Amanda Filipacchi - The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty

Penelope says, “And another good reason for having us all there is that if an attempt is made on Strad’s life, we’ll get to see who among us is the killer, which we’d like to know anyway.”

I finally reluctantly relent. We will all protect Strad.

The location we pick for the evening with Strad is my apartment, which I will make killer-proof for the occasion.

Before everybody goes home, I make one final request. “I want to know if the killer among you has changed his or her mind about murdering Strad. After you leave here today, I’d like you, KAY, to call me and press any digit on your phone one time if you no longer intend to kill Strad, and three times if you still do. You don’t have to speak to me or reveal who you are. Just beeps. One beep is no. Three is yes.”

“You do realize we should protect Strad regardless of the answer you’re given,” Jack says. “Gabriel said that KAY would put considerable effort into killing Strad on the 27th. Such effort could include encouraging us to let down our guards by pretending she no longer intends to kill him.”

“Yes, I know.”

The next day, Monday, we’re gathered at Lily’s apartment for lunch, which we ordered from L’Express.

Lily tells us that when she invited Strad to have dinner with us this coming Friday, the 27th, his reaction was, “You’re kidding me! The Creators? The Knights of Creation will be there?” Strad had read one of the silly articles about us that explained no one gets to pierce our “holy circle.” The word choice was unfortunate, though the gist of it was true.

“Is there any chance we could do it on a different night?” he asked Lily. “I already have plans for dinner that night and I’m attending a party afterward.”

“No, see, that’s the thing, it can only be on that night,” she said.

“Okay, consider me there. But, just curious… why only that night?”

“Oh, it’s Georgia. Who knows. She gets these ideas in her head, and it has to be that night, no other night.”

“Yes, of course. She’s an artist, quirky. Wonderful. I’ve been wanting to meet her for ages.”

Upon hearing Lily’s account, Georgia grimaces with disgust.

During dessert, we discuss the planning of the evening with Strad.

Georgia’s fear is that it will be tedious. “What will we do to kill time while we protect him?”

“You could ask him to play the violin for you,” Lily answers.

“Is he any good?”

“Not really. I think that’s why he recently decided to pursue acting.”

“Don’t make me listen to him perform a soliloquy. It will kill me.”

My cell phone rings. I answer it. I hear three beeps and then a hang-up. I stop breathing as a wave of nausea sweeps over me.

I look at my friends. “I got three beeps.”

“Oh my God,” Penelope gasps.

“Asshole!” Lily exclaims, slapping the table.

I call back the number, which has no name attached. It rings a long time, and then someone, to my surprise, picks up.

“Hello?” a man says.

“Did you just call me?”

“No.”

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Someone who answered a pay phone.”

“Where?”

“Uh… Forty-Seventh Street and Second Avenue. In Manhattan.”

“Outdoors? On the street?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see who just called me a minute ago?”

“No.”

“Is there anyone unusual standing around? Or anyone looking at you?”

“Uh… no, not really.”

“What corner of the intersection is the phone on?” Not that it matters. Not that there would be any point in rushing over there right now. I’m just being thorough because you never know in life what details will come in handy.

“Uh… Northeast corner.”

“Thank you.”

We hang up.

My friends all glance at one another, undoubtedly trying, as I am, to decipher who among them is the killer.

I look at Jack, yearning for his help, but uncertain he’s innocent.

I say, “I guess one of you asked someone — or hired someone — to make this phone call?”

I find the concept of someone being hired to make this phone call terrifying. It makes the whole thing seem like a bigger, more serious production: there’s personnel involved — staff! Who knows, maybe the killer has hired an assassin as well, or many, to do the dirty work. And to think that all this is being orchestrated by someone in this room, someone who is looking at me right now with affectionate eyes and a familiar face — a beloved friend. Unimaginable.

“Probably,” Jack says.

Georgia nods.

“I don’t appreciate what you’re doing,” I say to the mystery killer among us. “Don’t you care that you’re making our lives miserable, devastating our group, probably even destroying it? And don’t you care about how much you would hurt Lily, perhaps even ruin her life, if you killed Strad? Assuming she’s not the killer.”

I doubt my words are persuasive. I’m sure the killer was aware of these risks when he/she made the decision to kill Strad, and yet must have concluded Lily would still be better off if Strad were dead.

LUNCH IS OVER and we each go home. When I arrive at my building, Adam the doorman has his hands in his pockets. When he sees me, he opens his jacket and flashes me his white T-shirt on which is written “Bitch” in big red letters.

I look around. Lucky for him, no one saw him.

I spend the afternoon making preparations for the evening of Strad’s possible death, four days away. (“Evening of Strad’s death” is what we got into the habit of calling it. This isn’t a sign of resignation — it’s simply shorter than including the word “attempted,” or “possible,” but now that I think about it, calling it “Friday” would have been even shorter.) I start making things safe.

I must anticipate every trick the killer might pull.

My apartment, since yesterday, has been off limits to my friends.

This morning I placed an ad on the NYU website, looking to hire a few students to help me search my apartment for any weapons the killer might have already planted there.

I will, of course, frisk my friends when they arrive on the night of the dinner.

My brain is so muddled from stress that I haven’t been able to focus on anything except getting things safe for the dinner. My work has suffered. I’m supposed to be creating a hat that goes with the quirky green velvet outfit I finished two days ago. Ordinarily, I’d be able to come up with an original hat concept in less than twenty minutes. But now my mind has deteriorated almost to the point of asking myself, “What’s a hat?”

I take a walk down Fifth Avenue to Washington Square Park, trying to imagine every weapon the killer might think of using, and I dismiss the ones I assume I don’t need to worry about, such as a gun — which frisking would detect — and a vial of poison — which I plan to guard against by keeping my friends away from the food until it’s served. A wire to strangle Strad would be easy to smuggle in but does not worry me because getting strangled takes a couple of minutes and we’d have more than enough time to pull the killer off Strad. More dangerous are the weapons that can be used in a split second, such as blades, especially razor blades. They’re simple to sneak in and they’re quick. But perhaps most importantly, a blade was the killer’s weapon of choice the first time around.

AT NIGHT, I wake up in cold sweats. My friends are not the types to do anything very bad, much less kill someone, but I’m aware we don’t always know people as well as we think we do, and Gabriel is not the type to lie. So I try to figure out, yet again, which of my friends murdered the man from the bar.