Page 47 of Time After Time

This gets a dramatic gasp from Anika, who is cross-legged on the floor, eyes bright.

Mama goes next. “Evelyn Nightshade. Once a debutante. Now a widow. Three husbands. One suspicion.”

Papa puts a hand to his heart. “I’ll take a chance on you, darling.”

Aksel bows slightly. “Charles Beaumont. Financier.Scoundrel.”

Latika laughs, her chest heaving as she reads her note. “I’m Mrs. Beaumont…well, not really, and it’s an open secret, apparently. I’m Charles’ mistress pretending to be his wife. My real name is Posy Galore.”

All of us, except the kids, burst out laughing.

Freja twirls in her sequined gown. “Esmeralda Swann. Stage actress. Occasional pickpocket.Alwaysglamorous.”

Jonathan smirks. “Benedict Hatch. I own a railway. And perhaps a few secrets.”

I raise a shoulder dramatically. “Marguerite Delacroix. Botanist. Specializes inrarepoisons.”

There are chuckles all around.

Ransom smiles, his eyes on mine, lingering a beat too long.

Calypso, resplendent in pale pink lace, offers a bored smile. “I’m Arabella Ashcroft. Heiress. That’s all.” She waves a hand, doing a damn good impression of Miranda Priestly.

Ransom adjusts the lapels of his suit. “Dr. Percival Blackwood, noted brain surgeon who has been known to buy dead bodies to do autopsies.”

“How utterly morbid.” Mama wears a wickedly pleased look.

“Mon dieu,” Mr. Poirot says, looking delighted. “Already I sense trouble.”

Heidi and Giselle are spinster sisters who are comically called Misses Catherine and Teresa Alan.

“The Misses Alan fromA Room With A View?” I ask, surprised.

Mr. Poirot bows his head. “You, dear Miss Delacroix, have a keen eye for fiction.”

Aunt Tanya announces with a flourish and a French accent, “Madame Veronique Lavande. I’m a mysterious French opera singer turned socialite.”

She looks at her husband, who twirls his fake mustache. “Inspector Reginald ‘Reggie’ Bottombrook, at your service.”

With all the introductions completed, Mr. Poirot instructs us to enjoy our dinner and promises to be back with more.

On cue, Racquel, who is dressed in a crisp uniform that seems straight out of the 1930s, announces dinner with a smirk.

We all rise and move into the dining room, staying somewhat in character. The long table is stunning—candlelight reflecting off crystal, pine branches woven with red ribbon running its length.

Very Victorian!

“Who do you think is going to die?” Ransom asks me as we get ready to take our seats.

Our name cards have our murder mystery names on them, and some evil genie has decided that I am sitting next to Ransom. Calypso flanks his other side and looks displeased that he’s even acknowledging my existence.

I can bet the chalet she wishes I were the one who’d be murdered.

Calypso picks up the printed menu and fans herself with it like she’s on stage. “Ransom, look at this—it’s so silly,” she coos, tilting it toward him.

“It’s adorable,” Latika exclaims at the same time.

Mama has gone all out and named the dishes after Agatha Christie books.