Page 15 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests

“I’m taking you out on Sunday,” Christian cried, his voice thick with happy tears.

Melvin hung up the phone and slumped back on their old sofa.

His whole body was starting to feel lighter, as if shackles on his wrists and ankles were starting to slowly loosen.

Soon, he’d be free of his old life. Free to be with Christian.

He hadn’t felt this happy in years. He just wishes he didn’t have to see Janet again; she clearly isn’t the most discreet sort.

“Here we are, ladies and gentlemen.” The waitress appears with two bottles of champagne, shadowed by a waiter carrying six champagne flutes.

“I thought we should say goodbye to Stella in style,” Janet says. “After all, she was dead stylish.”

Melvin’s eyes meet Vivienne’s as the comment hits home, while Janet just smirks and holds up her glass until it’s filled to the top. She downs half the contents in one go and lifts it again for a top-up.

Once all the glasses are filled and the waiters step away, silence settles across the table once more.

Stella’s envelope is still there, daring one of them to open it.

Gordon hasn’t even looked at his champagne; he’s just fidgeting in his seat.

Matthew finished his drink quickly and is now staring into his empty glass.

Vivienne takes small eager sips from hers while reading from her notebook.

Tristan holds his drink in his left hand and chews the nail of his right thumb.

Janet’s lipstick-stained glass sits between her and Stella’s envelope.

“Let’s look at the facts,” Gordon says, in full lecture mode now. “Janet opened her envelope at the dinner party, which explicitly stated she would die at forty-four. And what age are you now, Janet?”

She takes another large gulp from her glass and looks from Gordon to Matthew and then Melvin, who shrugs his shoulders.

“As you know, I’m forty-four,” she says, her voice croaky. She clears her throat and adds: “It’s my birthday in July.”

“Gordon, I’m not sure this is helping anyone…” Melvin says when he notices Janet’s glass shaking in her hand.

“Mine was fifty-three,” Gordon says, holding his palm up toward Melvin. “Did anyone else open theirs?”

“My envelope’s gone missing,” Vivienne admits. “It was in my bag after the dinner party, but I seem to have mislaid it since then.”

“Mine’s probably still in my jeans pocket at home. I haven’t opened it,” says Tristan. “Forgot all about it, to be honest.”

“No idea where mine got to,” Melvin says with a shrug.

They all look at Matthew, who is glaring at his empty champagne flute.

“I must have left it at Serendipity’s. I didn’t open it.” He shrugs, then reaches for the second bottle and tops up everyone’s glasses. Melvin watches as Matthew accidentally spills some bubbly on the table.

“Sorry, it’s an emotional day,” he says, color rising in his cheeks. “Anyway, here’s to beautiful, stylish, mischievous Stella.”

They clink glasses, lost in their own thoughts.

Gordon clears his throat, clearly keen to get back to business.

“So if the number inside this envelope is twenty-three, then we’ll know for sure—”

“We’ll know what for sure?” Janet cuts in. “What exactly are you implying, Gordon? That some godlike figure has seen into our futures and knows when we’ll all die?”

“No, I’m a scientist,” Gordon huffs. “I do not believe in God—or godlike figures, as you put it.”

“Then what?” Vivienne snaps. “A serial killer giving us all fair warning of our murders?”

“Now stop right there, everyone. I’ve read the police report. The girl fell in front of a tube train. It was an accident. There’s no suggestion at all of foul play,” says Melvin.

“But there were no witnesses, no CCTV…” Vivienne counters.

“Even if the card does say twenty-three, it could still be a coincidence,” Matthew mutters, his voice strained.

“He’s right,” says Tristan.

The table falls quiet as six pairs of eyes rest on the envelope.

“Let’s see, shall we?” Gordon says, and, quick as a whip, he grabs the envelope and yanks the card out.

Janet gasps and covers her eyes. Gordon peers at the card and then looks up at Janet and blinks slowly.

“For goodness’ sake,” Matthew cries and snatches the card out of Gordon’s hand.

“What does it say?” Vivienne asks.

Matthew reads the words and then drops the card onto the table.

You will die aged twenty-three.

“I suppose one correct number could be a coincidence, but not two… So we just wait and see if it happens again,” says Gordon, taking his glasses off to clean them.

“If what happens again?” Matthew snaps, turning quickly to Gordon.

“If another prediction comes true, we’ll know that this is no PR stunt.”

Janet’s head drops into her hands. She lets out a muffled yelp. “I’m going to faint,” she cries.

“You’re all right, Janet!” Melvin calls, dashing around the table.

While Tristan fetches a glass of water and a shot of tequila from the bar, Matthew fans Janet with a wine menu and Melvin clutches her hands, keeping up a stream of reassurances.

After twenty minutes, she has some color back in her cheeks and her hysterical crying has finally abated.

“I was thinking about what Janet said earlier, about Stella’s trolling,” Vivienne says, flicking through her notebook. “Perhaps the dinner party was an act of revenge by one of Stella’s trolling victims. And we have been unlucky enough to get caught in the cross fire.”

“That does add up,” says Tristan, nodding.

“Like I said, I haven’t seen any evidence of murder,” says Melvin, glancing at his watch. “But I’ll have a word at the station on Monday, see if my colleagues can look into those bloggers Stella offended.”

Vivienne nods. “Yes, please do.”

“I have another theory—” Gordon starts.

“Gordon, please,” Melvin cuts in, his deep voice raised a little. “Today is Stella’s funeral, and it’s just not respectful to be tossing daft theories around. Let’s all agree right now to throw the envelopes away.”

“But what if Vivienne’s wrong and there is a killer on the loose?” Janet cries. She downs the last of her drink and glares across at Gordon.

“Janet, love, there’s no murderer out there. I promise you. You’ll be dancing at your forty-fifth birthday party before you know it,” Melvin tells her, but she’s already standing up and turning away from the table.

“Let’s hope so,” she snaps and then marches toward the exit without looking back.

“I’d better be going too. Elizabeth and I have tickets for the theater tonight,” Gordon announces to the table, then abruptly turns and marches out.

“It’s time I headed off as well,” Vivienne says, pulling her coat on. “Melvin, do email us with any news.”

“I’ll walk to the tube station with you,” Tristan offers, and they both say goodbye.

As the door swings shut behind them, Melvin looks over at Matthew.

He thinks back to the dinner party once again and remembers how confident and charismatic he had been.

Janet was putty in his hands; even Vivienne shone when he’d deigned to throw some attention her way.

And Melvin had to admit, his own gaze was drawn to Matthew’s dark eyes and broad shoulders straining through his shirt.

But today his shoulders are rounded, as if his body is falling in on itself, his face wears an expression of downright grief, and he keeps fiddling with his watch.

Surely this isn’t the result of Stella’s death—he barely knew her.

“Are you all right, bud? You’re very quiet,” Melvin asks.

“I’m fine, thank you for asking. It’s not been a great week, I must admit. Pressure at work,” Matthew mumbles.

“I was just wondering,” Melvin begins gently, “why did you lie about your envelope? I saw you open it at the dinner party.”

Melvin can picture him, confidently tearing a corner of the envelope and yanking the card out. His eyes flashed across the number. He shrugged and then tucked it into his jacket pocket.

“What if…” Matthew starts. His voice wobbles, so he stops and tries again.

“My number is twenty-nine. I turn thirty in three months. What if Gordon’s right and I’m next?

” he says, the words becoming gradually quieter, so that by the end of the sentence, Melvin is leaning in and the word next is hardly uttered, just mouthed, Matthew’s straight white teeth bare as his lips pull wide.

“Matthew, you’re a young man. You’ve got years ahead of you…” Melvin says.

But Matthew isn’t listening. He’s lost in a maze of fear.

“Stella’s number was twenty-three, and look what’s happened to her!

” he cries, streams of sweat rolling down his face now.

“If my number’s correct, then I’ve got three months, max.

This whole thing has made me realize how much time I’ve wasted.

I thought I’d have years to, you know, get serious about life… ”

Melvin sees that the cocky character from the dinner party had been a mask, hiding someone else—someone vulnerable—underneath.

“Listen, we’ve had a bit too much to drink.

Stella’s death was simply a tragic accident; I really believe that.

It’s just a coincidence that her number was twenty-three,” Melvin tells Matthew, using his practiced voice-of-authority tone that proved effective with raucous teenagers and overexcited football fans.

Matthew’s hands drop from his face, and Melvin sees he’s getting through to him.

“Do you really think so?” he asks, just like a child asking to be reassured that Father Christmas does exist.

“I really do. Now, get yourself home, have an early night, and maybe take a lovely lady out for lunch tomorrow.”

They say goodbye outside the wine bar’s entrance. As he walks away, Melvin pulls his phone from his pocket, writes a text to Mary— On my way —and presses Send.