“Thank you,” she said quietly.
John David was seated at one end of the long table. Maggie was seated at the other. Between were the four actors, Bren, Braden, Dolan, Olivia, Esmerelda, Fie, Molly, Ivy, Lochlan, Lily, Keir and me.
It was a good thing I’d once had a friend who catered dinner parties for people with deep pockets or I wouldn’t have known my way around a complicated table setting. We began with a lobster souffle paired with chardonnay and worked our way up to Beef Wellington with claret. Then came a cheese and apple offering with port.
John David had provided six waiters in addition to however many people were working in the kitchen behind the scenes. The waitstaff had plenty of room to move around easily without bumping into each other. The space was so large that the table, which could have seated twenty-six, almost looked small centered in the room with three ten-foot stone fireplaces on one side and a bank of leaded glass windows on the other.
Keir was seated across from me, which couldn’t have been better because, gosh, he was scrumptious. Ivy was on his left and Lorca Scarlet on his right. She was wearing a champagne-colored satin dress. Very plain but elegant in its own way. I was seated between Lochlan and Colonel Connolly.
I turned to the Colonel, looked between him and Ms. Scarlet, and said, “So, you’re actors?”
They were really, good actors because both looked at me like I was crazy.
“I don’t know what you mean, young lady,” said Colonel Connoly. “I’ve just recently come home from India.”
Lorca Scarlet said, “I’ve been on the continent with my cousins for a season. When I received an invitation to visit my old friend, John David, I couldn’t resist.”
“You’re friends with John David?” I asked.
“Oh yes. We’re old friends.”
I wondered if the repetition of her claim that they were old friends was a clue because I it was my understanding that all John David’s ‘old’ friends had passed away long ago.
“Save room for dessert. And coffee, if you wish,” John David said loudly enough to be heard over conversation and the clinking of silver on china.
Keir and I looked at each other and said, “Dessert,” at the same time. He was saying it like he couldn’t wait. I was saying it like eating another bite of anything was impossible.
When the dishes from the cheese and fruit course had been cleared away and fresh dessert plates were delivered, John David stood and lightly wrapped his water stem with a silver spoon. Everyone looked his direction as if compelled.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the hour has arrived to learn the identity of the investigator. Who will it be?” He looked around letting the words lend an air of drama that didn’t need the support of significant emoting. “Open your envelopes.”
There was a rustle as people reached for their place card envelopes. The paper was heavy cotton of a quality rarely experienced by ordinary folk. Each name had been expertly handwritten in black calligraphy with a suggestion of the art deco style of the era.
I didn’t know about the others, but I was keeping mine as a souvenir.
All around I heard people asking each other, “What does your say?”
Eventually silence fell and everyone looked to John David for direction.
He held up his envelope and said, “It’s not me. But perhaps it should have been because, by the process of logical deduction, I conclude that means it’s one of you.”
Light laughter accompanied my amazement that John David attempted a joke.
“Well?” he asked.
“I, um… I guess it’s me?” All eyes turned toward me. I held up the card. “It says Inspector Hayworth?”
“Well done, Rita!” John David almost emoted. “You’re our sleuth.”
I wasn’t sure why I was getting a, “Well done.” I hadn’t done anything but open an envelope.
“Let’s have dessert,” John David said as he motioned to the man who appeared to be in charge of the waitstaff. “We have a special treat. If you’ll all come to this end of the room, Chef Alain Dupere, from Rive Gauche in London, is going to demonstrate the process of creating perfect crepes la orange flambé.”
That sounded fun. Not that an attempt at perfect crepes la orange flambé was in my future, but I hoped Olivia was watching closely. On second thought, Olivia could probably take over the demonstration and teach Chef Dupere a thing or two.
Dutifully following instructions, we pushed back our chairs and made our way to the end of the room to stand in a horseshoe cluster around the flaming dessert station on wheels. Elbow to elbow so that everyone could see, the chef put on a show that would rival hibachi theater. We laughed at his jokes, oohed and ahhed at his antics, and decided we’d make room for dessert even if we regretted it later.
Chef Dupere asked us to return to our chairs and prepare for the ingestion of a culinary masterpiece. Judging from the way it looked and smelled, I didn’t think that was hyperbole. As soon as we sat, the sommelier came round and filled tiny dessert wine stems with, you guessed it, a superb orange dessert wine.
The process at the demonstration station was, apparently being replicated in the kitchen at the same time, because a parade of wheeled carts filed through the butler’s pantry door and delivered the promised paradise to crystal plates that sat on larger plates with hand painted recreations of scenes from the Sistine Chapel. The idea of a Christian vampire struck me as comical, but the dinnerware probably came with the house. It was beautiful and I could see why he’d want to show it off, religious or not.
I was at occupied with my second bite of crepes la orange and thinking it couldn’t get any better. Then I sipped the dessert wine and realized that, oh yes, better was possible. Looking across the table I noticed that Keir hadn’t touched his.
“You don’t like the dessert wine?” I knew it sounded unabashedly hopeful, but I had every intention of snagging his if he didn’t want it.
“First, it’s a little on the sweet side for me. And second, there’s a murder mystery afoot. I want to stay sharp.” He mimed smoothing an imaginary mustache in imitation of Agatha Christie’s, Hercule Poirot.
I laughed just before pulling up short. Maybe Keir had a point. The inspector, and that was me, unbelievable as it might seem, should be reasonably sober. I hated leaving the dessert wine on the table, but I hated even more the idea of being sloppy with everyone staring at me for answers.
“Absolutely right,” I said, giving the orange wine a parting look of longing.
There was an empty chair where Lorca Scarlet had been. She’d never returned after the dessert demo. The initial assumption was that she’d chosen the occasion of everyone being on their feet to make a discreet visit to the ladies’.
There was also an empty seat at the head of the table, but by the time I’d enjoyed the last bit of crepes, I saw John David return to the dining room with hands in his pockets and a toothpick dangling from his mouth. He slid back into his chair and was laughing at something Braden said before he’d put his full weight down.
My host was pretty far away from me, but not so far that I didn’t notice that he didn’t touch his dessert. I reasoned that he probably thought it would be rude for the host to hold up the progress of the party.