Cocktail Hour

by McTiernan, Tara

  Approaching the dining room, she finished chewing the breath mint she'd found in her purse, swallowed it, and plastered on a nonchalant look. Then she noticed the silence. Were they waiting for her? She took two more steps and was presented with the empty dining room, chairs pushed back haphazardly, only a few with napkins folded, candles still flickering next to the squat flower arrangements that lined the table. There were no plates on the table, only a small one with an empty ramekin at Bianca's seat.

  Chelsea blinked. Where was everyone?

  She listened but all she heard was an occasional small noise coming from the kitchen. For a moment she considered going to the kitchen and asking Lucie where everyone was, but she didn't want to bother Lucie while she was working. Instead, Chelsea wandered into the living room, out onto the terrace and then back toward the front of the house seeking but not finding the others. Then she heard someone moving in the library, which was also John's home office.

  Walking hesitantly into the library, Chelsea found John reclining on the antique brown leather sofa in the corner, his hands on his stomach. His swarthy face was unusually pale and he looked exhausted.

  He looked up," Oh, hi. Tell Bianca I'll be right back. Just need a minute."

  "Are you okay?" Chelsea said and crossed over to him, putting her hand on his shoulder.

  John shrugged, briefly looked up at her and then away. "No. I think I've got some kind of bug. Listen, we can't talk here. Just go tell Bianca."

  "I can't find Bianca. Or anyone?"

  John looked back up at her, suddenly alert. "What?"

  Just then Chelsea heard footsteps behind her, someone in the doorway, and turned. It was Bianca, wearing a red lace negligee. And holding a gun. It was pointed at both of them, its barrel capped by a long black metal tube of some sort.

  "Well, look who we have here," Bianca said in a gently mocking voice. "It's the lovebirds. How sweet."

  Chelsea stared at Bianca, an involuntary shiver shaking her. What was happening? A gun? Her mind was oddly blank, unable to grasp onto what she was seeing.

  John slowly got to his feet. "Bianca? What are you doing?"

  "Me? What am I doing? I think the question is what are you two doing?"

  "You're not making any sense. Please put the gun down. Let's be reasonable."

  "Oh, I'm making a great deal of sense. You two have been fooling around behind my back for months now," Bianca said, her voice cool as water. "It must have been quite romantic, ripping each other's clothes off in that little rat-hole of Chelsea's, pretending to be star-crossed lovers. Ah, the thrill of it all."

  John shook his head, the calmness he was trying to effect in his voice betrayed by a slight nervous wiggle. "You're making this up. Nothing's going on between me and Chelsea. We're just friends."

  Bianca smiled. "Oh, ho, ho. You're very funny. I have the evidence I need, guilty as charged, and now it's time to deliver your sentence."

  John put his hands up. "Okay, you're right. We fooled around. But I never loved her. I only loved you, Bianca. I still love you. We're soul mates, aren't we? We have a wonderful life together, all our dreams. Chelsea was just a fling, a fuck. I was just being a typical guy, greedy for more on the side. It was a mistake, a stupid one. Forgive me."

  A little mewl of shock escaped Chelsea as she turned to look at John. He wouldn't look at her, keeping his eyes fixed on Bianca.

  "Oh, look," Bianca said indulgently, before lapsing into baby talk. "The wittle girl is sad. You broke her wittle dumb-bunny heart." Then her voice became hard and icy. "Isn't that too bad. I guess that's why she shoots you now."

  A smacking high-pitched arrow-like sound rang out and John jerked back. He grabbed his shoulder and looked down at the blossoming poppy of blood on his dress shirt.

  Bianca said, "Damn, Chelsea. You're a lousy shot. But you would have to be, not used to shooting guns. Don't worry: your next shot will be perfect, blow part of his head right off."

  Chelsea barely registered what Bianca was saying as she started to reach out to John, concern and love a habit, before controlling herself just in time. Was this her Prince Charming, the man who was supposed to rescue her? A man who, instead, sacrificed their love as if it meant nothing? It hadn't meant anything, had it? At least not to him. That was obvious now, the truth coming out in this high court of vengeance, a gun trained on them.

  A coldness that had nothing to do with the fear of death pierced Chelsea and she slowly turned to face Bianca.

  Vodka Martini

  As Dean's boat flew across the water, Sharon had to yell out the story in order to be heard, the roar of the engine and the loud smacking of the waves against the hull competing. Watching Dean's expression become more and more incredulous, she started to wonder if her brain had been right all along and this whole thing was a wild goose chase.

  Was she going crazy, Bianca the blameless object of her escalating paranoia? Because Sharon had nothing solid, just a pile of maybes. Maybe Bianca had pushed Kate, maybe Bianca had something to do with that girl's death, but everything was a potential figment, as insubstantial as the words that were now being snatched out of her mouth by the wind and disappearing into the air behind them.

  "And," Sharon finished, her face flushing with embarrassment, "that's what made me want to come here. I just...what if Bianca did it, killed that girl? What if she has something terrible planned tonight?"

  Dean bugged his eyes out and looked away briefly. "Wow. That's it? Anything else?"

  "No," Sharon said miserably. It had been a mistake, the whole thing. But that was Bianca's dock coming up on the left. It matched Chelsea's description from when she had talked about Bianca's house once at the office: the wooden steps emerging from a rocky outcropping with ornate electrified Moroccan lamps hanging on either end of the floating dock below. Chelsea hadn't known what kind of lamps they were, but hearing the details, Sharon had known immediately. She pointed, "That's it there, their dock."

  Dean slowed the boat and it floated to a stop fifty feet from the dock, the engine idling. He turned to Sharon, his eyebrows lowered with concern. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

  Sharon looked back at him, wavering. Then another shout rose up inside of her: hurry! She swallowed and nodded. "Yes. We can just say we decided to come after all. We were invited."

  "You were invited. You haven't told Bianca about me. Remember?"

  "Yeah, I remember. I'm sorry, but it's just my gut. It's screaming at me. I know this whole thing sounds nuts. It does, doesn't it?"

  Dean lips tightened and he gave a little nod. "Yeah, it does. I mean, I trust you, it's just...what do we have to go on? She could be completely innocent."

  "But what if she's not? What if-"

  "No - what if she's just hosting a dinner party and helping a friend get a book deal? And you show up all freaked out, pointing fingers, maybe scare off that editor?"

  "I'm not going to act all freaked out or point any fingers. I'll be nonchalant. Like, hey, I wanted to try your food after all, Lucie."

  "But she might not have enough. And Bianca, wouldn't that be awkward for her?"

  Sharon clenched her hands at her sides. The warning sirens in her head were screaming again, so loudly she was having trouble thinking. "I'm sorry, Dean. I just have to do this. And if you think I'm wrong, you can just leave me here. I'll leave you out of it completely. I understand."

  Dean looked at her, his always humor-filled face more serious than she had ever seen it. Finally he said, "No, I'm not going. I'll come up to the house with you. But if it's nothing, if everything's fine, please promise me you'll let this whole thing go. You're kind of scaring me."

  "Okay. I will. Thank you."

  "You don't have to thank me," Dean said, turning back to the wheel and the engine's rumble becoming louder as he steered the boat over to the dock.

  Sharon didn't know what to say, felt as if she'd said too much already, so she said nothing. Once Dean had tied up and helped Sharon from the boat, they cl
imbed the stairs together, walked through the cave-like boat house made of stone, and then out onto a crushed-shell path that led up to the house.

  The house was a huge Elizabethan-inspired Tudor mansion, rearing up above them on a rise, lit both from within and by subtle spotlights that also were trained on some of the trees that surrounded it. As they grew closer to the house they saw the terrace was dark and empty in spite of its remarkable view of Long Island Sound. Next to it there were French doors leading inside, but Sharon wanted to try and enter through the kitchen, see Lucie first, so they continued around the side of the house until they came to a tall old stone garden wall with a keyhole door leading toward the front of the house.

  Ducking through it, Sharon spotted the brightly lit kitchen, its door standing open and spilling yellow light into the driveway. A van had been backed-up to the door, its back doors standing ajar. Apparently, Lucie was loading her things. Was the dinner party already over? Sharon checked her watch. It was ten after nine, early for a dinner party to end. They were probably having dessert, full of good food and a little drunk perhaps. If so, showing up after the meal would soften her unexpected arrival, make it less of an inconvenience and more of an addition to the revelry. Considering how crazy Sharon was starting to feel, that was a good thing.

  Dean following her, Sharon walked toward the open door and as she did she saw Lucie skid into the kitchen as if she'd been running. Coming to an abrupt halt, Lucie looked around the room in a darting bird-like way, her eyes very wide and her hands up and splayed at her sides. Sharon paused. Why was Lucie...

  Sharon took the last steps at a jog and entered the kitchen, stopping just inside the doorway. "Lucie?"

  Lucie startled and looked up at her, her face rigid. "Sharon," she whispered.

  Sharon felt Dean behind her. "What's the matter?"

  "She has a gun," Lucie said in a breathless gasp.

  "Who has a gun?"

  "Shhh! She might hear you."

  Sharon whispered. "Who? Who has a gun?"

  "Bianca," Lucie whispered, her eyes becoming even larger. "She's going to shoot them both. Kill them. She's already shot John."

  "What?" Dean said in a loud voice behind Sharon.

  They both turned and urgently shushed him, lifting their index fingers to their lips, eyes wide with terror.

  Chardonnay

  "Bianca. She's going to shoot them both. Kill them. She's already shot John," Lucie said, unable to believe what she'd just witnessed, but yet she had.

  She had just been going to find Bianca and say goodbye and had been wandering through the foyer when she heard voices coming from the library. Just outside of the room she had paused, afraid she might walk in on a private conversation. Peeking through a crack in the door, she saw Bianca standing and wearing a red dress that looked different from the one she'd been wearing earlier. It was lacy and flimsy, like a nightgown.

  As Lucie overhead Bianca's accusation, she glanced down and saw the gun in Bianca's hands. That was when she'd become rooted to the floor, unable to walk away as she observed John and Chelsea's reactions, heard a piercing short high-pitched sound and then watched the red stain spread on John's shirt. The blood mobilized her, making her jerk back with shock before turning and running for help.

  "What?" Dean yelled from behind Sharon. What was he doing here? What were either of them doing here? But she was so incredibly glad to see them.

  "Shhh!" Lucie and Sharon told him. But it could be too late. What if Bianca had heard him? It was clear that she'd assumed that Lucie had left. Her behavior wasn't frenzied or rushed, instead it was languid and playful, as if murdering two people was some kind of game.

  "What?" Dean repeated, whispering and ducking his head a little.

  "Bianca has a gun. She shot John," Sharon told him and paused, looking dazed. "I was right."

  Dean's face became slack. "She does? She did?"

  Lucie only nodded. Sharon had been right about Bianca all along: a monster was within their midst, a jagged-toothed grinning wolf dressed up in soft fuzzy wool. Lucie had heard too much of what Bianca had just said in the library to think otherwise anymore. Why hadn't Lucie believed Sharon? Because it was too crazy. People weren't like that, never that purposefully and comfortably cruel. In her mind's eye, she saw Bianca rise from under the conference table and up from the CEO's lap at Pinnacle Funds and, this time, instead of seeing the guilty look she remembered, she saw only malicious glee in those dark heavy-lidded eyes.

  Looking towards the phone on the wall of the kitchen, Lucie puzzled frantically about whether to call the police or do something themselves. Was there enough time for the police to get there and stop Bianca? John and Chelsea could both be dead within minutes. Lucie still couldn't believe that Chelsea had gone back to that rat, after everything she'd been through and all her promises to avoid him. It was like John was some kind of drug to Chelsea. And now she might pay a price much more exorbitant than a broken heart.

  Sharon stood taller, lips tightening. "We've got to do something."

  "Do something?" Dean said. "We've got to call nine-one-one, that's what we've got to do."

  Lucie shook her head. "Sharon's right. We can't wait for the police to get here. If they're not dead yet, they will be any minute now."

  Sharon turned her head, listening. "I haven't heard any shots."

  "You won't," Lucie said, realizing what the odd high-pitched sound she'd heard was. "She's got a silencer on her gun."

  "A silencer?" Sharon said. "Oh, my God. This really was planned."

  "I'm calling the police," Dean said.

  Lucie put her hands together as if in prayer. "Do you have a cell? Oh, good. Would you please call them from outside? I'm afraid she'll hear us. She thinks I've left for the night."

  "Okay, I'm calling now."

  Sharon turned and put her hand on Dean's arm just as he started back out the door. "Thank you. And thanks for being here."

  Dean shook his head, "I'm just....I should have believed you."

  "I only wish I'd believed myself more. Okay, you better call," Sharon said and turned back to Lucie as Dean stepped outside. "Now we've got to figure something out and fast."

  Lucie shrugged and looked around the room again. Something, they had to figure something out. Then she noticed it, a large bottle of olive oil from the Rossi's pantry that Lucie had taken from the shelf and had been admiring. Imported from Italy and extremely expensive, it was liquid gold.

  Staring at it, Lucie realized that it was more than that. "Olive oil."

  "What?"

  "It's very slippery."

  "I'm losing you."

  "Bianca could fall."

  "Aha, now I'm getting you. But she's got the gun pointed at them, right?"

  "Yes. You're right. The gun could go off as she fell, shoot one of them anyway."

  "I've got an idea."

  "Thank God. I'm running dry here."

  "Here's what we're going to do..."

  Lucie poised just outside the library door waiting for Sharon's cue. At first she was glad to hear that the three of them were still talking and John and Chelsea were still alive, but then she had to listen to what was being said and it was making her sick to her soul.

  John had stopped talking, so Bianca prompted again. "What else is disgusting about Chelsea? Come on. You said she was just a fuck. If you want to live, you better keep talking. And Chelsea, don't cover your ears again or I'll blow your hands off."

  "Um, she...," John said, wincing as he gripped his injured shoulder.

  "Come on, John."

  "She left her dirty underwear all over her apartment. It smelled."

  Bianca let out a little trill of laughter. "Really? Chelsea, who knew you were such a dirty girl? More, John, more."

  Just then there was a loud banging, Sharon knocking on the library window farthest from where the small group stood and then ducking down.

  Jerking with surprise, Bianca turned the gun away toward the window. Lucie m
oved quickly, running forward with the open oil bottle and dashing it under Bianca's stiletto-clad feet. Bianca, seeing Lucie peripherally, swung around and lost her balance. Her feet skidded, trying to gain purchase, but instead simply flew over the slick of oil. The gun fired, its high-pitched crack making Lucie jerk back. Heat tingled on her right arm. Lucie looked down to see it intact, and then over her shoulder to see the hole in the door frame behind her. The bullet had just missed her.

  Hearing Bianca fall, Lucie looked down to see Bianca on her back, the gun out of her hands and sliding on the oil toward Chelsea, whose face was still crumpled and stained with glistening mascara-tracked tears. Bianca, realizing she'd lost the gun, started to scramble on her back toward it, her arm stretched out, using her feet to propel her across the oily floor with only partial success.

  "Oh, no," Chelsea said, her breath hitching and her whole body visibly shaking as she looked down at Bianca. The gun had ended up closest to her, only inches from her feet.

  Watching Bianca's progress and feeling desperate, Lucie prompted, "Chelsea? Please? For me?"

  Chelsea, who seemed to be frozen with fear, looked up as if waking from a dream. She shook her head. "No," Chelsea said, her large blue eyes becoming enormous. "For me." She reached down and grabbed the gun up and trained it on Bianca.

  Bianca stopped mid-crawl. "Oh, Chelsea. Come on. You don't even know how to shoot a gun."

  Hearing footsteps behind her, Lucie turned to see Sharon entering the room. Sharon said, "Chelsea doesn't need to know how, Bianca. You're at close range. Even the biggest newbie can shoot someone that close. At least maim you."

  Chelsea let out a nervous low laugh, holding the gun firmly with both hands now. "Yeah, at least maim you."

  John took a step towards Chelsea and she said, her eyes still trained on Bianca, "Stay back, buddy. I'm done with you." John faltered, staring at her.