"The easiest way to attract a crowd is to let it be known that at a given time and a given place someone is going to attempt something that in the event of failure will mean sudden death."
~ Harry Houdini
The Next Day
6 p.m.
Carey Manor
"I want you to know, I don't believe you're the killer," Zandra says to Sunglasses. They wait for guests to arrive by the stained glass paneled into the front door of Carey Manor. The solo piano of Chopin's Ballade No. 1 plays on a vintage record player nearby.
Sunglasses, dressed in his suit, adjusts his tie and says, "Thank you. I was getting worried for a minute."
"Yes, child, I apologize for my earlier suspicions. I came to realize, only recently, that there's no possible way it could be you," Zandra says, dressed for the evening in the same purple gown she always wears. "As I mentioned before, assuming people are guilty until proven innocent is a survival technique."
"We'll need all the survival techniques we can get tonight."
"Indeed, child, we will. A killer is on the way here. I'm glad to count you as a friend," Zandra says, managing the beginning crease of a smile. She takes Sunglasses's hand into hers and gives it a pat.
Sunglasses looks down at his hand in Zandra's. "Me, too."
Now that that's out of the way, the evening can officially begin.
The first guests to arrive, in an unexpected move of punctuality, are the trio of Chad, Bexley, and The Crocodile.
"You invited a lizard?" Sunglasses says as he unlatches the front door.
"Crocodile," Zandra says. "And I mentioned they should get here an hour early. That's why they're right on time."
The front door opens, and a waft of armpit and marijuana introduces the trio.
"Holy shit. You live here?" Chad says as he gawks in the entryway, still shirtless beneath his leather jacket.
Bexley is just as flabbergasted at the enormity of Carey Manor. The Crocodile seems less impressed, or tired, or bored, or pissed off, or all of the above. It's hard to tell.
"Would I live anywhere else?" Zandra says. "It'll be on sale soon. I hope you saved your pennies."
Sunglasses holds his nose and escorts the trio to the lounge, where Chad exclaims, "They have snacks, and a sweet pool table!"
Hank, or the yawning man from the hotel lobby, arrives next. He stops short of knocking at the front doors, his silhouette against the stained glass searching for a doorbell to push. Carey Manor isn't the sort of place where people show up without an appointment, though.
Sunglasses swings the doors open and says, "Welcome, Hank."
Dressed like a Wall Street fund manager, Hank might well get his suit tailored at the same places as Sunglasses. He offers a soft greeting and a bottle of wine.
"Make yourself comfortable with our other guests. They don't bite, but don't sit too close to The Crocodile," Zandra says. She motions for Sunglasses to take Hank to the lounge.
A bottle of wine isn't what Melvin hands Zandra after he walks through the front doors next. He left the overalls at home, but not the fermented beet juice.
"Please don't take it the wrong way. It's a peace offering," Melvin says and holds a canning jar out for Zandra.
Pathetic.
"I'd rather not take it at all," Zandra says. She has Sunglasses bring the jar to the kitchen.
"Wouldn't the other guests like to try some?" Melvin says in protest.
"Maybe they would, but I'll bet they like avoiding diarrhea even more. Off to the lounge you go, Mel. We'll catch up in a bit," Zandra says.
Emile the Empath didn't anticipate the long ride in her electric scooter up the driveway, something she makes known after Sunglasses helps her guide the vehicle inside.
"You almost need a helicopter just to make it to the front door. I thought I had the wrong address. This place looks like Norte Dame from a distance," Emile says, exasperated. She wears an outfit straight out of a 19th Century séance. "That voyage dried me out. What's there to drink around here?"
"There's homemade juice in the kitchen. Help yourself, child. Everyone else is in the lounge," Zandra says, rubbing her hands together.
Carter Cunningham graces Carey Manor with his presence 45 minutes late, although Zandra isn't shocked.
"This better be good," Carter says upon stepping through the doors. With messy hair and red eyes, he comes across like a Monday morning frat boy.
"You came alone, yes?" Zandra says.
"My driver dropped me off, but I'm never alone," Carter says, holding up his smartphone.
"Then make yourself at home. You'll fit right in," Zandra says. "By the way, there's plenty inside for making cocktails. Help yourself. As much as you like."
"For once, you make sense," Carter says. He whistles at the architecture of the interior of Carey Manor. "I'm more of a mid-century modern guy myself, but I can make this work for one night."
That leaves only one unaccounted guest, the person in Apartment 201. To Sunglasses's surprise, Zandra insists the party begin.
"Our friend in 201 will get here when they get here," Zandra says.
"So the killer isn't in that apartment?"
"You best just enjoy the ride, child," Zandra says. "Shall we?"
The pair stroll to the lounge, where Chad and Bexley entertain—if one could call it that—the others with a story that keeps starting over and over again.
"You really want to hear this, I promise, it's just so crazy," Chad says, more to reassure himself that the story is worth the effort than his captive audience.
"There will be plenty of time for stories later," Zandra says as she enters the lounge. Sunglasses stands next to her, hands folded at his waist. "We should all have a chat. You might be wondering why you're here, or if the reason I gave you to be here is true. I have good news and bad news."
"I knew it," Carter says from behind a snifter of bourbon. "Let's hear the good news first."
"The good news is that someone in this very room has been plotting my death. Considering my relationship with some of you, that shouldn't come as a shock," Zandra says, using the dramatic tone she honed at Sneak Peek. She raises her arms high, revealing the sheath of the lawnmower knife. "How is this good news? Take comfort, fellow citizens of Stevens Point, that I have already identified the would-be murderer with 99 percent confidence.
"However, it wouldn't be prudent of me to reveal who this person is just yet, because I, Zandra, the world's most renowned psychic, deal in certainty. The gravity of the situation demands absolute confirmation of my abilities for the skeptically inclined, hence the presence of the official observer standing next to me."
"If that's the good news, what's the bad news?" Emile says.
Zandra fills the room with her crooked grin. "You're all here to audition to be the next ghosts of Carey Manor."
Carter snorts in his snifter.
"I'm not sure this meeting is for me," Hank says, rising from a chaise lounge. "I should probably go."
"No one leaves. Your cooperation, if you aren't the guilty party, will be handsomely rewarded," Zandra says.
Hank continues toward the door. Zandra lowers her arms and wields the lawnmower knife in one motion.
"Sit," Zandra says.
Hank reverses back into the chaise lounge.
"Don't think of this as an interrogation. Think of it as a fun dinner party, with a surprise ending. Isn't that right, Uncle Sam?" Zandra says, turning to Sunglasses.
Sunglasses adjusts his tie once again and says, "That's correct. My name is John Smith, and I'm a field researcher with the United States Office of Naval Research. Zandra is under observation for reasons of national security. That means a threat on her life is a threat to the United States."
Now it's Carter's turn to head for the door, smartphone in hand. He says, "I'm calling my lawyer."
"It doesn't work that way, Mr. Cunningham. Walk out that door and you'll find yourself on the wrong end of the Patriot Act. My people can get here faster than yours can," Sunglasses says.
Carter stops, sighs, and turns back to his seat.
Probably not the first time he's heard that threat.
"Did anyone else bring a bad attitude with them this evening? Anything they need to get out of the way?" Zandra says.
"Where's the bathroom?" Emile the Empath says, raising her hand.
Atta boy, Melvin.
"There are 15 bathrooms on this floor alone. I'm happy to show you to one of them soon," Sunglasses says.
"Fifteen? None of these doors even look like bathroom doors. This place is too much," Emile says.
"I agree. There's a lot to this place. That's why, before dinner arrives, we'll kick things off with a little group activity," Zandra says. She slaps her palms together. "Who's up for an old-fashioned ghost hunt?"