Chapter 13 Ember
Ember
“Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs,” declares the stout man with the silver-tipped cane and perfectly curled mustache. “I am Hercule Poirot. And tonight, there will be…a murder!”
A collective laugh ripples through the room.
Today has been loads of fun.
We played dress-up—truly committed, no half-measures. Mama brought in a stylist with racks of vintage-inspired clothing, worthy of a West End costume department.
Thanks to that incredibly generous bounty, Freja is strutting in a feathered fascinator and elbow-length gloves, as if she were born for a drawing room mystery.
Jonathan looks unnervingly comfortable in his slicked-back hair and with his walking stick, wearing one of those Downton Abbey-style suits.
Aksel is in a brocade waistcoat and cravat. He admits that he looks like a misplaced duke.
The kids are adorable! Anika is in a pinafore and patent shoes. Thomas is wielding a magnifying glass with deadly seriousness.
Latika is wrapped in a rich sapphire sari-inspired gown and looks like royalty.
Heidi and Giselle share a pair of dramatic cloaks and have affected Eastern European accents all afternoon.
“Ve do not smile.” Giselle holds up her glass of wine. “Smiling is for veak hearts and Americans.”
“Ve come from land of shadows and soup,” Heidi adds solemnly.
Papa has been polishing his monocle (yes, monocle) all evening.
Mama is dressed in a classic Edwardian gown with enough lace and feathers to shame a Victorian lampshade. Pearls (hers and genuine) weigh down her neck, and she’s taken to dramatically clutching them every time someone mentions murder.
Uncle Bob is a professor with a jacket with elbow patches. Aunt Tanya is a melodramatic duchess in mourning.
Ransom is dressed in a three-piece suit, looking absolutely delicious, like he stepped out of a noir film with a scalpel in one hand and secrets in the other.
Calypso, equally striking in an elaborate crown and floor-length gown, wears her costume like armor.
She’s the least enthusiastic among us, her smile tight, her energy cool and faintly aloof—as if all this play-acting is beneath her.
I’m in a moss-green velvet gown, complete with faux emeralds and a ridiculous (but oddly flattering) hat.
It’s like we’ve stepped into a storybook—each of us someone else, and yet still ourselves, all at once.
Poirot—or rather, the actor playing him, a wiry Frenchman with theatrical flair named Luc Besson (not the filmmaker)—paces the center rug with the authority of someone used to being watched.
“Let us begin by introducing ourselves. Who are you in this tangled web of deceit?”
We all have been given a card that tells us who we are and a description of how we must behave. We’re not supposed to share our cards with anyone.
Papa rises with a flourish. “Jean-Pierre LaRoche. Retired general. War hero. Medal collector. And possibly…a…murderer.”
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. Always glamorous.”
Jonathan smirks. “Benedict Hatch. I own a railway. And perhaps a few secrets.”
I raise a shoulder dramatically. “Marguerite Delacroix. Botanist. Specializes in rare poisons.”
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 from A 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.
“Murder On the Orient Express—lamb with Turkish pilaf and harissa jus,” Anika reads out. “I saw the movie.”
“You did?” Aksel looks horrified.
Anika nods. “I like Hercule Poirot.”
“Isn’t this the movie where everyone stabs Johnny Depp?” Aksel asks his wife, his eyes wide.
“Calm down. It’s Agatha Christie—it’s harmless.
” Latika raises an eyebrow. “I worry more about Thomas watching Lord of the Rings and strutting around with a stick, telling people they shall not pass.” She takes a sip of wine and deadpans, “He tried it with the UPS guy last week—nearly poked his eye out.”
“Well, I can’t wait to eat a Death On The Nile,” Giselle announces. “I love a good sea bass.”
Aunt Tanya chuckles. “Margot, you missed a trick not calling dessert A Pocket Full of Rye—you know, for something with whiskey.”
“But,” Heidi interjects, “4:50 from Paddington is inspired. I love sticky toffee pudding with clotted cream.”
“Why, thank you.” Mama waves a hand like she’s royalty. “Chef Pascal and I re-read a lot of Agatha Christie to come up with this menu.”
Dinner unfolds beautifully. The murder hasn’t happened yet. We’re told it will occur between the cheese course and dessert.
The kids are buzzing about presents, which will be opened in the morning.
“We can’t open them tonight?” Thomas pleads again.
“Sorry, poppet.” Papa kisses his grandson’s forehead. “First thing tomorrow morning.”
Anika looks thoughtfully at my father. “Grandpa Jean, why is it that only children get gifts and none of you do?”
Calypso coughs as she’s drinking her water. “No Christmas gifts?”
“Well, we decide on activities for the following year that we can do as a family. Shared memories instead of things,” Latika explains. “Honestly, my kids will remember the time they saw the pyramids rather than some toy they received.”
“But,” Papa interjects, “Margot likes to break the rules.”
“Which is why,” Margot says with a smile, “there are still small things under the tree for everyone. Even for the Grinches among us.” She looks meaningfully at Aksel, who grunts in mock protest.
Calypso leans over and murmurs, “I hope you got me something,” in a tone meant to be teasing, but it lands heavily, like avarice, in the thick candlelight.
Ransom stiffens slightly. Everyone catches it. The room shifts, just slightly, like a snow globe with one swirl too many.
I look away, busying myself with adjusting the silverware.
It’s not a present she wants. It’s his attention. It’s his thoughtfulness.
I know that feeling—wanting something from someone who won’t give it.
It hollows you out.
It shrinks you.
You start folding yourself into smaller and smaller shapes, hoping they’ll notice. Hoping they’ll offer what they never intended to.
The conversation picks up again. My family is loud and warm.
Calypso smiles tightly, trying to keep pace.
I sip my wine and watch them all, loving them fiercely and feeling, as I often do, like I’m floating outside the glass, a spectator.
Racquel clears up the plates with Freja, Aksel, and me helping, just like we always have. However, it’s not easy with our costumes, which leads to some mishaps and a whole lot of laugher.
Calypso leans forward to get Mama’s attention. “Maybe you should hire more help.”
Mama is adept at not showing emotion, but she doesn’t like someone telling her how to run her house. She’s the queen of her kingdom, and everyone else must genuflect.
“Why would she?” Ransom cuts in, obviously to prevent the look in my mother’s eyes from becoming something more. “When she has three strapping kids to help around the house. Come on, Aksel, hurry up.”
“Asshole,” Aksel slaps the back of Ransom’s head. “When we were young, you used to help out.”
“I hate to break this to you, but we’re not young anymore,” Ransom chides.
Once we’re all seated again, Mr. Poirot returns.
He clears his throat theatrically. “Now that we are fed and full of wine…I am afraid someone at this table will not live to see the dessert.”
The lights flicker. Anika gasps. Thomas lets out a delighted shriek.
And somewhere outside, a flurry of snow begins again.