They stilled, shocked.
“Guess that makes him Dead David,” said Mukherjee.
The men huddled, arms around each other’s backs, whispering manic theories from books they’d read. They’d likely suggest it was the butler, in the kitchen, with the candlestick.
“Was the poison meant for David? Or David’s David?” said Khan.
“Or was the cake meant for the murder victim?” said Mahmood.
“You mean Dead David,” said Mukherjee.
Andreas sighed. His tartlets were waiting on the table, calling to him. Getting colder by the minute.
“Again, would anyone have reason to targetyourDavids?” he asked.
The huddle broke. Khan leaned forward. “A jealous ex-boyfriend, perhaps? Both Davids are well connected. They dated powerful men before they met.”
“Like who?” Beate asked.
“Writers, reviewers, publishers, that sort,” said Mahmood.
“Did any of you date one of them?”
They laughed.
“Our wives will confirm that’s not the case,” said Khan.
They all displayed their wedding rings.
“Apologies. You just seem… quite close,” said Andreas.
Mahmood wrapped his arm around Khan, gripping his chin. “This handsome fella? I shouldbeso lucky. Look at this chiselled jawline, it could cut glass. Alas, I don’t swing that way.” Khan wrestled from his grip, then hid his eyes behind his hand, rubbing his temples and shaking his head.
“So, these exes. Anyone specific come to mind?”
“None who’d do a thing like this.”
“Well, a lot happened that night, not just in your room. And we know one of you left, because your special dessert made its way to your neighbors,” said Beate, eyes trained on Mukherjee.
Mukherjee hiccupped and eyed his shoes, wiggling his toes. The shoes looked like they pinched. “That was me. I tried to find the bathroom, accidentally opened the door into the hall. That cake did me something vicious. I was seeing sea ships and mermaids. I offered the mermaid my ice cream to keep her away and ran back upstairs.”
Andreas suppressed a smile. “Anyone else leave?”
Mahmood spoke up. “Not until five or so. I didn’t eat any ice cream cake, since I’m vegan, so I saw what was happening and got everyone into taxis. We ended up at the hospital, thinking it was some sort of nightmarish food poisoning.”
The wedding planner leaned in the door, tapping her watch with a fury that made Andreas shiver. They released the suspects.
“Shall we call you if we think of anything else?” said Khan.
“No. We’ll call you,” said Andreas. He didn’t need three Agatha Christie fans harassing him with nonsense theories.
The planner corralled the groomsmen and hustled them to the reception.
He and Beate scanned the seating chart as they munched their room-temperature canapés. “Check out table twenty-two,” she mumbled through a mouthful of foie gras. She licked crumbs off her fingertips, then tapped the diagram. Table twenty-two was highlighted in red with a crossed-out camera icon, and one chair had been blacked out. Beside it, two names were marked:Sebastian and Gertrude Goldfinch.
His eyebrows raised in surprise. “So. David’s parents are here. Dead David’s, that is.”
— 38 —Achtunddreißig
