“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.”
Then Jack takes his turn addressing the killer, who could, of course, be himself: “If you do what you intend, don’t assume we’ll help you afterward. We definitely won’t. You’ll be on your own.”
Strad squints, trying to understand. “You guys are not being clear. Is this about more than clearing the table and serving dessert? Is this about cleaning the kitchen? I can do that, too, if you want. It’s not that much work to throw out paper plates and plastic cutlery.”
Then I remember that even if it’s a bomb, it can’t go off after midnight because that was the rule KAY agreed to. “Strad,” I say. “I want you to wait until the evening is over before you get your present. I insist on that.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I want to find out now what it is. I’ll be just a minute.”
I heave myself out of my chai
r. The others get up as well. I keep an eye on Strad’s cup until all my friends have stepped away from the table.
“You didn’t need to get up. I’ll be right back,” Strad says, putting on his shoes.
We gather around him near the front door.
“Wait,” I say. “Let me call the doorman to make sure there really is a package. Maybe the call was a prank.”
I pick up the intercom’s receiver and I call downstairs.
Adam answers.
I begin, “Hi, this is Barb—”
“What do you want, ass-head? Make it quick. Your voice gives me ear infections.”
“Did someone drop off a package for one of my guests?”
“Yeah.”
“Really? No one? Are you sure?”
Adam is silent and confused for a moment, and then says, “Are you normally this stupid or are you making a special effort right now?”
“His name is Strad. You have no package for Strad?”
“I have it right here.”
“Hmm. That’s weird. We got a message saying a package was dropped off with you.”
“If you’re having a stroke or something that requires the defibrillator let me know by banging your head three times against the phone and I’ll be sure to send the defibrillator up to you real slow.”
“Okay, thanks.” I hang up and turn to Strad. “He says there’s no package.”
“Really? Do you mind if I speak to him to be sure he didn’t make a mistake?”
“Of course he didn’t make a mistake. You heard how thorough I was.”
“Yeah, but still. I want to make sure.”
Clearly Strad won’t let this rest until either he speaks to Adam himself or goes downstairs and looks for the present with his own eyes. There’s no point in my trying to stop him. What’s important now is that I not let him call Adam, who would inform him I’ve been lying, which could offend Strad enough to make him leave and no longer be under our protection.
“No, I’ll do it,” I say, picking up the intercom phone before Strad can respond, though I do catch the expression of frustration on his face.
Adam answers.
“Hi, it’s me again,” I say.
“Stop plaguing me.”
“Sorry to bother you again, but could you please check in the back to make sure there isn’t a package for Strad? Maybe it was dropped off earlier when Bill was at the desk, and maybe he forgot to put it in the system.”
“What kind of game are you playing?” Adam asks me.
“Thanks,” I say. I wait enough time for Adam to theoretically go to the back, while in reality he’s treating me to a litany of insults. After a few more seconds I say into the phone, “Ah, you do have it? Great!”
“Leave me alone.”
“Well, that explains it. Thanks for checking.” I hang up.
“He does have it,” I tell Strad. “Sure enough, it got dropped off when Bill was on duty.”
“Great. I’ll get it. Don’t serve the fruit salad. I’ll do it when I get back.”
He walks out the door. We do as well.
“Be back in a jiffy!” he says, waving.
We flank him as he walks down the hallway.
“Why are you guys doing this? I’m not a moron; I won’t get lost a second time. You don’t even have your shoes on.”
“That’s all right,” Jack says. “The person on the phone didn’t say who they were or who the present was from. I’d stay as far away from that supposed present as possible if I were you.”
“Jack is a cop,” Lily adds. “He knows what he’s talking about. Let’s just go back to the apartment, Strad.”
Ignoring her suggestion, Strad steps into the elevator. We squeeze in around him.
“It’s wonderful to be escorted and embraced this way by your group, to be taken into your fold,” he says. “You guys must like me. I feel cuddled by five mother hens. Does this mean I’m part of your exclusive inner circle, now? Am I one of you?”
We don’t answer. When the elevator doors open again, we follow him down the long hallway to the second elevator. I’m in a trance, thinking that if we survive the opening of the present, I will take extra precautions for the rest of the evening, starting with his cell phone confiscation. I don’t care how strange it makes me look. Appearances are nothing. Anyway, it’s my apartment, my rules. And let’s not forget that there is also my special backup precaution, which I was hoping to avoid using due to its extreme deviance. But perhaps the time has come.
We take the second elevator down and arrive in the lobby.
Wanting to be the first to examine the box for any suspicious signs, I move ahead of my friends and go straight to the front desk, behind which Adam is standing.
“Hi, Adam. Can I have that package, please?”
Handing me the box, he leans toward my ear and whispers, “Scumbag.”
“Thank you so much,” I say, smiling.
I haven’t yet told my friends about the doorman’s strange behavior these past few months.
I look at the writing on the box. There’s no return name or address. Just the recipient’s name, Strad Ellison, c/o my name, and my apartment number.
“When was this dropped off?” I ask Adam.
He looks at me and knows he can’t insult me since my friends are next to me, staring at him, waiting for his answer.
“About half an hour ago,” he says. “And I’m very sorry about the misunderstanding we had on the phone when I kept telling you the package was right here, and you kept thinking I said it wasn’t. I’m glad we cleared that up, eventually.” He looks at my friends.
“Yes,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Strad staring at me. “Who delivered it?” I ask Adam.
“A woman,” he says.
“Did she give her name?”
“No.”
“Did she say anything at all?”
“She said the package was for your guest, Strad Ellison. That’s all.”
“What did she look like?”
“Asian. Early twenties. Shoulder-length hair.”
“Anything else you can remember?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Adam.”
He nods.
Strad takes the box from me. Luckily, it’s sealed tightly, so there’s no choice but to wait until we get back to my apartment to open it.
On our way up, I gaze at my friends’ faces. By dint of imagining each of them in the role of the killer, they’ve each become the killer in my eyes.
Back in my apartment, I instruct everybody to go to the couch area and stay there while I fetch the scissors from my bedroom.
Upon my return, I inform Strad that I must be the one to open the box, that I never let anyone handle my scissors.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he tells me. “You said earlier that you didn’t want anyone to be eccentric tonight. So I’m wondering, is this your version of not being eccentric? What I mean is, are you usually even more eccentric?”
Not sure what to answer, I meekly settle for: “I’m not being that eccentric. It’s just a habit I have with scissors.”
“Why did you lie about my package?”
“It made me nervous. You didn’t know who it was from.”
Georgia says, “Plus, we were having such a good time, why interrupt the fun?”
“Okay, open it,” he tells me.
“Everyone, step away,” I caution.
I don’t want anyone to make a lunge for whatever weapon might be in the box. And if it does turn out to be a bomb, the farther away they stand, the better.
“Farther,” I say. They take another step back. “You too, Strad.”
Everyone is now standing a good six feet away from me.
As I carefully cut the tape around the box, I start getting more worried that it might actually be a bomb.
“If you think you can zero in on your target with surgical precision, you are wrong,” I say, speaking to the killer while star
ing at the tape I’m cutting. “Perhaps you will hit your target, but you’ll hit us as well—yourself included—and me in particular. I’ll be disfigured beyond recognition, which is okay with me, but is it okay with you? I’ll be blinded, I may even get killed. So many of us could get killed. Do you really want to harm us this way? Is it really worth it?”
“Eccentric is not the right word,” Strad says to Lily, who smiles politely through her fear.
I continue addressing the killer: “Think about it. You don’t have much time. You better decide quickly because there won’t be any turning back once the box is opened.”
I glance at my friends. They all seem extremely tense, holding their breaths.
Penelope exhales suddenly and says, “I feel faint.” She sits on the couch.
I’ve finished cutting the tape. I lift the flaps, push aside the crumpled paper, and see my face staring back at me from the bottom of the box. It’s an antique-style mirror with a handle and an ornately molded frame. I take it out of the box.
The tension leaves the room like a change in cabin pressure.
I pull the rest of the packing paper out of the box. Nothing else is in it. No bomb, no weapon.
I turn the mirror over. Beautifully engraved on the back is the name “Strad” and underneath it are the words, “See Differently.”
“See differently?” Strad says. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe someone wants you to see what kind of person you really are,” Georgia says.
“Or maybe someone wants you to see the people around you in another way,” Penelope says.
I puzzle over which of my friends sent this gift. It could have been any of them. It even could have been Lily, whose meaning behind the engraved words may have been: “Take a good look at yourself. Are you really so much more beautiful than I am?”
“Or maybe someone thinks you’re vain,” Jack offers.
Strad seems a bit disgruntled at these less than flattering interpretations. He finally suggests, “Or maybe someone thinks I’m a great guy and feels compelled to shower me with gifts.”
“One gift,” I mutter. “Hardly a shower.”
The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty: A Novel Page 11