“Just routine,” I reply.

“I need to pee, too,” Georgia says, and slips into the bathroom.

Strad plays “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”

When Georgia emerges, I frisk her very carefully.

“Did she steal anything?” Strad asks.

“Uh, it doesn’t look like it,” I say.

“You didn’t frisk me,” he says.

“Not yet.”

As I’m about to give Strad his token frisk, I get a better idea. “Lily, frisk him.” Why not give her some gratuitous pleasure?

She stares at me hard with embarrassment, and then slowly advances toward Strad. She pats his arms, from wrist to shoulder, then his chest. Her hands seem a little shaky as they descend toward his belly. She is carefully mimicking the way she saw me frisk her and Georgia—she does no more and no less. She strokes Strad’s waist, his hips, his pockets—which are bulky, but she ignores them—then his legs and ankles. She walks around him and frisks him from behind. His back pockets have some bulk in them as well, but she does not explore.

“All good?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.

“This is surreal,” Strad remarks to me, as we escort him back to the table. “You have me frisked, my pockets are bulging with things, and yet you don’t ask to see what’s in them. It could be your soap, you know. I could have stolen your soap.”

“I trust you.”

We take our seats and finish our sardines.

The time has come for the table to be cleared for dessert. The problem is, I don’t want any of my friends to take the dirty dishes to the kitchen because of the opportunity it would give the killer to sprinkle sleeping powder on the fruit salad I’ve prepared (which is sitting on the counter) or in the coffee pot. We’d all fall asleep and the killer could kill Strad at his or her leisure. Or while setting the dessert plates, the killer could apply some poison directly onto Strad’s plate or plastic spoon or fork.

One way to avoid these risks would be for me to clear the table, but this will not work either because I’d have to take my eyes off Strad’s still unfinished cup of wine.

Therefore, there’s really only one option that’s completely safe.

“Strad, you may clear the table now,” I say.

“Excuse me?” he says.

“We’re ready for dessert. You can take the dirty dishes to the kitchen, and please don’t eat out of anyone’s plate.”

He gets up, a little baffled, muttering, “Sure, I don’t mind helping,” and takes his plate to the kitchen.

He sees that no one else has gotten up. “Am I supposed to help or am I supposed to do it all by myself?”

“The latter,” I say. “We prepared the meal. It’s only fair.”

“Oh, this is very original,” he says, full of good humor. “The guest waits on the hosts. So this is what it’s like having dinner with the Knights of Creation.”

A few minutes later, I say, “Thank you very much, Strad. When you’re done, you can set our dessert plates and serve us the fruit salad and lemon chocolate cake. Then if you wouldn’t mind pouring us some coffee, that would be great.”

“You really pull out all the stops when you entertain, don’t you, Barb?” he says. “Not only do you bring out the fancy paper plates and plastic knives and forks and serve wine in these beautiful paper cups, but you ask your guest to clear the table and serve you.” I think I detect a mixture of indignation and awe in his tone.

“You guys are so unconventional, it’s delightful,” he adds, taking my plate to the kitchen. He carries the plates one at a time, which drags out the process. He obviously hasn’t had much practice helping clear tables. Three plates are still left. But that’s okay, we’ve got all the time in the world.

We hear music. It’s Strad’s cell phone.

He answers it and hangs up after a moment.

“Now this is weird,” he tells us, looking tickled.

“What?” I ask.

“There’s a present for me downstairs!”

“Ignore it; it’s a trick,” I blurt.

“Who’s it from?” Penelope quickly asks, undoubtedly attempting to cover up my strange comment, which I appreciate.

“She didn’t say,” Strad replies. “It was a woman on the phone, but I have no idea who. All she said was, ‘Strad, there’s a present for you downstairs.’ And she hung up. And no number is showing up on my phone.”

“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?”