“Final question,” says Peter. “Is discipline enough? I have a friend, Bob, who claims he has no imagination, yet he wants to be creative. He dreams of doing some good art. Is there any hope for him?”
“No,” Georgia says. “If he lacks imagination, there’s no hope for him artistically. Imagination is the one requirement. Pretty much the only one, really. But so what? Lacking imagination has some great advantages.”
“Like what?”
“Happiness.”
“Really?”
“Sure. In a way, your friend Bob is lucky. So is my mother, who also claims she has no imagination. I think some of the sanest, happiest people are those with the least imagination. Paranoia, for instance, wouldn’t get very far without it. Life is easier without it.”
We go home after being bade a warm farewell by Peter Marrick. I’m sad I didn’t chat with him at greater length during his few attempts at talking to me and the others. I wish we could have done the show when we didn’t have a deadly dinner coming up.
WHEN I REACH my building fifteen minutes later, Adam the doorman opens my cab door for me, greeting me with: “Moonlight becomes you — total darkness even more.”
The taxi driver looks at him, startled.
I blink, at a loss for words. I’m not at my sharpest tonight. I just stare at Adam, thoughtfully. He stares right back at me, just as thoughtfully. Not taking his eyes off mine, he breaks the silence softly, dreamily, with, “When I look into your eyes, I see the back of your head.”
He’s clearly unwell. I wonder if now is the time I should try to help him.
As I’m considering this, he says, “Sit down and give your mind a rest.”
That unblocks me. “Actually, that’s a good idea, Adam. Why don’t we sit here together for a moment and talk?” I say, pointing at the little bench near the door.
The cab driver is still staring at us, which makes me uncomfortable.
Not budging toward the bench, Adam says to me, “I’m too busy. Can I ignore you some other time?”
A middle-aged couple passes us on their way into the building.
“Have a nice evening, Mr. and Mrs. Portman,” Adam says, smiling at them pleasantly.
“Thanks, Adam. You too,” they answer, smiling back.
As soon as they’re out of earshot, I say, “When would be a good time for you to listen to me for a couple of minutes?”
“How about never? Is never good for you?”
“Then let’s talk now, just for a minute.”
“Sorry, I can’t. But where will you be in ten years?”
Trusting he’ll eventually run out of comebacks, I persevere: “Adam, there’s a subject I’d like to discuss with you. It won’t take long.”
He takes two slow steps toward me until he’s closer than I find comfortable. Looking amused, he bores his eyes down into mine and says intimately, “My, my. Aren’t you a little black hole of need.”
“Just this once. That’s all I ask. It’ll be quick.”
“A quickie?”
I nod. “A short conversation.”
“Hard to resist. But why don’t we play house instead? You be the door, and I’ll slam you.”
“You’re very quick-witted and clever, Adam.”
“Your flattery repels me, Barb,” he says. And immediately he hollers “Ow!” and holds his tongue in his fingers, as though in pain.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Your very name blisters my tongue.”
I remember a similar line from my high school Shakespeare class and say, “And you’re very well read, too. Listen, I want to help you. I know a therapist. I’ve seen her myself. I think she can help you, regardless of why you’re doing this.”
“Keep talking,” he says, yawning. “I always yawn when I’m interested.”
“This therapist might be able to uncover why you act and feel the way you do.”
Looking at me thoughtfully, Adam says, “I see what your problem is. You suffer from delusions of adequacy.”
“The cause of your unusual behavior might be emotional, chemical, psychological. It might be something you’re not even aware of.”
“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.