The Invitation
Right next door, and finally . . .
“Get the door honey,” Ms. Russell called from the living room.
Blue Russell looked up just in time to see her dad trip over a stray television wire. The screen went black.
“Hey!” Blue croaked, her mouth dry from her mom’s famous salt cookies. She coughed and cleared her throat, “dad, the TV—”
“Not now,” Mr. Russell jogged towards the sound and peered through the eyehole. He opened the door.
“Delivery?” Ms. Russell came over, a cup of coffee in hand, “Blue, honey, it’s your laptop!”
“What? Already?” Blue fought her way out of the couch, “the tracker thing said next week!”
Mr. Russell looked down. He saw a tiny cardboard box that might’ve been able to hold a small pair of speakers. “What kind of crappy laptop did you get?”
“Crappy? That’s what everyone uses now, dad,” Blue made her way towards the open door, “you wouldn’t . . .” She trailed off when she saw a potentially crappy laptop. “That’s not the—”
Mr. Russell was scanning the neighborhood. “Wait,” he picked up the box, not surprised by it’s light weight. “I didn’t know they deliver this late.”
"What is it?” Ms. Russell called.
“It’s an invitation,” Mr. Russell announced, his reading glasses on. “It’s an invitation . . . to, uh, let’s see . . . some private island . . . uh, ooh, look, it’s free—”
“Dear, Jessica Russell,” Blue read from over her dad’s shoulder, “mom?”
“What?” Ms. Russell leaned over, pinching the tip of the invitation, she read, “Congratulations on your recent retirement from the Elite Model & Talent Agency. We hereby invite you to an overnight farewell party held at Cederfrost Manor—”
“So it’s a model party for older people,” Mr. Russell concluded, “is it still free? Did I read that right?”
“Yes, dad. Also, it’s held by someone with the initials M.K.,” Blue looked at her mom questioningly.
“I don’t think I know a M.K.,” Ms. Russell said slowly, but maybe . . .”
Blue had been reading ahead. Her eyes widened. “Wait!” She clutched the invitation and pointed,
“After dinner, all guests are invited to participate in a roleplay game, blah, blah, blah . . . and the winner who uncovers the mystery will be rewarded with a grand total of . . . one million dollars.”
“One mill!” Mr. Russell bellowed. He nudged Blue, “that could pay for your laptop!”
“Further instructions will await you at the manor,” Ms. Russell finished. “She looked at her husband.
Mr. Russell began reading with intense concentration. He finally looked up. “Yup, one million dollars over a dinner game,” he scoffed, “rich bastards.”
“Hold on.” Blue bit her lip, a habit. “Tomorrow. It’s tomorrow! 2 pm.
“Tomorrow?” Ms. Russell leaned back, conflicted, “but tomorrow’s movie night . . .”
“Movie night!” Mr. Russell snatched the invitation from Jack and held it at his wife’s face, “movie night! Screw that! Pack up kids! We’re going to Frostlight Manor!”
“Cedarfrost, dad,” Blue corrected.
“It doesn’t matter what it’s called!” Mr. Russell shouted, “We leave tomorrow morning, early. Get to bed soldiers!”
“But dad, it’s barely nine o’clock . . .”
“I said, get to be—”
Ms. Russell interupted, “Wait Nick, I don’t know about this,” she shook the paper as if she expected a hidden key to fall out of it, “it’s just, so sudden. I didn’t even get a call from my agency—”
The phone rang. Blue glanced at her mom. She picked up the phone. “Mom, it’s Shelly.”
Shelly Hanson was their neighbor. In her late-thirties, she lived with her husband, Brian Hanson, a tough, retired navy officer who was proud to have his son following his footsteps.
Ms. Russell took the phone, “Shelly?”
“Hey how’s my favorite mom/model doing?”
“Happy and retired,” Ms. Russell answered with a smile, “how’s Brian?”
“You know, doing men things. Oh, hey, do you remember that time Brian and I . . .”
Mr. Russell was an impatient man. He liked things fast and to the point. There were no exceptions to his rule.
“Shelly!” He roared, “how’s Brian? Good? Tell him that golf tomorrow is canceled! Oh yeah! We’re going to some rich guy’s place to play dress up! One million dollars! Ha! Can you believe that?”
“Nick!” Ms. Russell didn’t approve of her husband’s rule, “I’m so sorry Shelly, you know how Nick is. Yeah, I remember when you two—”
“Wait,” Shelly interrupted, “you got an invitation as well?”
Ms. Russell froze, “What?”
“An invitation. We got one just now, Frostcider manor or something like that.”
“We got the exact same one!”
A pause. “I’m coming over.” The phone hung up.
“A few minutes ago, a small cardboard box, and inside—”
“There was an invitation,” Mr. Russell finished for Ms. Hanson. He slapped Brian Hanson on the back, “they didn’t say we couldn’t team up, did they?” He reclined on the couch, taking up space,
“What do you say? The Russells and the Hansons, one million dollars!”
“I say we look into this,” Brian Hanson replied. He hadn’t always been a careful man, but his time serving in the navy had changed him, “I mean, look. This Cedarfrost manor, I did some digging, and it was apparently designed and owned by some artist from Australia before he died.” Mr. Hanson twirled his wine and inspected his invitation, “The manor’s currently marked as owned, so we have an owner. Maybe this M.K. individual . . .”
Both families became silent. They sat around the dinner table like detectives, formulating an answer to an unsolved mystery. As the night became darker, the dinner lights became a bit brighter, and it was Mr. Russell that finally stood up from his chair.
“Alright, now. This is all very nice and cuddly.” he nodded to the Hansons, “but we’re overthinking this. That’s it. It’s a dinner party, we go, we win a million dollars, and we come back.” He put a hand up as Blue opened her mouth to say something, “I know we all agree that all of this may be,” he paused, eyeing his wife, “a little suspicious, possibly. But what’s the worst that can happen? Anyone? The house eats us? Well, I’ll burn it down from the inside out before that happens.”
Ms. Russell and Blue rolled their eyes.
“And the best that can happen?” Mr. Russell continued, “we have a damn good time. And maybe, just maybe, we snatch a good, fat, one million dollar bill to go home with.” Mr. Russell had his hands up, and grinned like he expected an entire football stadium to start cheering for him.
“But what if it’s a scam?” Shelly pointed out, “What if, I don’t know . . . like . . .”
“I think Nick’s right honey,” Brian nodded at Mr. Russell, “what’s the worst that can happen? We’ve been to parties before with invitations like this. And besides, if we win, we could use part of that million to remodel the kitchen, I know you want that.”
“That would be nice . . .” Shelly responded slowly.
Mr. Russell, still standing after his speech, slammed both of his hands on the table, “Then it’s settled, the lady wants a new kitchen. We leave at dawn.”
“We’re not going off to war Nick,” Ms. Russell pointed out, “we’ll have some breakfast and leave before nine in the morning.”
Mr. Russell threw his hands up in the air, “For g—”
“Wait, Shelly,” Ms. Russell turned towards the Hansons, “what did it say for yours? Why were you two invited?
“It was mostly for Brian. In honor of his service to the navy.”
“Sounds like all that swimming’s paying off after all,” Mr. Russell slapped Mr. Hanson on the back, “well, it’s late. We’ll see you guys tomorrow.”
After a brief farewell on Mr. Russell’s part and a shared hug between the two ladies, Ms. Russell unfolded her laptop.
Where had she
seen
the intitials M.K.?
She tapped her cheek with a pen. After a few unsuccessful internet searches and more taps with her pen, she closed the laptop.
She’ll find out tomorrow, eventually.
