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 chair. 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.