Page 47 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests
Susan lets out a muffled cry and Vivienne lifts her head to see Jim tenderly stroking his wife’s hair. Vivienne searches the congregation for Cat, who nods encouragingly at her.
“… a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance…”
Vivienne makes her way back to her pew, where Cat takes her hand.
More readings follow, but Vivienne doesn’t listen.
She focuses on Cat’s cool hand in hers and the sight of the rough cloth on top of Tristan’s coffin.
The priest then steps up to speak; he has a tone of familiarity as he says Tristan’s name, which jolts Vivienne from her reverie.
He talks of Tristan’s baptism, first communion, and confirmation, and then on to his interest in the Old Testament and other ancient texts, one in particular called Moralia in Job, a commentary on the Bible.
The priest goes on to talk about how Moralia ’s ancient teachings about human morals are still relevant today.
“In fact, Moralia holds the first-known reference to the seven deadly sins,” he says, and Vivienne lifts her head as she takes in the words.
“We spent many a happy hour debating the merits of reading these texts literally,” he says with a smile, and Vivienne sees Susan nodding.
When Cat had asked if Tristan was religious, Vivienne answered “no” with some authority, but it seems that she was wrong about this, and she wonders why he never thought to share this with her.
Finally, the service comes to an end, and the priest invites the congregation to the front to say their goodbyes to Tristan.
Vivienne stands up, walks toward the end of the pew, and feels her feet turning not right toward the coffin but left, out of the church.
Outside, she takes deep breaths, filling her lungs with the cool country air, and looks out across the churchyard.
A figure appears to move from behind a gravestone but then disappears.
She shakes her head—her mind playing more tricks on her—and walks off the church grounds.
***
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” Cat asks, concern crossing her face.
“No, you get back to Ziggy, Charlie, and the baby,” Vivienne tells her. “I want to pay my respects to Tristan’s parents. It’s an easy train ride home.”
Vivienne can see that Cat isn’t happy, but she knows by now when there’s no point trying to change Vivienne’s mind, so she gives her a big squeeze and climbs into the car.
Glancing back toward the church, Vivienne sees that the mourners have now followed Tristan’s coffin outside and are gathered around his grave.
Even from four hundred meters away, she makes out Susan’s bent frame, Jim’s solid arm around her, glued together in grief, in their enduring love for their son who left too soon.
Turning her back on the church, Vivienne walks slowly down the quiet country road.
For once, she is grateful for her stick; her body feels useless today, her joints like jelly, her muscles turned to mush.
Thankfully, it doesn’t take her long to see the sign for the Ship.
It is the only pub in the village, after all, nestled between the post office and a corner shop.
In the letter that Susan sent her, she explained that the pub landlord was an old family friend and had offered up the Ship for Tristan’s wake.
Toasting a person’s death is called a wake , as it was an Irish tradition for the family of the departed to keep the body at home for three days and stay with them to be sure that they were definitely dead.
Actually, now that Vivienne thinks of it, it was Tristan who told her this.
He has a fantastic memory for useless facts. Had. Had a fantastic memory…
She pushes open the heavy door and sees that no one else has arrived yet.
Of course, they’re still at the graveside.
Vivienne wonders what the other mourners thought of her hasty departure.
She supposes it is terrible etiquette to leave a funeral before the casket is put into the ground, but she just couldn’t do it.
Even though she knows he’s not inside, she couldn’t watch the coffin being lowered into the ground, soil being tossed onto the wooden lid.
It would all feel so final. The door creaks shut, but still no one appears, so she makes her way to a table in the corner nearest the ladies’ room and lowers herself onto a cushioned barstool.
It is comfier than it looks. Taking in her surroundings, Vivienne sees that the Ship is like any other cozy country pub.
Roaring log fire? Check. Worn red patterned carpet?
Check. Beers on tap with saucy names? Check.
(“Breathy Blonde” makes her think of Janet.) Then she sees the framed photo of Tristan on the bar.
She stands and steps toward it for a better look.
The picture was taken before Vivienne met him.
Tristan’s hair is thicker on top, he’s not wearing glasses, and his face is clear of spots and the large scar she’d gotten to know.
Freckles speckle his nose, and he’s sitting up straight in his chair, not slightly bowed like she’d always known him.
He’s wearing a brightly colored T-shirt with swirls of red, orange, and blue.
His head is cocked backward, a wide smile on his face, as if he’s just about to roar with laughter.
Vivienne steps closer again and sees that Tristan’s right arm is stretched across the back of the chair next to him.
She can just about make out a few strands of curly hair. Ellie…
“Well, you’re early,” a voice suddenly booms from behind the picture. Then a giant of a man with a bushy auburn beard is facing Vivienne from the other side of the bar.
“Oh, sorry, yes,” she splutters. “I’ve come from Tristan’s funeral. I…didn’t feel so well, so I came away before the…erm…burial.”
“Can’t blame you, my sweet, I couldn’t even face the service. I’m Billy, the landlord. What can I get you?”
Vivienne isn’t sure what he means, then remembers where she is. “Whiskey?” she hears coming from her mouth. Although she doesn’t think she’s had one since tasting her father’s as a teenager, but it seems the right answer.
“No money crossing this bar today,” Billy tells her, handing over her surprisingly large drink in a heavy-bottomed glass.
Vivienne thanks him and returns to her table.
Sitting down, she counts the six empty chairs and lists them off in order: Stella, Matthew, Janet, Gordon, Melvin, and Tristan.
How has it come to pass that she is the last one?
The only one left. The oldest one of the group; by rights, she should have been the first to go.
They all died just as their numbers had predicted.
All except Tristan, who went five years earlier.
He always suggested that the numbers were meant to push the dinner guests to their deaths, so perhaps he decided to take control of the situation and shape his own destiny.
Perhaps Vivienne’s murder theory had been just that—a theory as a result of reading too many murder mystery novels.
From nowhere, her head starts to throb. She reaches up and clutches her temples.
After everything that’s happened, she feels like someone has taken hold of her by the ears and given her a good shake.
Nothing seems to make sense anymore. Tristan’s death, the numbers, that dinner party that started it all.
She can remember the other guests in vivid detail, how they all died, but the images are floating loosely around her brain.
All lost threads and red herrings. The one concrete fact she knows is that she is the only one left.
Could she possibly be responsible for all those deaths? It doesn’t seem right, and yet…
Vivienne takes a small sip of her whiskey and is shocked by the strong taste of peat, by the burning inside her throat.
Instantly, she feels lightheaded, and yet somehow a sense of lucid clarity washes over her.
If Tristan were here, he’d be watching her closely, his light-blue eyes warning her not to lose control, worrying about her.
And the pain of missing him hits her again; she knows deep inside that she’ll never meet anyone who understood her like he did.
Suddenly, the door of the pub is pushed open, and the curly-haired woman from the funeral tentatively steps inside. Vivienne watches as she notices the picture of Tristan and is drawn forward as Vivienne had been, a shadow of a smile crossing her face and then disappearing just as quickly.
“You must be Ellie?” Vivienne says, making her jump.
“Oh, yes, sorry. Have we met?” she asks, taking a glass of white wine from Billy and stepping toward Vivienne.
“No. I’m Vivienne, a friend of Tristan’s, and he spoke about you. Quite a bit, actually.”
“Really? I saw him a few months ago. We had a quick catch-up in the pub, but then I never heard from him again…” She looks down at her hands, chipped purple nail varnish on her fingernails.
Her curls are streaked with gray. She’s attempted to hide the dark circles under her eyes with makeup, but there is no disguising her sorrow.
“Sit with me?” Vivienne asks.
Ellie nods, still hugging her coat tightly, looking down at the table but not at her wine, past it. Her grief is huge and suffocating, as if she’s walked into the pub with a hippo by her side.
“I wish I’d been kinder to him when we met up. I feel like I didn’t ask enough questions, just spent the whole time jabbering about my children and my job…”
“I’m sure Tristan wouldn’t have seen it that way,” Vivienne says, remembering his defeated manner as he relayed his meeting with Ellie.