Page 24 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests
Melvin
The news story reported that a twenty-nine-year-old banker had committed suicide by jumping off the thirty-second floor of a Canary Wharf building. It included a list of three other young male bankers who had died the same way in the previous six months.
In a daze, Vivienne read over Melvin’s words and then the news story. But no matter how many times she went over them, the outcome didn’t change. Matthew was dead. Handsome, charismatic, young Matthew. Gone.
After half an hour Gordon responded:
From: Dr. Gordon MacMillan
To: Serendipity’s group
Subject: Re: More bad news
Dear Melvin,
Well, this news totally discredits Vivienne’s theory that Stella was killed as revenge for her trolling. While we cannot confirm it, we can only presume that Matthew’s number was 29 and thus his is the second prediction to come true. What theory do you have now, Vivienne?
I will see you all at Matthew’s memorial.
Regards,
Dr. Gordon
Vivienne’s back teeth crunched together at Gordon’s flippancy over Matthew’s death, but she refused to be drawn into an online debate and merely responded that she would see the four other guests (Janet had left the email group following Stella’s funeral) at the memorial.
Over the next hour, she printed off all the news reports about both Stella’s and Matthew’s deaths, as well as a naff article called “London’s Hottest Bachelors” Matthew had recently appeared in and some profile pieces about Stella, then pushed them into a plastic folder. That night, once she got home, she shifted her coffee table and armchairs against the wall of her little lounge and laid out all the articles across the floor. Vivienne then carefully worked her way through each one, armed with her highlighter pen. Afterward, she sat back on her heels and surveyed her work. An accident and a suicide—Melvin had insisted, but something hadn’t felt right to Vivienne. If Matthew had been feeling that way, would he really do that in front of his colleagues, in the middle of a workday? The articles reported a “suspected suicide,” but surely his building, right in the middle of Canary Wharf, was covered in security cameras, even on the roof. Why was there any doubt about what had happened that afternoon? That’s when she decided to take a look for herself.
Once she updated her notebook with these latest suspicions, Vivienne searched her bedroom again for her envelope. After pulling out all her drawers, checking behind them, and clearing out thebottom of her wardrobe, she flopped back onto the bed, exhausted and defeated. Spotting her handbag on the back of her dressing table chair, she was gripped with an idea. Using nail clippers, she carefully picked apart the lining of her bag. Finally, there was space enough to wiggle her finger into it and then feel around for anything that could have somehow fallen into that space. But there was nothing. She threw her bag down in disgust.Whyhadn’t she opened her envelope when she’d had the chance? All she could do now, she decided, was pour her anger into the investigation.
***
Vivienne sighs and then sets off again up the stairs.
“Which floor are we stopping at?” Tristan asks, trudging behind her.
“The top—thirty-two,” she calls over her shoulder and chuckles at Tristan’s groaned response.
Finally, they make it to the roof, where another metal door greets them. Vivienne’s body is alive with adrenaline as she pushes the handle down. She steps outside, and the wind instantly lifts her hair straight up. She walks forward tentatively, taking in the incredible view across London—the Thames sweeping in an elegantS, the comical Gherkin and the futuristic Shard in the distance. A shiver of déjà vu dashes across her mind, gone before she can grab at it.
“From what I gleaned from the articles, he must have been on this side,” she says, walking over to one corner. A low railing runs around the edge, which could easily be stepped over without mucheffort. Vivienne pulls out her notebook and starts to scrawl out a floor plan of the area.
“There are cameras there and there,” she says, making small crosses on her map. “But not here.”
“I can’t imagine he was thinking about that,” Tristan says, hovering in the doorway, his fingers still clutching the handle.
“Are you OK?” Vivienne asks.
“Fine. I’m just not that keen on heights,” he mumbles.
Vivienne catches sight of something on the floor, tucked behind the railings near where she believes Matthew went over. Some sort of black material.
She steps toward it, then stops when she hears heavy footsteps coming from the door.
“What are you doing up here?” a voice bellows above the wind. A square-shaped man with a protruding forehead and one black eye strides toward them.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Vivienne cries, her hand to her chest, her face filled with horror. She drops her handbag to the floor, tipping it slightly so that her reading glasses and umbrella spill out.
“I think we got a bit lost,” she says. “Thank you so much for finding us.”
