They all stood in a tight huddle, even Sean and Warix, filling the doorway to the formal dining room.
“That’s . . .” Shelley’s voice trailed off.
“That’s new,” Cici finished.
It was one of the invitations, wasn’t it? It was the same heavy card stock with the swirl of oranges and blacks and blues, standing propped open on Brittlyn’s stomach.
“Sooooo.” Plum drew the word out as her brain sputtered at the inevitable meaning.
“Someone put it there,” Jude said. “When we . . . um. Went into the other room.”
“It’s not an invitation.” Marlowe’s voice was low and urgent.
“How do you know? Maybe it . . . fell there?” Shelley tipped her head, like she was trying to envision some way the paper just floated down, off the sideboard perhaps, and only accidentally, freakily happened to land tented on Brittlyn’s dead body.
They all stood stock-still in the doorway, as if held by a spell.
“Invitation to Death,” Marlowe pronounced. “Myrna Powell, Henry Harding, Artist’s Films, 1936.”
“What?” Dude asked.
“The killer left notes on the bodies. That’s what that’s going to be. Just in case there was any doubt. We’re with a killer. There’s a killer here. The killer left that note.” Her smooth, classic-movie-channel-host voice grew nervous and pressured.
Plum touched Marlowe’s arm in reassurance.
“No way,” Jude breathed.
“Dude,” Dude agreed. He took his sunglasses out of his shirt collar. With his other hand he scrubbed at his bleached hair.
“Only one way to find out,” Sean said.
No one moved.
As if they knew once they crossed the threshold, once they picked up the note, everything would change.
“You go get it.” Shelley nudged Sean.
“Why me?” Sean asked.
“’Cause you’re big and tough?” Cici suggested.
“It’s a note, not an MMA fighter,” Sean snapped.
“Oh, for the love of Mike,” Plum said. “Whoever Mike is.”
Plum walked into the room, bent, and picked up the swirled orange, blue, and black card. As if her movement had broken a spell, the others followed her, moving past the threshold and ranging themselves in a line just inside the dining room.
She glanced down, opening the tented fold. The text flowed out in even lines, indented and stylistically spaced. “It’s a poem,” Plum told the others.
“Oh!” Shelley sounded slightly pleased. A surprised then dismayed “Oh” followed.
“Go ahead,” Sofia urged. “Read it, Plum.”