Chapter 15 Ember
Ember
The game ends with a bang—well, more of a dramatic gasp and an overacted faint.
I think I know who the murderer is, but Luc has told us that there is one more clue to find.
The conversation is lively as everyone eats their dessert.
The only person not participating is Calypso, standing away by the bar.
Whatever!
“Based on the railway schedule, Inspector, I think you’re lying,” Jonathan smugly tells Uncle Bob.
Freja is insisting, dramatically, that Posy Galore stole her antique sapphire brooch.
I turn to Heidi. “Something isn’t adding up,” I whisper.
“Why did Madame Veronique Lavande (Tanya, in full opera-diva glory) say she was in the conservatory when the storm broke, when I overheard her tell Reggie Bottombrook (Uncle Bob) earlier that she hated the conservatory because it reminded her of her first husband’s funeral? ”
Her brow furrows. “Hmm…the plot thickens!”
Then I see something.
I cross the room, glance at the floral still life above the mantel, and without thinking, pull it back. A tiny, folded note flutters to the floor.
Everyone goes silent.
Heidi claps. “Ember, tell me it’s what I think it is?”
“I think I found the murder weapon…metaphorically.”
Luc claps. “Incroyable! I’ve been waiting for someone to do that.”
It’s a list of names, numbers, and a strange little sketch of a violet in the upper corner. I scan it once and laugh.
“Oh, this is rich.” I wave the paper in the air like Poirot himself.
Luc taps a knife against a glass for silence. “Well…looks like you have something to tell all of us.” He winks at me.
“It wasn’t the debts. It wasn’t the affair. It wasn’t even poor Charles’ terrible investment in that Moroccan ostrich farm.”
Everyone leans in.
“It was the opera schedule!” I declare triumphantly.
“Madame Lavande was booked to perform in Milan the same weekend of the murder. But”—I point dramatically at Tanya, who tries not to look guilty and fails—”there’s a telegram from her agent in the dossier I found earlier.
She canceled the performance at the last minute… claiming she had laryngitis.”
There’s a collective, very theatrical, gasp.
Heidi catches on. After all, we have been interviewing everyone together. She paces like a detective in a final scene. “Except! Why would someone with laryngitis be heard arguing in the conservatory, per the maid’s testimony?”
She stops, looks at me. “Ah…why would she do that, partner?”
I grin.
She barks a laugh. “The fifth glass of wine scrambled my brains.”
I whip around dramatically. “Because she was never sick. She was here. Hiding. Watching. And when the victim found out about the canceled performance and threatened to expose her as a fraud—” I snap my fingers—“Voilà! Murder most operatic.”
Tanya shrugs. “Feels as if it’s not a good enough reason to kill, but whatever.”
Luc bows. “Miss Delacroix, you are wasted as a botanist.”
“Thank you.” I curtsy with a flourish. “Heidi and I will take our winnings now.”
Heidi bows beside me. “My intimidation technique worked flawlessly.”
“How did she intimidate her?” Freja wants to know.
“She told Aunt Tanya I was emotionally unstable and had access to antique knives.” I pick up a butter knife and drag my tongue along the dull edge, eyes wide—full serial killer energy.
“And that,” Heidi says in a bad imitation of Poirot, “is called leverage, Madam.”
Tanya sighs, fanning herself dramatically. “I am undone.”
Bob salutes with his brandy snifter. “To the next murder!”
Luc bows deeply. “As you can see, we have our winners. Miss Delacroix and Miss Alan! Bravo!”
Mama raises a glass. “To Ember and Heidi, the sleuths of the century.”
“And to Madame Lavande,” Papa says with mock solemnity, “who really should have stuck to arias and absinthe.”
Luc presents us with two exquisitely wrapped boxes of Maison Bonnat chocolates. “Chosen by Mrs. Margot Rousseau herself. The prize for cunning and a clear moral compass.”
There is laughter and clapping.
As we discuss going to the sunroom for post-dinner drinks, Calypso announces, “I’m going to go to bed. I have a headache.”
She walks up to Mama and hugs her. Thanks her for a wonderful Christmas Eve.
“I hope you feel better soon.” Mama is the hostess with the mostest.
“I’ll walk you to the room.” Ransom puts a hand on the small of Calypso’s back.
They leave, and the energy that had dropped at Calypso’s announcement rises back again, even higher. The room feels free with her gone. Her presence had been a black cloud because she made her dislike of Dinner Murder Mystery Theater so evident.
Yes, it’s ridiculous, but it’s also fun. It’s us.
Mama lifts her chin at me. “Do you have any painkillers?”
“For Calypso?” I guess correctly because she nods. “I’ll take some to her.”
I don’t want to go all the way to the room Calypso shares with Ransom, where they sleep together, make love, but when Mama asks me to do something, I do it.
I grab a bottle of Paracetamol from the vanity in the downstairs powder room.
But before I reach the hallway that takes me to the bedrooms, I hear voices coming from the library.
The door is ajar. I am about to walk in when I catch Ransom’s words, low, clipped. “…why would you tell her that?”
“Because she needed to know that I know,” Calypso replies defensively. “Because I noticed. I’m not blind.”
“You should’ve left it alone.”
There’s a pause. Then: “What exactly do you feel for her?”
I stop breathing.
“What?” Ransom demands.
“What do you feel for Ember? You owe me at least that. You brought me here. You didn’t tell me she’s an ex. How long were you with her?”
I hear Ransom bark. “Fuck, Cali! Leave the past where—"
“How long did you date her?”
Long pause.
“A year.”
“Wow. For you, that is long.”
There is silence.
“Do you love her?”
I close my eyes and wait for my heart to rip apart because I know what he’ll say.
“Of course not.”
More silence. Then Calypso again, softer, “But she still loves you.”
A harsh laugh from Ransom. “We were together five years ago. I doubt she has any feelings. I definitely don’t.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she does seem quite boring.”
I wait for him to defend me, but he doesn’t.
“Ransom, I’m sorry for being so insecure, but she’s so much younger than me…I just—”
“Her age is the reason we didn’t work out.”
A sigh from Calypso. “I can’t see you with her. She’s so…mousy and dull. And you’re so…charismatic and vibrant.”
“Well…maybe that’s why we aren’t together.”
Mousy and dull? He thinks I’m mousy and dull?
“And maybe that’s why we are together.” There’s strength now in Calypso’s voice.
I hear rustling of fabric.
“Does her family know?” There’s malice in her voice now. “Do they? ‘Cause I can tell them.”
“Like you told them, I’m going to propose?” he demands.
“Oh! What will they say if they find out you were fucking their precious daughter, who’s fifteen years younger than you?”
There is such harshness in her voice that it breaks something inside me.
She’s a terrible person.
“Will you still be considered family?” she continues. “Will you still have holidays in Chamonix and the Hamptons?”
“Christ, Cali. Have some dignity.”
Is that fear I hear in his voice? Or shame? Is he ashamed of having been with me?
“Dignity? You brought me here under false pretenses,” she shouts.
“No.” He seems firm on that. “I told you we’re friends and this was just a holiday, nothing more.”
“But…come on, Ransom. What was I supposed to think? You brought me to your family!” There are tears in her voice now.
“As a friend. Like Freja invited Heidi and Giselle.”
She lets out a harsh laugh. “What the hell were you doing with her? Was sex with her any good? I mean, she’s a boring scientist who doesn’t even have the Rousseau looks.”
“Like I said, it’s in the past.”
“Was she better in bed than me?” There’s a sob in her voice.
I want to tell them I’m here so they’ll stop, stop, stop…but I also want to know what he’ll say.
“Cali, she was twenty-five, inexperienced. Let it go. What I want is to talk about—"
My hand shakes. The pill bottle falls with a soft clatter against the hardwood floor.
There’s silence inside the room.
The door opens wide. Ransom clutches the door handle, his eyes filled with regret. “Ember—”
I pick up the bottle of pills and hand them to him. “For Calypso. Mama wanted her to have them for her…ah…headache.”
I have no idea what I’m saying or how I’m saying it. In fact, I don’t know how I’m forming sentences. The words seem jumbled inside my head.
“Thank you, Ember. That was so sweet of you.” Calypso has a victorious smile on her face.
I have never understood people who feel better by making someone else feel bad. But she’s not my problem; she is Ransom’s.
I turn.
Walk away.
One foot in front of the other, all the way down the hall. I can hear his words still, echoing off the walls, “Cali, she was twenty-five, inexperienced.”