TO DI(N)E FOR
A (Speculative) Horror Story
by
Rebecca M. Senese
SMASHWORDS EDITION, 2012
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PUBLISHED BY:
RFAR Publishing on Smashwords
To Di(n)e For
Copyright © (2012) by Rebecca M. Senese
Cover Design copyright © (2012) by RFAR Publishing
Cover art copyright © imaspy/SXC.hu
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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TO DI(N)E FOR
“’A dinner to die for,’” read Meredith. “Honestly, Brian, do we have to attend?”
“Rutherfords’s an important client,” Brian said. “It would look strange if we didn’t go.”
Meredith handed the invitation back to him. The holo continued to spin, flashing the words until he switched it off and slipped it into his pocket.
“I’m not sure I like the idea of dining with a killer,” Meredith said.
“It’s not really a killer, it’s just a clone-grown construct.”
“Still seems gruesome.”
He sighed, the way he always did when he felt he had to explain the obvious to her. “It’s for work, Mere. I can’t very well say no.”
He fussed with his tie, cycling through the colors.
“The dark gray,” she said. “It goes better with this plum dress you made me wear.”
“I like you in the plum.”
She disagreed. She thought she looked ruddy in this dress but she’d known he’d sulk all evening if she hadn’t taken his advice.
He continued to fiddle with the tie. The color flashed at her, blinding her. She jerked back, shielding her eyes.
“Dammit, Brian.”
“What?”
“Stop fussing.” She grabbed the tie and locked it into a dark gray pattern.
“There. Now stop acting like an ass.”
His usual grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. She remembered that grin at university. It still had the power to melt her.
“Stop it.” She kept her expression severe.
“I will.” He gave her a fast kiss on the cheek. “How much makeup are you wearing?” He wiped powder off his mouth.
“You wanted the plum dress,” she said.
The glide-car slowed and sank to the ground in front of a small, two story building with an old style marquee. The sidewalk glistened with puddles. Meredith didn’t remember rain being scheduled for tonight. As the door opened, she saw the puddles weren’t rain. They were red. The light from the marquee flashed as words scrolled along: “MYSTERY MEAL, WHERE THE DINNER IS MURDER.”
“Come on, Mere, step out.” Brian nudged her arm.
“There’s… there’s red puddles out there.”
He glanced over her shoulder. “That’s supposed to be blood. It’s not wet.”
Frowning, she stepped out of the glide-car, careful to avoid the puddles. A breeze blew, tickling the hair around her face. The surface of the puddles remained stationery. Maybe they were dry. She dipped the toe of her shoe at one. It stopped on the surface. Solid.
Brian came up beside her as the glide-car roared away. “Ready?” He took her arm and led her through the double doors.
A maitre d’ dressed in an old style police officer’s uniform greeted them from behind a large desk.
“We have a reservation, Carson-McGregor.”
The maitre d' nodded at a display marked “Blotter.” “You'll be in cell block 57. The sergeant will show you.”
The sergeant, a server in uniform, led them down a darkened hallway. Lit signs above the doorways counted off the cell blocks. Meredith glanced through the open doorways; each room had decor from different time periods. She recognized the 1960's in cell block 99. A man with wild hair, a scraggly beard and menacing eyes glared at guests across the table. He looked like he was ready to leap onto the table top. He jerked his head, exposing his forehead and Meredith saw a mark carved on the skin between his eyebrows.
Cell block 57 was the last door on the left. Brian led her into a Victorian dining room. A long table, draped with a white embroidered table cloth, dominated the center. Brian's partner Jemar and his wife, Sareen, sat at the end. They smiled and waved.
Brian sat across from Jemar while Meredith sat beside him. “The Rutherfords aren't here yet?”
“They're running a bit late, should be here in half an hour. Time for us to relax and enjoy a drink,” Jemar said.
“Have a sherry,” Sareen said. “It's lovely.”
After half a glass, Meredith’s nerves relaxed. She settled into her chair. Listening to Sareen’s chirping voice suited the atmosphere of the room. Flowered wallpaper surrounded them. A crystal chandelier hung over the table. On the bureau behind Sareen, a full silver tea set sat in front of a display of china. Even the cutlery looked authentic. Meredith ran her finger along a soup spoon and felt the coolness of silver.
The Rutherfords arrived as the server was replenishing their glasses. Meredith noted Mrs. Rutherford was wearing a plum dress. Her lips pursed as she saw Meredith. Damn, Meredith thought, she knew she should have worn something else. The woman sat stiffly across the table. Her husband sat across from Brian.
“Sorry we're late, had a problem getting our little one to settle down. This is Constance, and I'm Gerald.” He held his hand out to Meredith.
She shook his hand and introductions passed around the table. The server brought out the first course, oxtail soup.
As Meredith lifted her spoon to try the soup, Rutherford smiled. “I love this place. We come at least once a year even though it's dreadfully expensive and sometimes the meals are barely passable.”
“It's the atmosphere and the guests,” Mrs. Rutherford said. “Gerald loves his mysteries.”
“Who will be our guest tonight?” Brian said.
“This is an especially interesting room,” Rutherford said. “It's one of the few that isn't completely historical accurate although they're as accurate as they can be, given that they never caught him.” He paused, winking at his wife. “Our guest is Jack the Ripper!”
Meredith shivered. Sareen gulped soup and started coughing. Her husband handed her a glass of water.
“Didn’t he murder women?” Meredith asked.
Rutherford leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Oh yes. Five are attributed to him for sure but it could be upwards of eleven.”
“That’s enough, Gerald. They do want to eat,” his wife said.
Meredith’s wine glass was almost empty. She thought of reaching for more; no, Brian needed to make a good impression. His wife getting sloppy drunk wouldn’t help. Her unease with this whole dinner party returned. Maybe one more glass? A glance at Brian stopped her. He was sitting bolt upright, smiling and chatting with Mrs. Rutherford. He looked unnatural, trying too hard. All she had to do was get through dinner. She could do that, even if Brian was being a jerk.
She focused on her soup, letting Rutherford’s voice wash over her. He continued talking about the murders.
“Foggy nights in White Chapel, that’s where he stalked them…”
The ring of a bell interrupted him. The server, dressed in a police uniform, waited for their attention.
“The main course is about to be served,” he said. “Your guest will be joining you for dessert and liquors afterward.”
Several other servers entered, whisking away the soup bowls, even Meredith’s half finished one. The main course was served: roast mutton, broiled potatoes, and steamed vegetables. Meredith used one of the sweetbreads to mop up the gravy on her plate. Everything tasted bland and she wished for paprika, something with flavor to liven up the food. Across from her, Sareen shrugged. Meredith took a final sip of wine to hide her grin. Sareen and Jemar cooked flavorful Indian dishes; Brian was forever bringing samples home. This food must be dreadful for her, Meredith thought. She looked around the table; not even a pepper shaker.
Meredith managed to eat most of her dinner. She noticed Brian drinking more water and chewing longer than usual. He was really working it.
The servers cleared away the main dishes. Meredith watched with a wistful sigh as her wine glass was carried away. Sareen smiled behind a water glass.
Meredith didn’t have to miss the wine glass for long. The servers returned with brandy snifters and an assortment of liqueurs in beautiful crystal bottles. Dessert came next. A bowl was placed in front of Meredith. A mound of dark red sat in it, decorated with a sprig of holly.
“Plum pudding,” Mrs. Rutherford said. “My favorite.” She lifted a small spoon.
“Just wait, Constance, we’re missing our guest.” Rutherford turned to one of the servers who was pouring brandy. “We’re expecting one more.”
“He is on the way, sir.” He finished with the glass and offered some to Meredith. She pushed the snifter toward him. Brian frowned as Meredith accepted half a glass.
“None for me thanks,” Brian said. Jemar took a quarter glass and Sareen joined Meredith with half a glass.
As the server stepped away from the table, the bell by the door rang again. This time, a man wearing a long cloak and top hat stepped inside. The shadow from the brim covered his face. One white glove carried a walking cane; the other clutched a small old fashioned medical bag. He bowed his head to the table. Shifting the cane, to his other hand, he removed his hat.
“May I join you for dessert?” His deep voice was soft but carried through the silent dining room. No one responded so he continued standing, hat in hand. Black eyes shifted beneath his brow. Meredith suppressed a shiver.
“Please come in,” Mr. Rutherford said. His voice sounded high and excited. He pointed at a chair beside Mrs. Rutherford. She shook her head.
“The lady does not wish me to sit beside her,” Jack said. A smile turned up his thin lips. “I assure you, madam, I do not bite.”
Still Mrs. Rutherford shook her head. Jack gave a half bow in her direction and pulled out the chair at the head of the table.
“Perhaps it is best if I sit beside no one.” He hung his hat and cane on a coat rack by the door and left the medical bag at the base of the rack. Beneath his cloak, he wore a black suit. Meredith watched as he seemed to flow back to the table and sat down.
“May I offer you some brandy?” Mr. Rutherford said. He seemed to be getting into the spirit of the evening.
“Thank you very much.” Jack slid his brandy snifter forward. “I hope you have all enjoyed your meal here. The proprietors do take every care to make it authentic.”
Murmurs sounded around the table. Jack took the brandy from Mr. Rutherford’s hand and lifted the glass.
“To my new friends, may you come back and join us here again. Best of health.” He drank. Beside her, Brian took a sip from his water glass. Around the table, the others also started to drink. Meredith touched her brandy snifter with her fingertips. She didn’t want to toast with this man. Something about his pale, thin face, outlined with the neat trim beard and combed dark hair made her uneasy. She wished she hadn’t come.
“I understand that you must be Mr. Rutherford,” Jack said. “Could you introduce me to your fine friends?”
“Of course,” Rutherford said. He sat up straight, chest puffing out with importance. “This is my wife, Constance.” He went around the table. Jack inclined his head at everyone. When his gaze fell upon her, Meredith tried to meet it then looked away. She felt a coldness beneath that charming exterior. She’d read a book once about the Ripper murders years ago and forgotten most of it but now the details trickled back into her mind. Horrible mutilations. How could anyone have done that, she’d wondered? Now she was learning.
“Do you know where you are?” Sareen said.
Jack smiled at her. Sareen leaned back in her chair, arms pressed against her sides.
“Yes, I know that I am a clone, if that is what you mean. I also know that unlike most of my contemporaries here, I am conjecture and composite of Jack the Ripper. No matter. I feel I am Jack and so I am.”
He took a sip of his brandy.
“How many murders did you commit?” Brian said.
Meredith stiffened in her chair. She didn’t want to hear the answer.
Jack merely took another sip of his brandy, his head inclined as he regarded Brian. “Numbers are such a cold thing. My message had to do with life and consequences. These are hot blooded things that cannot be reduced to such simplification.”