THE CASCADE DINNER Chapter 3
The Toast
The clock struck seven, and nothing happened.
Leo stood in the archway, the note still in his hand, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth. He had read the threat aloud. He had given them the warning. And now he was waiting—waiting for a scream, a crash, a body hitting the floor, something—but the dining room remained still and silent, the twelve seated guests watching him with expressions that ranged from terrified to furious to eerily calm.
The clock was a grandfather clock in the hallway, a relic from the lodge’s early days. Leo had heard it strike the hour ten thousand times. He had never listened to it so closely. Each chime seemed to last a lifetime. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Then silence again.
No one died.
Leo’s first thought was that the note had been a bluff. A cruel joke designed to unsettle, not to predict. His second thought, arriving immediately on the heels of the first, was that the note had been literal—one of your guests will die—but that the death had not been scheduled for the exact moment of seven o’clock. Perhaps the note meant that by seven o’clock, someone would be dead. Or that the process of dying would begin at seven. Or that the clock striking seven was the signal, not the event.
He folded the note and put it back in his breast pocket.
Around the table, the guests began to react.
Harold Pender was the first to speak. Of course he was. Harold had never met a silence he didn’t want to fill with his own voice.
“Is this some kind of joke?” he demanded, his face flushed, his hand gripping the stem of his water glass hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “Because if it is, it’s not funny. It’s not remotely funny. I flew three thousand miles for this dinner. I left my girlfriend in Miami. I am not in the mood for amateur theater.”
“Harold,” Mira Vance said quietly. “Sit down.”
“I am sitting down. I’ve been sitting down. The question is, why are we sitting here while this—this manager—stands there reading us death threats like a hotel amenity?”
Leo said nothing. He had learned long ago that when wealthy people panicked, the best strategy was to let them exhaust themselves. Interrupting only gave them something to push against.
Celeste Thorne had her notebook open again. She was writing rapidly, her pen moving across the page in sharp, jagged strokes. She wasn’t looking at Harold. She was looking at Leo. Recording his face, his posture, the way he held the note. Building her case.
Her father, Marcus, placed a hand on her arm. A warning. Or a comfort. Leo couldn’t tell which.
Reggie Foss had gone pale. Paler than before, which Leo hadn’t thought possible. The old man’s lips moved silently, forming words that no one could hear. A prayer, maybe. Or a name. Or just the mechanical repetition of whatever kept him from screaming.
Priya Chandrasekhar had not reacted at all. She sat with her hands folded on the table in front of her, her eyes fixed on her place setting—the silver fork, the white napkin, the crystal glass. She looked like a woman who had been expecting this. Like a woman who had been expecting something much worse.
Kaelen Wu had pulled out his phone again. He was typing. Still typing. Always typing, even though Leo had told him there was no signal. Perhaps he was writing a note to himself. Perhaps he was recording observations, the way Celeste was. Or perhaps he was simply hiding behind the screen, using it as a shield, because looking at the other guests was too difficult.
Daniel Vance had not moved. He sat beside his wife, his bourbon still balanced on his knee, his expression unchanged. He looked bored. That was impossible—no one in this room was bored—but Daniel had perfected the art of looking bored the way other people perfected the art of looking busy. It was a performance. Leo was certain of it.
And then there was Elena.
She had positioned herself near the kitchen entrance, just inside the dining room, her hands clasped behind her back, her face carefully neutral. But Leo had worked with her for eleven years. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her weight shifted from foot to foot, the slight tremor in her jaw. Elena was scared. Elena was never scared.
“Mr. Maeda.”
The voice came from the head of the table. Leo turned.
Mira Vance had risen from her chair. She was not tall—five feet four inches in heels—but she had a way of standing that made her seem taller, broader, more substantial than she actually was. The Shark in Silk. The woman who had made billionaires weep.
“I think,” Mira said carefully, “that you owe us an explanation.”
Leo inclined his head. “I agree, Ms. Vance. I wish I had one to give.”
“Someone left a note. A death threat. In your establishment. And you have no idea who?”
“The note was left anonymously. As was the cake.”
“What cake?”
Leo hesitated. He had not meant to mention the cake. It was too early, too much information, too many variables. But the words were out now, and he could see the ripple of confusion pass around the table.
“There is a cake,” Leo said, choosing his words with care, “in the kitchen. It was delivered this afternoon, commissioned by someone named A. Graves. It bears an inscription that suggests—”
“Suggests what?” Harold interrupted. “That we’re going to be poisoned? Is that what you’re telling us? That someone poisoned the cake?”
“No one has tasted the cake,” Leo said. “It’s being held for observation.”
“Observation.” Harold laughed, a short, sharp sound with no humor in it. “We’re trapped in a blizzard with a poisoned cake and a death threat, and you’re observing it. Fantastic. This is fantastic. This is exactly how I wanted to spend my weekend.”
“Harold, sit down,” Mira said again, and this time there was steel in her voice. Harold sat.
Mira turned back to Leo. “You read the note aloud. Why?”
“Because you deserved to know.”
“Deserved?” Mira’s eyes narrowed. “Or because you wanted to see how we would react?”
Leo held her gaze. “Both.”
A murmur ran around the table. Marcus Thorne shifted in his seat. Reggie Foss made a small, wounded sound. Priya Chandrasekhar continued to stare at her place setting, unmoved.
Mira studied Leo for a long moment. Then she sat down.
“All right,” she said. “Then let’s proceed as if the note is a hoax until we have evidence otherwise. We’re all hungry. We’re all tired. And frankly, I didn’t fly three thousand miles to let some anonymous coward ruin my appetite.” She picked up her fork. “Bring out the first course.”
Leo did not move.
“Ms. Vance,” he said, “with respect, I don’t think that’s wise.”
“I don’t pay you to think, Mr. Maeda. I pay you to manage. And what I need you to manage right now is dinner.” She gestured toward the kitchen. “The food is getting cold. The wine is breathing. And I am tired of waiting.”
Leo looked at the other guests. Harold was nodding. Marcus had a hand on his daughter’s arm, but his eyes were on Leo, waiting. Kaelen had finally put his phone down. Reggie was still pale, still trembling, but he had picked up his fork. Even Priya had raised her head slightly, her attention shifting from her place setting to Leo’s face.
Only Daniel and Celeste seemed detached from the moment—Daniel still bored, Celeste still writing.
“Elena,” Leo said quietly. “Tell Greta to start the first course.”
Elena hesitated. Then she turned and walked toward the kitchen.
The first course was a chestnut velouté with truffle foam and crispy sage.
It was one of Greta’s signature dishes, a soup so rich and velvety that guests often closed their eyes when they tasted it, as if savoring a memory. Leo had watched hundreds of people eat this soup over the years. He had seen tears, laughter, marriage proposals, and once, memorably, a man who claimed the soup had given him a religious experience.
Tonight, no one closed their eyes.
The soup arrived on a silver tray carried by Carlos, the dishwasher who had been scrubbing the clean pot. His hands shook slightly as he set the bowls in front of each guest. Elena followed with the wine—a white Burgundy that Greta had selected specifically to complement the chestnut.
Leo stood in the archway and watched.
No one ate.
They had all picked up their spoons. They had all leaned forward slightly, inhaling the aroma. But no one put the spoon in their mouth. They were waiting. Watching each other. Waiting to see who would be the first to risk it.
Mira Vance solved the problem.
She lifted her spoon, dipped it into the soup, and ate.
Then she set the spoon down and nodded at the others. “It’s excellent. As always.”
One by one, the other guests began to eat. Harold finished his soup in four large spoonfuls, then signaled to Elena for a second bowl. Marcus ate slowly, deliberately, his eyes on his daughter across the table. Celeste ate with her left hand while her right hand continued to write, her notebook propped against the bread plate. Kaelen ate mechanically, his face blank, as if the soup were fuel and nothing more. Reggie managed three spoonfuls before setting his spoon down and pushing the bowl away. Priya ate exactly half of her soup, then stopped, her spoon hovering in the air for a moment before she returned it to the bowl.
Daniel Vance did not eat at all. His soup sat in front of him, untouched, the truffle foam slowly collapsing into the velouté. He was watching his wife. Mira was watching Leo.
And Leo was watching the door.
Because something had changed. He felt it before he saw it—a shift in the air, a pressure drop, the way the atmosphere changes before a thunderstorm. The guests felt it too. Harold stopped eating mid-bite. Marcus looked up from his plate. Priya raised her head. Celeste’s pen paused above her notebook.
The door to the hallway opened.
A man walked in.
He was tall, sixty-ish, with gray hair and a gray beard and gray eyes that seemed to absorb the light around them. He wore a dark overcoat, still dusted with snow, and carried a leather satchel over one shoulder. His boots left wet prints on the stone floor.
No one had seen him arrive. No one had heard the door open. He was simply there, as if he had materialized from the falling snow.
The guests stared.
Leo stared.
Because Leo knew this man. He had never met him, had never seen a photograph, had never exchanged a single word with him. But he knew him.
Everyone knew him.
Julian Cross had been declared dead eighteen months ago. His body had been cremated in Switzerland. His will had been read. His fortune had been dispersed to a dozen charities and three distant relatives no one had ever heard of.
And yet, here he was. Standing in the dining room. Brushing snow from his coat.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” said the man who looked like Julian Cross. “The weather is terrible.”
No one spoke.
The man walked to the empty chair at the foot of the table—the chair that had been set for a twelfth guest, the chair that Leo had assumed was for a spouse or a last-minute addition. He pulled it out, sat down, and placed his satchel on the floor beside him.
“Aren’t you going to offer me some soup?” he asked, looking at Leo. “I’ve had a long journey.”
Leo found his voice. “Who are you?”
The man smiled. It was not a warm smile. It was the smile of someone who had been waiting a long time for this moment, who had rehearsed it in his head a thousand times, who knew exactly what he was going to say and how the others would react when he said it.
“My name,” he said, “is Julian Cross. But you already knew that.”
Mira Vance dropped her spoon. It hit the edge of her bowl and clattered to the floor, spinning in a slow circle before coming to rest against the leg of the table. She didn’t pick it up. She didn’t look at it. She was staring at the man who claimed to be her dead business partner, her face drained of all color.
“That’s not possible,” she whispered. “Julian is dead.”
“So I’ve heard,” the man said. “Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. And also deliberately spread. By someone in this room.”
His gray eyes moved around the table, lingering for a moment on each face. Harold. Marcus. Priya. Kaelen. Reggie. Mira. Celeste. Daniel.
“Ten years ago,” he said, “the ten of us signed the Cascade Accord. We made promises. We broke promises. We made fortunes. We destroyed lives. And then, eighteen months ago, someone tried to end mine.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded document—yellowed, creased, sealed with a blob of red wax that had cracked and faded with age.
“I have spent every day since then preparing for this dinner. I have evidence. I have witnesses. I have a complete accounting of every lie, every bribe, every death that was covered up and called an accident.”
He set the document on the table in front of him.
“So let’s eat,” he said. “Let’s drink. Let’s pretend, for one more hour, that we are civilized people. And then, when the last course is cleared, I am going to tell you exactly what happened at Cascade Peak ten years ago—and who is responsible for the murder of Sonali Mehta.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then Reggie Foss began to cry.