Page 59 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests
“The cheek of the man,” Mary mutters through clenched teeth. “He pretended to be my friend while all the time he was sleeping with my husband. And then he does this. I can’t—I won’t—ever forgive him.”
Vivienne remembers Melvin telling her how Christian and Mary had gotten on famously before the truth came out. How they’d enjoyed theater trips and art exhibitions, and talked endlessly about their shared passion for dance. All that was blown apart when Christian told her about his affair with Melvin. And now, here they are: Melvin is dead, with both Christian and Mary grieving for him. Two hearts broken but unable to find comfort together.Melvin—by doing nothing, you created one hell of a mess,thinks Vivienne.
“Oh, Mary,” she sighs.
“You know, Melvin was going to tell me at one point and then the cancer came back, and he had no choice but to stay with me,” she says.
“He had a choice,” Tristan says gently. “We always have a choice. Some are just harder than others.”
“You’re right, and I’m choosing to leave right now.” Mary stands, picks up her handbag, and marches toward the door. Her chin is pushed forward in indignation.
Vivienne opens her mouth to call after her and then closes it again. She can’t blame her for leaving. She can’t blame her for any reaction, really.
“Should we follow her?” she asks Tristan.
“I didn’t hear it all, but I saw Christian’s face afterward. I think Mary has said her piece and probably needs some time alone now,” Tristan says. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
Vivienne nods. They quickly polish off their drinks and then head outside. Without discussing it, Vivienne flags down a black cab, and ten minutes later they’re sitting down at their favorite Italian restaurant on the Strand. In fact, they don’t speak again until Tristan has a bottle of Peroni in front of him and Vivienne a red wine.
Finally, Vivienne looks over at her friend and takes a big drink of her wine.
“I think I’m the killer,” she tells him.
Tristan
It isn’t until Tristan has taken a sip of his beer that he registers what Vivienne has just said.
“What?” he cries, putting his bottle down a little abruptly, sending a clanging sound through the restaurant. The tourists at the next table look over, eyebrows raised, perhaps hoping for a lovers’ tiff.
“I think I’m the killer,” she whispers once they’ve looked away.
“I think you’ve finally lost the plot,” he splutters. “Why on earth would you say that?”
“I’ve been having these fugue states,” she explains.
“What are they?” Tristan asks.
“Periods of time when I’m awake and doing things but my brain sort of checks out. I lose hours and come to with no idea of where I’ve been, what I’ve done,” she babbles, holding her head.
“You didn’t tell me about this,” Tristan says, reaching across to hold her hand. For the first time ever, Vivienne snatches hers back, her eyes on the table. She’s ashamed, Tristan realizes.
“I haven’t told anyone. I didn’t want you or Cat to worry,” she says. “I had my first one years ago. I was eighteen and…pregnant. It was all very traumatic. I went into a fugue state after the baby was born. Later on, my mum broke the news he didn’t survive.”
Tristan watches her carefully, taking in every word.
“I didn’t have another fugue state for years. But they started again, two weeks after Serendipity’s, and I’ve had one before every death.”
“Well, that must be a coincidence,” Tristan says, gathering his errant thoughts. “Just a response to the stressful situation.”
“That’s what I thought, but then I spoke to Mary at thehospital. She asked about my number, and I suddenly felt so guilty. It got me thinking—Iama likely suspect. I love crime novels and detective TV shows, could have picked up ideas from them. Both Janet and Melvin pointed out that I’m the only one who doesn’t know my number. And these blackouts. Who knows what I was doing during those missing hours!
“I had one before Melvin died and found a receipt from a bar near where he’d been that night,” she cries. “Another time I came to, I’d badly hurt my hand. If I can hurt myself without knowing, I could just as easily have hurt someone else.”
“Vivienne, it just doesn’t add up,” Tristan says gently. “Take Melvin, for example—there’s no way you could have sourced a dodgy pill and then somehow encouraged him to take it in the space of a few hours during one of these fugue states.”
Vivienne takes a deep breath, in and out.
“I suppose you’re right,” she says. “And with Gordon, I’d have had to bake a pie filled with sesame seeds and deliver it to him without being spotted.”
