The Dinner Guest Who Died Last Year

How it begins

The dead man objected to his place at dinner.

"I prefer not to sit with my back to a door," he told the footman.

Iris watched him move his card two places to the left.

She knew his hands.

Last winter she had drawn them from memory for a police officer who said the face was beyond useful description. Long middle fingers. A flattened nail on the right thumb. A white seam across the knuckle where a wedding ring had once caught.

Those hands now adjusted a wineglass beneath a chandelier.

"Miss Cole," said their hostess. "You haven't met Mr. Neri."

"No," Iris replied.

The man's eyes met hers.

For a moment neither performed the required smile.

Then he bowed.

"A pleasure."

His voice was different. Lower, carefully placed.

Iris set her own card back where it belonged.

"Have you sat for a portrait?"

"Not that I remember."

"Some people dislike the experience."

"Some people dislike being recognized."

The hostess laughed, taking this for conversation.

From the hall came the sound of rain against the windows. A maid carried in a silver dish and looked once toward the man before lowering her eyes.

Iris noticed that too.

At the far end of the table, a guest began an anecdote about an auction. Everyone turned toward him except Mr. Neri.

He leaned close enough for Iris to hear.

"Give me until the soup is cleared."

She looked at his right thumb.

"Why?"

"Because the person who killed me is in this room."

The footman filled her glass.

Iris did not drink.

Across the table, the hostess was still smiling, but one hand had closed tightly around the stem of her wineglass.

Before the first course arrived, Iris quietly placed her sketchbook beneath her napkin.

She intended to remember every hand she saw that evening.