Page 96 of The Secret Dinner

I stayed up all night.

4

Thursday morning arrived gray and chilly, with a steady drizzle that was unusual for Rio de Janeiro. Guess I won’t be going to the beach this week, I thought as I put on a striped sweater I hadn’t worn since college. I arrived at the café half an hour early. Arthur was already there waiting for me. On the table was a self-help book on how to overcome obstacles. Since the dinners had started, I’d given up on those kinds of books, which were only good for keeping us under control, adhering to social norms: Don’t kill anybody, don’t kill yourself.

I gave Arthur a hug and ordered a coffee. He was already sipping on a hot chocolate and eating a croissant. He even seemed happy.

“I took a leave of absence from work and I’ve been coming here every day. I get here as soon as it opens and stay until evening.”

“You need to move on with your life, Arthur.”

Of course I knew that it wasn’t that easy, and he paid no heed to my platitudes.

“Do you know what seagull meat means?”

The question sent a chill down my spine. I stared at him blankly, trying to figure out exactly how much he knew. Was he playing with me? Any misstep could prove fatal. I pressed my fingers against my palms, trying to quell my nerves.

“No clue.”

He accepted my answer. As he chewed, he took a folded sheet of paper from inside the book and handed it to me. On it was a handwritten list. I was sure I’d find my name. I read and reread it.

Seagull meat

Secret dinners. Illegal—HUGE SCOOP!!!!

Near Copacabana?

How much? When? Who? How?

Get cash for informant (five thousand?)

“Where did you find this?” I asked.

“On Ruth’s desk, last night.”

Now I understood the unexpected call. He must have just found that piece of paper and, without anyone around to share the news with or enough material to go to the police, he’d called me. An icy breeze blew in from off the coast and whipped against the buildings along the waterfront, funneling into side streets like the one we found ourselves on. Wearing an overcoat, Arthur looked like a bona fide Sherlock Holmes. I was his Watson, except that in the books, Watson’s a loyal partner and genuinely wants to help. I was more like Professor Moriarty.

“Seagull meat is the first item,” said Arthur as I scanned the list. “It must be important, but I don’t know what it means.”

“Neither do I.”

“It looks like some sort of code.”

“Is this Ruth’s handwriting?”

“Yes.”

She had nice handwriting, with firm a’s and o’s, pompous t’s and j’s, like a kid taking a calligraphy class. It didn’t look like a hastily written list at all. I watched the people passing on the street, sheltered by their umbrellas or running under awnings, and considered whether it was time to drop another clue, maybe mention that I had seen a news story about human flesh dinners, but I decided that was a stupid idea: Arthur would be suspicious of how convenient it was that I just happened to have that information.

“I looked at our bank account,” he said. “Ruth withdrew five thousand reals before she disappeared. The bank teller said she seemed both nervous and excited. I think you’re right, Dante. She was investigating something and went to meet up with this informant.”

“Any idea who it might be?”

“Not yet. I need to get into her emails, but I don’t have her computer password. I hired one of my neighbors to do it.”

As he blew on the hot chocolate and the steam wafted to his face, Arthur’s eyes filled with tears. “I think she’s dead.”

“Hey … just, calm down,” I said, knowing it was pointless. I touched his hands, but he quickly pulled them back.