Chapter 10: The Empty Chair

Twelve people sat down to Sunday dinner, and not one of them knew why the lights were low.

Amos had the long table set the way it had been set for forty years.

Four old captains on his left, and four on his right.

Desmond sat at the far end in his usual chair, with a glass of red wine.

He looked entirely rested.

Suzette sat beside me again, and under the table her hand was cold.

I waited until the soup was cleared.

Then I stood up and put the recorder on the white tablecloth.

"Uncle," I said. "I want to play you something."

Desmond's eyes went to it, and they stayed there.

"What is that?"

"Preston Haverford's recorder."

I pressed the button.

The voice that filled the dining room belonged to Desmond.

Nobody breathed.

He talked about the cemetery wall, the window table on Walnut Street and a scare in front of the captains.

The oldest captain set down his spoon at the word "house."

I stopped it there.

The silence in that room was so complete I could hear the wine settling in the glasses.

"That's a fake," Desmond said.

"It has the room tone under his voice," Suzette said evenly.

"I've transcribed worse for a living."

"Who asked you?"

"Nobody. You asked me to brunch, and I was polite."

One of the old captains laughed, and then stopped himself.

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