The Guest

The invite is as obnoxious as you'd expect. Not mere paper or card for the happy couple, oh no. It's ivory. The lettering is so loopy and flowery, the plebs probably can't even read it.

The Guest finishes taping down the last corner of thick, creamy wrapping paper. Then, arranging the silvery ribbon just so, gloved hands tuck both gift and invitation into the suitcase.

+

A susurration of laughter, music, and clinking glasses tinkled on the sea-breeze. A spectacular sunset drips honey on the gleaming deck.

Detective Grant leans against the polished rail. For a copper, everything is a busman's holiday. Senses honed from years of hunting wrong-doers can't be switched off. It'd be like trying not to read her own name.

Speaking of names, she's good with them. Faces, too.

There's the groomsmen, Ethan and Ryan. Jamie's friends from out of town. Alex, too. His oldest friend. They'd been buddies since their first day at school together nearly thirty years ago. Stupid, to invite him when he never got over Harper. Ethan had become his best friend, later, at university. Ryan was Harper's brother.

Jamie's own brother, Lucas, was a tall young man with a meticulous goatee who looked more like a human string bean than a renowned chef.

Her estranged father, Charles, portly and stoic. Today was the first time they'd seen each other in years. He was only allowed on the condition his far-too-young-for-him-paralegal second wife (and any mention thereof) was not.

Her mother, Helen, warmer than Charles, but with shrewd eyes that skittered over her ex-husband as if he were invisible. Monica read the strain between them all with a curious detachment.

The bridesmaids were easy to spot in rich blue satin. The bride’s cousin, Olivia, huge chip on her shoulder. A touch of jealous socialist complex, if Grant was any judge. Loathed wealth for its own sake, but also wanted it, so that she could carry on loathing it, but from a much more comfortable position.

Sophie: all smiles, curves and red-gold curls. Graciously bestowing warmth on everybody, indiscriminate with kindness, and the type to say really nice things about you behind your back. The chief bridesmaid, Lyla, taking her role seriously, stalking about with a rod up her bottom.

Isabella, close friend of Harper's and the wedding planner. This was her first professional gig, and she looked like she might be unravelling under the pressure. Like a bundle of nerves that might snap at any moment, held together (barely) with hairspray.

Salem, another friend of Harper's. Also the official photographer. Close-cropped hair revealed a beautifully shaped skull. Salem looks like a quiet, asymmetrical clothes rack with a tasteful and trendy touch of eyeliner.

Fancy clothes didn't fool Monica one bit. Most of them were bound to be guilty of something. Money didn't make that sort of thing go away. If anything, it was like a sort of compost for it.

Some secrets she knew about. Others, she could guess. Pick at, like a sailor picked at a knot. Or an old man nagging at strands of pork between his teeth. Unable to shake such thoughts, she painted a bland smile over them, applying it the way some women do lipstick.

#

The weather couldn't have been better if it had been planned, like every other detail had been: with meticulous care.

The sun turned the sea the perfect shade of blue, to match the satin and fondant. It had smiled, rather than beat down on them. It could've easily turned everyone shiny-pink like cheap hams, and made sweat pool under shirts and dresses.

A soft laugh broke through the clinking of champagne flutes. Grant turned her head towards it, and caught sight of Harper, radiant in her ivory gown. One delicate hand didn't so much rest on Jamie's arm as lie weighted there by the huge sparkling rock that adorned her ring finger. Her hairdresser had done a terrific job with the chignon.

"Detective Grant!" she smiles, reaching out for a sisterly hug.

"Monica, please," Grant answers with a smile and a deft step backwards, shifting down a gear from hug to handshake.

"I feel like I know you already. Jamie's told me so much about you." She loosed go of Monica's hand at last. Jamie's head turns, as if on a string, when she says his name. He looks dazed, as if the whole event is a tidal wave that has struck him out of the blue.

Only a slight sag in her shoulders betrays her relief when the newly-weds move on to speak with other guests. Grant loves Jamie better than the younger brother she'd never had. Still, it's a blessing that every guest seemed to want a slice of the happy couple. People, even loved ones, are more palatable seasoned with a sprinkle of distance.

The sun slips lower, music swelling, drinks flowing. The fairy lights strung about the deck twinkle. Everyone is smiling white rose smiles.

The party's in full swing. It's as if the light leeching out of the sky is a signal to all to undo their braces, drink more, and drink faster. One young man has unbuttoned his shirt and is swaying on another man's shoulders. Everything is on the precipice of getting more raucous.

#

Notes planted, the Guest ghosts across the deck. Fingers, gloved once more, grip the stolen door key. What a stroke of luck he left his jacket unattended! This way, there's much less chance of being seen, of awkward questions being asked.

There's the gift table, creaking under an expensive weight of cream parcels, and thick paper bags with exorbitant names printed across them in ostentatiously understated script. Tacky. Like the rest of this over-priced farce.

Aha! There it is. The Guest takes the familiar package, casting the packaging into the water, and ghosts away to the bridal suite.

Admires the gleaming blade with its intricate patterns.

Waits.

#

Another person might have wished for a plus one, but not Grant. She's not a fan of what you might call "people". Content in her own company, equally relaxed with a glass in her hand or not.

People are complicated. They're often messy and exhausting. She knows only too well how dark they can be, the terrible impulses that can sway them. They're also frequently illogical. Or maybe they only seem that way if you don't peel back the layers and years and examine their relationship with their mothers. That is not Grant's job.

Spending time here, on the side-lines, everything can be seen with a bird's-eye view. It can make sense. Puzzle pieces can slot together. The social ripples and undercurrents can be spotted. Shifting tides of gossip, flickering shoals of allegiance and resentment twisting this way and that. Alex's wistful gaze at Harper's shoulder blades. Words exchanged between Harper and Olivia.

Harper's moment of fury at her father, and his expression of dismay. Whoops. Looks like a name slipped.

#

Jamie lounges on a chair, surrounded by friends like a King at court. Collar undone, jacket forgotten somewhere, one leg outstretched. He's quite pink in the face, actually, and laughing generously.

Lyla bustles over, stooping to murmur in his ear. A concerned frown pulls at her features. Jamie's grin falters, his eyes scan the deck. He checks his watch, and looks around at the guests again. For a moment, he looks like a man being pulled two ways. Lubricated by drink, loathe to leave his courtiers. But there's that string, drawing him to his bride. That's why his eyes don't land anywhere, why they keep searching. Where is she?

It's a shame. really. He really does love her.

Lyla offers him a small smile, and apparently, a suggestion. He pats himself down semi-theatrically. She looks thoughtful, pats him on the shoulder reassuringly, and moves away.

So! They've noticed the absence. First, they'll find the key. Then...

#

A scream shatters the scene. A raw sound that tears the superficial curtain in two, laying bare what's behind it.

For Grant, the sensation of her heart lurching is easily ignored. It's a familiar one, that always crests in these moments before she lays her eyes on a crime scene. It carries her forward, towards the cry, and she rides it, shoving fellow guests aside with harsh elbows.

The door to the bridal cabin isn't closed properly. The shrieking continues beyond it. Monica nudges it with her wrist. It's begun, already; the shrinking of herself, the determined instinct to touch as little as possible.

People are amassing behind her, like a grotesque wedding train of her own.

"Keep back!" she barks, instincts taking over. People are generally no good at a time like this. Emotions roil high. There's a tendency to mill about, careless about contaminating the crime scene.

"I need everyone to remain calm," she says, "Stay well clear of the suite until we determine what has happened."

The train halted. Grant peers around the door. To the right, through to the extravagant bedchamber where the shrieking woman is trembling in blue satin, inches away from blood seeping into her Louboutins.

"Lyla? Detective Monica Grant. I'm here to help you. Don't move."

She turns to address a member of staff with LENA on her nametag. "We need to move everyone away from this suite. Could you arrange for hot drinks to be served in the main lounge area?" Lena nods, face pale, and scuttles away.

Some of the guests are drifting away, tugged by the promise of tea, coffee, and reassuring authority. Others still look confused, shocked. What's happening? Where's Harper? Is she OK?

"Everyone move to the main lounge area, please. It's important we all remain calm and handle this properly."

They look like lost children, peering around for a grown-up to sort things out. Monica knows this about people. The firm edge of authority gives them something to lean on. The simple promise of a hot drink is a life buoy of normal in the sea of chaos and grief.

"Lyla?"

"I... I found her like this. I swear. I don't know what..."

Grant's eyes take in the details in front of her, filing each away. A side table containing an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne has been knocked over. Through the sliding door to the bedroom: Harper's eyes staring unseeing at the ornate ceiling. Deceased. Sprawled beside the king size bed, which, until recently, had been snowy and pristine. An ugly gash across her throat has spilled a curtain of red over white. The knife that surely did the deed is on the rug. A thick coating of blood matts the creamy fur rug, and obscures the intricate whorls etched into the blade.

Harper's left hand is noticeably bare.

Grant slips through the sliding door to the bedroom, pulls a blanket from the cupboard, and wraps it around Lyla's shoulders. She walks her out carefully, murmuring, "Don't touch anything," At the door, she says, as if the idea has only just occurred to her, "Let's lock it. So no one else is upset by seeing her like that." Lyla removes the key from her neckline, locks the door, and lets herself be led away.

All around the lounge, pinched white fingers twist thick linen napkins, or leech scant comfort from steaming cups. Sobs seem to reverberate about the room.

"Tea? Coffee?" Grant switches on the kindest, most motherly voice she has in her arsenal. Lyla mutters that she'll have a coffee, not grasping that the questioning has already begun. That, for Grant, in a way, it's never stopped. She's always gathering details.

Lyla's shell-shocked appearance is no alibi; Monica has seen some good actors in her time, and some folks who were in pieces when faced by the sight of what they'd done. Rule nobody out. Not without due diligence.

"How did you get into the bridal suite?"

"I had to go looking for the key. Sophie helped me. She found it in Jamie's suit jacket. He'd left it near the bar."

Grant wanted to speak with Jamie next. Because he was the husband. But also, to get it out of the way. To rule him out. Silence the voice hissing that he could've married her for her wealth and then got rid of her. Not my Jamie. He was the only one with a key to the suite. He'd never.

I will. I'll talk to him. But bridesmaids first, since I've already spoken to Lyla.

""Sophie," she begins gently, "You were close to Harper. Did you notice anything... unusual?”

Sophie’s voice trembles. "She seemed…distracted. Nervous, maybe. But it’s a wedding... That's normal. Right?"

Grant digs deeper, asking about the key and the misplaced jacket... everything matched up.

She turns to Jamie. He looks dazed, still. His eyes dancing this way and that, like a bird stranded over the ocean with nowhere to land.

"Listen..." he takes a deep breath. "I don't know what to tell you. It was my wedding night. I was blind drunk. I left my suit jacket somewhere, with the key in the pocket... then I got a note, I thought it was from Monica... there's big blank spots..." There was sincerity in his red-rimmed eyes. He believes he is telling the truth... but that isn't the same as actually being innocent.

Her mind races as she approached Olivia, wondering about the heavy stone that should have adorned Harper's ring finger.

Grant questions them all, hearing solid alibi after solid alibi... the only weak one is Jamie's.

Ryan, Harper’s brother, stands out on the deck, at the railing, smoking a cigarette and staring at the moonlit water. Detective Monica Grant stepped out to join him. Salty breeze tugs at her skirt and her hair, threatening to wipe the words from her mouth. "Ryan..." she speaks softly, "Why did you kill your sister?"

His eyes widened, the cigarette jerked in his hand.

“You were embroiled in illegal activities,” she pressed on, abandoning her usual round-about technique on a pure hunch. "Drug dealing. Money laundering. Harper found out. You couldn’t risk exposure."

Ryan’s lip curled. "She was going to turn me in. It wouldn't have just ruined me... it would have ruined our whole family. Nobody else could see it. I had to shut her up."

The confession bowled Grant over; she hadn't truly expected it to flow from him so easily. "Thing is, Detective," he drew on his cigarette, "This is international waters. No jurisdiction. I could kill everyone on this boat, and it wouldn't even be a crime."

Monica burst out laughing with how wrong that was, and then he rounded on her, his eyes flashing, his mouth twisted. The shove was sudden, brutal. Lifted her right off her feet and over the rail.

As the dark water closed over her, she wondered how well justice could swim.