Mama clears her throat. “Attention,mes chéris,” she announces, standing with a mockflourish that immediately quiets the room—well, not Thomas, who zooms past yelling, “Vroom-vroom,” at the top of his lungs.
Aksel scoops him up, grinning. “All right, champ, pit stop.”
Jonathan comes to sit next to Freja, and Giselle settles next to Heidi.
Margot beams, then clasps her hands like she’s presenting something grand.
“Before we enjoy a dinner of cassoulet and the best baguette you can find anywhere outside of Paris, I need to talk to you about Christmas Eve dinner. We are hosting our very own Murder Mystery Soirée!”
There’s a beat of silence. Then?—
“Oh my God,” Freja deadpans. “Is this the year we all die in matching monocles?”
Margot ignores her. “It will be set in the 1930s. Think Agatha Christie. Think Poirot. Think murder, madness, and marvelous outfits.”
Aksel raises his glass. “Think chaos.”
“Think alcohol,” Papa mutters.
Mama giggles with delight. “I’ve hired an actual actor to play Hercule Poirot. He’s staying in the guest cottage tonight and will be ‘on duty’ tomorrow. He’ll guide us through the whole thing.”
“Grandma, will he have a mustache?” Anika asks, holding a rook up in the air.
“Darling Anika, he has a mustache,” Mama assures her. “And speaking of dressing the part, I’ve also hireda stylist-slash-buyer to bring a selection of period clothing here tomorrow morning. You’ll each have time to work with him to choose the perfect outfit. Suits. Gloves. Dresses. Hats. Maybe even a feather boa or two for Bob.”
Uncle Bob raises his hands. “As long as it comes with matching underwear.”
Laughter erupts, warm and generous. I find myself smiling.
“Do we get roles?” Giselle wants to know.
“Am I the doomed lord who came back from war half a man? Or am I the rakish gamekeeper?” Aksel muses.
“I didn’t know you were a DH Lawrence fan.” Giselle laughs.
“God help us if Aksel tries a British accent,” Heidi says, bemused.
“I can do Downton Abbey,” my brother protests, already slipping into something vaguely aristocratic and totally ridiculous. “Don't be defeatist, dear. It's very middle class.”
Ransom tosses a pillow at him. “Please don’t.”
Latika smirks. “He’s been practicing ever since he found out what Margot is planning.”
“Traitor,” Aksel protests, mock-wounded.
Calypso leans into Ransom’s side. “I call femme fatale,” she purrs. “I even have a fire-engine red lipstick.”
Ofcourse, you do!
“I want to be the Phryne Fisher kind of a guest,” Freja decides.
Jonathan looks at Freja, amused. “I think that’s a different television show set on a different continent, sweetheart.”
Freja kisses his cheek. “Same time period, though.”
“I’ll be the detective’s disapproving spinster cousin.” Heidi raises her glass.
Mama raises a hand to silence everyone. “Mr. Poirot, the fake one, obviously, will tell you all your roles.”
