but I have no idea who. All she said was, ‘Strad, there’s a present for you downstairs.’ And she hung up. And no number is showing up on my phone.”

“I think it sounds fishy,” Jack says.

I should have confiscated Strad’s phone as soon as he arrived. In the last few days, it did occur to me that the killer might call Strad during this dinner—or rather, hire someone to call Strad—with some sort of pretext to lure him away from our protection. Nevertheless, seizing Strad’s cell phone seemed excessive at the time. I regret my decision now.

A sudden, irrepressible urge to communicate my feelings to the killer overwhelms my desire not to sound strange in front of Strad. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t like it,” I say to the killer in our midst, whoever it is.

“What, you think I faked this call to get out of my domestic duties?” Strad asks me. “I didn’t, I swear. I know I must clear the table and serve dessert, and I will. And I’ll serve the coffee, too.”

I’m afraid the supposed gift downstairs will be a small bomb, small enough to kill only the person who opens it. But I try to reassure myself that no member of our group—even the killer—would ever endanger any other member. A bomb—even a tiny one—is simply too risky. It must be something else, some other weapon or ploy.

My friends, too, are unsettled at the prospect of this gift being brought into the apartment. Georgia copies my technique of addressing the killer: she stares blankly into space and says to him or her, “I can’t believe the gall you have to actually be attempting something right in front of our eyes.”

Obviously this stunt does not clear her. She could still be the killer.

“I’m not attempting anything!” Strad exclaims. “I told you guys I would clear the table and I will, as soon as I get back from getting my present.”

Penelope jumps on the bandwagon with her own blank stare and address to the killer: “Do you realize what you are doing to us? Don’t you care about our group?”

“I do! I admire it greatly,” Strad tells her. “I’d love to be a part of it. And you’ll see, I’ll be back before you know it.”