Amanda Filipacchi - The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty

“I think it sounds fishy,” Jack says.

I should have confiscated Strad’s phone as soon as he arrived. In the last few days, it did occur to me that the killer might call Strad during this dinner — or rather, hire someone to call Strad — with some sort of pretext to lure him away from our protection. Nevertheless, seizing Strad’s cell phone seemed excessive at the time. I regret my decision now.

A sudden, irrepressible urge to communicate my feelings to the killer overwhelms my desire not to sound strange in front of Strad. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I don’t like it,” I say to the killer in our midst, whoever it is.

“What, you think I faked this call to get out of my domestic duties?” Strad asks me. “I didn’t, I swear. I know I must clear the table and serve dessert, and I will. And I’ll serve the coffee, too.”

I’m afraid the supposed gift downstairs will be a small bomb, small enough to kill only the person who opens it. But I try to reassure myself that no member of our group — even the killer — would ever endanger any other member. A bomb — even a tiny one — is simply too risky. It must be something else, some other weapon or ploy.

My friends, too, are unsettled at the prospect of this gift being brought into the apartment. Georgia copies my technique of addressing the killer: she stares blankly into space and says to him or her, “I can’t believe the gall you have to actually be attempting something right in front of our eyes.”

Obviously this stunt does not clear her. She could still be the killer.

“I’m not attempting anything!” Strad exclaims. “I told you guys I would clear the table and I will, as soon as I get back from getting my present.”

Penelope jumps on the bandwagon with her own blank stare and address to the killer: “Do you realize what you are doing to us? Don’t you care about our group?”

“I do! I admire it greatly,” Strad tells her. “I’d love to be a part of it. And you’ll see, I’ll be back before you know it.”

Then Jack takes his turn addressing the killer, who could, of course, be himself: “If you do what you intend, don’t assume we’ll help you afterward. We definitely won’t. You’ll be on your own.”

Strad squints, trying to understand. “You guys are not being clear. Is this about more than clearing the table and serving dessert? Is this about cleaning the kitchen? I can do that, too, if you want. It’s not that much work to throw out paper plates and plastic cutlery.”

Then I remember that even if it’s a bomb, it can’t go off after midnight because that was the rule KAY agreed to. “Strad,” I say. “I want you to wait until the evening is over before you get your present. I insist on that.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I want to find out now what it is. I’ll be just a minute.”

I heave myself out of my chair. The others get up as well. I keep an eye on Strad’s cup until all my friends have stepped away from the table.

“You didn’t need to get up. I’ll be right back,” Strad says, putting on his shoes.

We gather around him near the front door.

“Wait,” I say. “Let me call the doorman to make sure there really is a package. Maybe the call was a prank.”

I pick up the intercom’s receiver and I call downstairs.

Adam answers.

I begin, “Hi, this is Barb—”

“What do you want, ass-head? Make it quick. Your voice gives me ear infections.”

“Did someone drop off a package for one of my guests?”

“Yeah.”

“Really? No one? Are you sure?”

Adam is silent and confused for a moment, and then says, “Are you normally this stupid or are you making a special effort right now?”

“His name is Strad. You have no package for Strad?”

“I have it right here.”

“Hmm. That’s weird. We got a message saying a package was dropped off with you.”

“If you’re having a stroke or something that requires the defibrillator let me know by banging your head three times against the phone and I’ll be sure to send the defibrillator up to you real slow.”

“Okay, thanks.” I hang up and turn to Strad. “He says there’s no package.”

“Really? Do you mind if I speak to him to be sure he didn’t make a mistake?”

“Of course he didn’t make a mistake. You heard how thorough I was.”

“Yeah, but still. I want to make sure.”

Clearly Strad won’t let this rest until either he speaks to Adam himself or goes downstairs and looks for the present with his own eyes. There’s no point in my trying to stop him. What’s important now is that I not let him call Adam, who would inform him I’ve been lying, which could offend Strad enough to make him leave and no longer be under our protection.

“No, I’ll do it,” I say, picking up the intercom phone before Strad can respond, though I do catch the expression of frustration on his face.

Adam answers.

“Hi, it’s me again,” I say.

“Stop plaguing me.”

“Sorry to bother you again, but could you please check in the back to make sure there isn’t a package for Strad? Maybe it was dropped off earlier when Bill was at the desk, and maybe he forgot to put it in the system.”

“What kind of game are you playing?” Adam asks me.

“Thanks,” I say. I wait enough time for Adam to theoretically go to the back, while in reality he’s treating me to a litany of insults. After a few more seconds I say into the phone, “Ah, you do have it? Great!”

“Leave me alone.”

“Well, that explains it. Thanks for checking.” I hang up.

“He does have it,” I tell Strad. “Sure enough, it got dropped off when Bill was on duty.”

“Great. I’ll get it. Don’t serve the fruit salad. I’ll do it when I get back.”

He walks out the door. We do as well.

“Be back in a jiffy!” he says, waving.

We flank him as he walks down the hallway.

“Why are you guys doing this? I’m not a moron; I won’t get lost a second time. You don’t even have your shoes on.”

“That’s all right,” Jack says. “The person on the phone didn’t say who they were or who the present was from. I’d stay as far away from that supposed present as possible if I were you.”

“Jack is a cop,” Lily adds. “He knows what he’s talking about. Let’s just go back to the apartment, Strad.”

Ignoring her suggestion, Strad steps into the elevator. We squeeze in around him.

“It’s wonderful to be escorted and embraced this way by your group, to be taken into your fold,” he says. “You guys must like me. I feel cuddled by five mother hens. Does this mean I’m part of your exclusive inner circle, now? Am I one of you?”

We don’t answer. When the elevator doors open again, we follow him down the long hallway to the second elevator. I’m in a trance, thinking that if we survive the opening of the present, I will take extra precautions for the rest of the evening, starting with his cell phone confiscation. I don’t care how strange it makes me look. Appearances are nothing. Anyway, it’s my apartment, my rules. And let’s not forget that there is also my special backup precaution, which I was hoping to avoid using due to its extreme deviance. But perhaps the time has come.

We take the second elevator down and arrive in the lobby.

Wanting to be the first to examine the box for any suspicious signs, I move ahead of my friends and go straight to the front desk, behind which Adam is standing.

“Hi, Adam. Can I have that package, please?”

Handing me the box, he leans toward my ear and whispers, “Scumbag.”

“Thank you so much,” I say, smiling.

I haven’t yet told my friends about the doorman’s strange behavior these past few months.