Round 1, Heat20, Suspense, "Why Would I Tell You?"

Written for NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge.

Synopsis:

Someone is getting married, someone is going to die and someone is the killer. I know exactly what will happen, but I’m not going to tell you, not until it is too late.

 Why Would I Tell You?

Hello, have you been paying attention? Have you paid attention as the guests file in and the music starts and the Groom takes his place?

Are you sitting comfortably?

Then you haven’t been paying attention.

Something is going to happen. I will tell you what when dinner is over, but that is all I will tell you until it is too late.

 

The Groom stands at the head of the church, the Bride is walking down the aisle. The Groom is smiling, but a twitch of his lip gives away his nerves. It has nothing to do with the wedding itself; he is certain that marriage is the right decision. No, he is nervous because he knows something. So does his soon to be wife, but she shows nothing but joy. But she was always the better at her job. That is all behind them now, or it will be after tonight.

His smile is not a lie though, nor is hers as they recite their vows. They do not promise to love each other; they would not be getting married if they did not. They do not promise to be faithful; there is no one else they would ever desire. They do not promise to care for each other; that will be a natural product of their love. They do not promise anything; they simply tell the truth. They say that they are the only reason the other is alive. They say that the prospect of a future together is the most exciting and thrilling thing they can imagine. They say thank you. And that is all, and then they kiss, husband and wife.

She touches his arm gently as they sit down to dinner, and he smiles. The Bride exchanges glances with the best man and chief bridesmaid, who nod subtly. The best man exchanges a glance with the chef, who quietly slips back into the kitchen. Then dinner begins, a man with no invitation sits at a table in the back and no one seems to have noticed.

 

Someone is going to die. I know who it is, but I’m not going to tell you, not until it’s too late. I’m not even going to tell you what it will be too late for. I could tell you that it would be too late for the one who’s going to die, but I could as easily be lying. It could as easily be too late to snatch the last miniature Pavlova from the center table before the nervous Groom snaps it up. It could be too late to warn him that the Prosecco he’s about to wash it down with is horrible. It could be too late to mention that it is also, incidentally, poisoned.

But if I told you that you would think that he’s the one who’s going to die, and I said I wasn’t telling.

 

The head chef sits nervously in the back of the church. The catering is going off without a hitch, but she just plans the menu and supervises plating nowadays anyway. She’s a good friend of the Bride and Groom, but she’s perfectly capable of pulling off a wedding buffet, she wasn’t just asked because she’s a friend. She’s been trying to kick her cigarette habit, which was why she refused to be bridesmaid, in everyone’s interest, but this is more than nicotine deprived jitters. She is waiting for something, something that she cannot control, but that she set in motion.

She gets up, paces outside. Ordinarily she would supervise packing up, but the staff are perfectly capable. She hears clapping from inside. The best man’s speech is about to begin. Whatever is going to happen will happen now. She quietly slips back into the church and sits at a table near the back.

 

Something is going to cause the death. I know what it will be, but I will not breathe a word, not until the body slips to the floor. I’m not even going to tell you whether it’s happened yet. I could tell you that it already happened while the chef was plating a particular dish, but if you’ve been paying attention, and I hope you have, you won’t believe that. It could happen when the ceremonial pistol firing a ceremonial shot at this strange wedding turns out to be loaded. It could be another gun, this one under the arm of a woman who’s just stepped into the church with a picture of someone in her pocket next to her assignment.

But if I told you that you’d think that it will be murder, and I said you wouldn’t hear it from me.

 

The best man smiles as the clapping stops. He nods at the happy couple, and they smile back. He has been close to crying all throughout dinner at the memory of their hopeful, incredulously happy vows. Now he pulls himself together, determined to send them off with a speech that does them justice. They are trying to leave something behind, but who isn’t? He can tell that something’s wrong. The Groom’s eyelids are drooping, and the Bride notices too. She frowns, but whispers for the best man to go on.

Everyone knows that they were something in the military, but almost no one knows quite what. There are five people in the room who know what they did. The two of them, of course, the best man, and the chef. And a man sitting at the furthest table, who no one seems to have yet noticed did not have an invitation.

 

Someone is going to commit a crime. I know who it will be, but I am not going to tell you who will do it. I’m not going to tell you what they will do, or when. I could say that it happened when a bottle’s contents was dripped into someone’s dinner, but why would I tell you the truth? It could just as easily happen when the Bride’s out of work cousin gives them a pirated mix CD which for all its apparent insignificance is a deeply personal gesture. It could have happened with the deft motion of the bridesmaid’s hand over the Groom’s drink.

But if I told you that you’d think that the she did it, and I swore I wouldn’t tell you.

 

The man with no invitation sits watching. He can feel the pressure of the tiny bottle in his pocket. It is meant for a bottle of Champagne in the Bride and Groom’s suite. If all else fails he has smuggled in two bullets, don’t ask how, and pilfered the pistol which was meant to fire the ceremonial shot.

He is about to slip out while everyone pays attention to the speech, but notices the Groom’s chalky white face. No one else could have possibly done his job for him, could they? The odds aren’t terrific but he isn’t one to dismiss any possibility out of hand. He decides to wait and watch. He is rewarded by the sight of the Groom slumping in a heap to the floor.

 

Someone else knows who is going to die. You think you know, but you do not. I’m not even going to tell you how many know. I could tell you that it is five, and they know because they planned the whole thing, but that would mean swearing five people to secrecy, and you know about people, don’t you? I could tell you that it is two, and they know because they poisoned the Groom. I could tell you that it is one, and he knows because he plans to kill the newlyweds.

But if I said that you’d think that it was the man without an invitation, and I said you didn’t know.

 

 The Groom is slipping quickly from consciousness, it is unlike anything he has experienced before, but he tries to remain calm, to tell his wife he loves her. He can see the Bridesmaid’s face, she nods once, no clear emotion discernable from her expression. He can feel his heart thumping erratically. It is no poison that he ever experienced before, in all his years at his particular profession. But only four others know what he did. The woman who poisoned him didn’t know.

His wife knows, but she smiles gently, and catches his head as his eyes close.

 

Somewhere soon there will be a scream. I know what sight will cause it, but by then you will be blind. I’m not even going to tell you who will scream. I could tell you it will be the chief bridesmaid, but what reason at all have I given you to trust a word I say? It could as easily be the best man yelling for help as he sees his friend go limp and still. It could be the doctor’s harsh bark as he tells people to get out of the way.

But then you would get entirely the wrong idea of the situation.

 

The Bride isn’t panicking. This is more than military nerves of steel, she does not feel a need to panic. Her new husband is lying unconscious on the floor, and there is no doubt at all that she loves him, but she is not panicking. She knows exactly what is going on, she knows that this is necessary for their future happiness. While he was conscious he knew what was happening too. So does the best man, so does the chef, so does the chief bridesmaid though she doesn’t know all of the reasons.

The church is erupting in panicked noise but the people who should be panicking the most are only acting.

 

Have you figured it out yet? I hope you have, because now it is definitely too late. Do you want to know why?

Somewhere in this room is me. But you won’t know where I am, not when it matters. I won’t even tell you whether you can see me. I could tell you that I’m the Chef at the next table, who you notice now is no longer there, but what reason at all have I given you to trust me? I could easily be the bridesmaid hiding away the vial she slipped into the Groom’s drink. I could be the woman who’s just stepped up behind you with a gun under her arm, and a picture of you in her pocket.

But if I told you that I’d be playing fair, because there’s still time to turn your head, to pull your own gun from your pocket, to run. And who ever said this was a game?

 

The uninvited man turns and grabs his assailant before she can draw her gun and wrestles her to the ground. He pulls out his stolen gun, already loaded, but as he stands up to fire he falters, suddenly dizzy. Amid the confusion hardly anyone has noticed, and the man with no invitation crumples to the floor with the realization that he is dying. His attacker stands up and pulls something from her pocket with a look of contempt.

 

You’ve figured it out now, haven’t you? Crashing a wedding is hardly good form, and crashing with an intent to murder simply won’t do. But we were onto you all along, in case you still haven’t noticed. It was all to distract you until it was too late. Because while you wondered whether someone else had done your job for you you didn’t notice what was missing and go to plan B. Because whatever happened in the Bride and Groom’s past, they have a right to a fresh start. Because you should really keep valuables in an inside pocket. Because you should have made sure it was still the same bottle after the waiter ran into you. Because you should have known the taste of your own poison. Because I am the chef, looking down at you, waving your empty bottle in a hand that is steadied by triumph.

And wasn’t the veal Marsala simply to die for?