This Is Not a Game

One



An Invitation



Mimi wheeled her canvas shopping cart behind her as she walked briskly into town. She had to hurry and get to Doud's for a sourdough before they closed. It was a chilly autumn afternoon, and Mackinac Island was humming with bicyclists and sightseers. Walking had always been her favorite stimulant. Even on days when she didn't have a particular destination in mind, nothing felt more liberating than a bracing constitutional around her little island home in the Great Lakes. She cherished how Mackinac's ban on cars (strictly enforced since 1898) kept away codger types who drove around in Cadillacs and droned on about their sleep apnea and hip replacements.

"Rosemary, hey! Wait up. Rosemary!"

Mimi quickened her pace as she walked past the hardware store. Anyone calling her by her given name, Rosemary, didn't know her very well. There was no need to look back, anyway. It was Herb. The smell of floor polish and paint thinner hovered in a cloud around him wherever he went.

"C'mon, Rosemary! Wait up!"

She rolled her eyes as she halted and spun around. "I can't, Herb. No time today." Why did people always try to wheedle themselves inside her quiet little world? That's why she liked her bridge group. They respected her privacy. None of that "sitting around drinking wine and baring your soul" kind of nonsense.

Herb caught up to her, huffing and puffing. His chambray shirt, emblazoned with a Hi! I'm Herb! How can I help? name tag, was stained with little continents of sweat.

"Just wanted to talk to you about your geraniums. Before it's too late for them."Mimi heaved a sigh. "I understand the concept of deadheading, Herb."Herb laughed nervously and held up his hands. "Hey now, no need to snap my head off." He paused to give her a wink. "Just wanted to remind you that since it's been a mild fall, the geraniums are still going strong, so be sure to keep that deadheading going until we get a hard freeze." He pushed his glasses up on his nose. "And, should you require a new pair of gardening shears, they happen to be fifty percent off this week, but I'm making it sixty percent off for friends."

"Okay." She nodded. "I'll stop by tomorrow and get a pair. For fifty percent off."

Mimi continued down Main Street, her shoes brushing through a confetti of autumn leaves on the sidewalk. Their earthy aroma reminded her that the thousands of visitors who flocked to Mackinac for seasonal events like the Fudge Festival would soon be gone. Only a few hundred islanders, who stayed year-round, would remain, and the price of a cup of coffee would drop by half.

When she reached the familiar sign above Doud's-Welcome to America's Oldest Grocery Store-she hustled inside and headed toward the bakery. There was one solitary sourdough waiting for her in the display case, next to a box of glazed donuts. She reached out to take it just as another woman's hand reached for it too, bumping into hers.

"Oh!" said the owner of the hand.

Mimi gave her the once-over. A young tourist with a bouncy ponytail.

"Didn't see you there," Ponytail added, with a shrug.

Mimi stepped in front of her, seized the loaf, and placed it firmly into her cart. She smiled brightly, then turned around and headed for the deli meats. Ponytail would be fine. She had decades of warm sourdoughs ahead of her.On the way back down the street, Mimi turned onto the wooden walkway that led up to the colonnaded entrance of the Mackinac Island Public Library. Her footsteps matched the rhythmic click-clack of her shopping cart as it bumped along behind her. The jingle of the door announced her arrival, and her friend Pam looked up from her post behind the circulation desk.

Mimi paused to admire the latest display of books. Classics That Will Make You Weep. Kleenex boxes with Boo-hoo! and Sniffle! written on them were being used as bookends.

"Did it catch your eye? I was proud of that one."

"It's another Pam original," said Mimi, approaching the desk and placing her return in the drop slot.

"Are you coming to bridge next week? I'm going to host it here after hours. We can bring wine. I got special permission."

"It's in my appointment book," said Mimi, waving goodbye and heading for the exit. Pam was a good egg and a stalwart friend. Their relationship was straightforward and honest. She wasn't concerned with petty town gossip or tiresome obsessions with social status and beauty. They could talk about books and sip coffee together in easy silence. Plus, she was a damn good bridge player.

As Mimi headed home, she checked her Fitbit: 10,008 steps. Good, but she could do better tomorrow. She took a left turn onto her cul-de-sac, and her lakefront cottage, a postcard-perfect Victorian, came into view. The sun was now an orange disc slipping below the distant tree line of mainland Michigan, casting warm sparkles on the water's surface.

"Evening, Joan," she said to her lavender snowmobile, Joan Rivers. The vehicle was parked inside the portico attached to the side of the house. Mimi went in through the side entrance to the mudroom and wiped her wet shoes on the mat. Joan would need a good washing and waxing before her first ride of the winter season.

She went into the living room and pressed play on her portable speaker. Miles Davis's velvety trumpet floated into the air as she walked over to the Art Deco bar cart by the fireplace. A Gibson at dusk was a ritual that she and Peter had begun in the early years of their marriage. More than five decades later, this savory-sweet cousin of the martini was still her drink of choice.

"One, two, three," she said to her favorite onions, the tipsy kind that came bathed in French vermouth, as she impaled them onto a metal cocktail stick. After a gentle stir of the ingredients in a small crystal pitcher, she strained its contents into a chilled martini glass, and took a sip. The gin's icy botanicals rolled pleasurably over her palate. Any concerns always seemed to melt away at this time of day.

Sure, occasional intrusive thoughts crept in. Like that salesclerk at the makeup counter last weekend. The one who had offered her unsolicited advice on teeth whitening while she was trying on lipsticks. She ran her tongue over her teeth at the memory of it. They had looked kind of yellow in that ridiculous magnifying mirror with LED lights. Perhaps she did drink too much coffee, like the woman said. But when did arctic-white Chiclet teeth become such a thing?

"What do you think, Big Phyllis? Should I whiten my teeth?" asked Mimi, turning to the large Kentia palm behind her.

Big Phyllis looked a little droopy. Mimi set her glass down and walked over to check her soil.

"You're a bit dry. Have a drink with me."

Reaching into the broom closet for the watering can and plant mister, she gave Big Phyllis a heavy pour and spritz.

She took another sip of her Gibson and felt the gin tingle her synapses as she headed into the kitchen. With a quick sawing motion of the bread knife, she severed the heel from the sourdough loaf, and its tangy essence wafted out. She tucked some Gruyère in between two slices and gently lowered them into a skillet bubbling with melted butter. As the grilled cheese sizzled to a golden brown, she heated some tomato soup in a pot and poured it into a small bowl. Pleased with the results, she sat down at the table and set to work on the newspaper's daily crossword:

A maneuver in a game or conversation

p-l-o-y

She heard a rattling sound.It was coming from the screened-in porch. She got up to investigate and found the outer door leading to the backyard had swung open. Odd, but not out of the ordinary, given the occasional gusts of wind coming in off Lake Huron. The door clanged against the frame and swayed open again in the breeze.

Walking over to close it, she could see something lying on the mat. A bright blue envelope. Strange that they hadn't simply used her mailbox. She picked it up and took it into the kitchen. It was addressed to Rosemary Louise MacLaine, her full legal name, which appeared to have been typed on an old-fashioned typewriter. Using her silver-handled letter opener to fillet the envelope, she removed the contents. On top was an invitation printed on thick nine-by-nine cardstock with embossed lettering:

Your presence is requested at the home of Jane Irelandfor an auction benefiting

The National Arts Foundation

Cocktails and Canapés

Jazz Age Attire

Saturday, November 5th
7:00 P.M.

Lilac House
1 Lilac Lane
Mackinac Island, Michigan

Please read the two enclosed documents and follow the instructions precisely.

Mimi frowned. Jane Ireland? Her wealthy socialite neighbor? Who was rumored to be dating her own son-in-law, thirty years her junior?

Unlike the jaunty nine-by-nine invitation, the other documents were "we mean business" letter size. She unfolded the first one, which had also been typed on a typewriter:

Dear Rosemary,
I know your secret. Perhaps you're thinking of declining this invitation. Unfortunately, that's not an option. Purchase Kimiko Mitsurugi's manga, Memento Mochi, at the auction and pay the required amount in full. Further details, including wire transfer instructions, are in the second document.
Jane

Mimi's necklace felt heavy and tight around her throat. She clutched its small emerald pendant between her thumb and forefinger as the refrigerator's low hum buzzed in her ears. Holding her breath, she unfolded the second page. Everything was there. Names. Dates. Astonishingly precise details. She let the papers fall to the floor.

How could Jane possibly know what she had done?

Her mind wandered to the spreadsheet of various investment accounts and passwords that Peter had meticulously kept. She'd been living comfortably off their savings for over twenty years, but this could change everything.

Mimi went to the cupboard where she kept a pack of Pall Malls, a cut-glass ashtray, and her Dunhill lighter, a gift from Peter after he'd returned from a business trip to London. The engraved letter R was almost rubbed away now. She'd given up smoking in her thirties, but she always allowed herself one cigarette per year on her birthday. Today was not her birthday, but this development demanded it. She sat down at the kitchen table and lit up, savoring the first puff as it seared her nostrils. The soothing rush of nicotine flooded her brain.

Like everyone else on the island, she knew Jane's late husband had been obscenely wealthy. So why would she need blackmail money? Perhaps he hadn't left her enough to subsidize her decadent son-in-law-shagging lifestyle. Mimi exhaled and a cloud of smoke curled around her.

Unless this wasn't about money at all. Perhaps she had hurt Jane's feelings by consistently rejecting her social advances over the years? There had been suggestions of coffee or a cooking class, and she could faintly remember Jane once inviting her over for a luncheon. But the woman was a frivolous ding-a-ling whose cord didn't reach the outlet, so she always declined. They lived in different worlds. Had her curt "no, thank yous" driven Jane to exact revenge? No, that made no sense. What social capital could Jane Ireland possibly acquire from her? She was just an ordinary seventy-seven-year-old woman.

The grandfather clock chimed, startling her from her thoughts. It was ten p.m. After going about her bedtime routine in a daze, she slipped between the cool bedsheets and stared at the ceiling. Soft rain pattered on the leaves outside as a deep ache settled in her chest. Over the last twenty-three years, she had built a life for herself on Mackinac and settled into the comfort of her daily routines. Now those foundations could crumble. She was living minutes away from a blackmailer. Perhaps she would have to sell her beloved home.

She lay awake for hours unspooling her thoughts. Finally, anger steamrolled over her fears, and a decision clicked into place. She would go to Jane's wretched little party and bid at the auction. And then she would take the same approach she'd taken her whole life whenever she encountered a bully: clear-eyed confrontation. Listen to me, you succubus cow. Who the hell do you think you are? Yes, that sounded good. Did Amazon sell bulletproof vests?

Mimi rolled over on her side. She relaxed and closed her eyes. But could she handle this all by herself? Attending this swindler's shindig alone was a paralyzing thought. Her eyes fluttered open.

Should she bring Addie? Her granddaughter loved the intricate work of solving a problem. Addie's brilliant mind thrived on this kind of stuff. If only they hadn't had that terrible fight last Thanksgiving. Despite feeling guilty about it, Mimi hadn't made an effort to clear the air, and they had only exchanged a few perfunctory emails since.

Who was she kidding, anyway? She'd have to tell Addie about all this at some point. She was her only living descendant and the beneficiary of her will. What would happen if she died suddenly? Or if Jane contacted her again? Would Addie just show up one day to clear out her house and discover a stack of unopened blackmail correspondence? No dusty old box of wartime love letters in the attic for her to find, just the remnants of an extortion plot against Grandma. Knowing Addie, she'd use it as material to spice up the eulogy.

She would call her in the morning. No, a call was too easy to ignore. What if it went to voicemail? She couldn't leave a message. She didn't trust her voice to sound okay. An email would be better.

She could not do this alone.



Two



No. 30702




She was the kind of person you were just drawn to. You know? When she walked into a room, it lit up. Everyone paid attention.

Addie rolled her eyes at the TV and gave Edgar's soft black fur a stroke. Why did every murder victim's best friend feel the need to say that? It was doubtful that many people were capable of lighting up rooms. She hit pause on Keith Morrison, who was nodding his head along sympathetically, and got up to get a pint of ice cream. She shut the freezer door to find Edgar staring up at her plaintively with his yellow-green eyes. He yowled.

"Ah, sorry, boy," she said. "I forgot your lunch, didn't I?" She opened a pouch of cat food and filled his dish.

She sank back into the couch. The TV went dark for a moment before cutting to a commercial, and Addie caught a glimpse of her reflection in the blank screen. She was wearing a stained Buffy T-shirt, surrounded by unopened moving boxes, and watching Dateline, the murder-mystery equivalent of empty calories. A far cry from five months ago, when she was toasting her engagement to Brian over a Michelin-starred dinner. Though she was pleased that she was at least letting her hair go back to its natural state: red and curly. For the last three years, she'd been straightening it and dyeing it auburn because Brian preferred it that way.

She switched from Dateline to an episode of Poirot. From empty calories to comfort food. David Suchet was just what she needed right now. The undisputed GOAT. Branagh, Finney, and Ustinov all paled in comparison. She selected "Appointment with Death" and hit play.

Her watch buzzed with a text message from her friend Sarah:

What time are you seeing Martin? I took the day off too.

Addie checked the time.

Yikes, didn't realize it was already noon. In an hour.

Want to meet up at our spot after?

Sure, soo you soon.

Switching off the TV, she got dressed and then walked downtown in a rush of anxiety. As she took in the confident geometry of the Chicago skyline, she felt a deep loneliness. It struck her that the sense of ownership she once felt for her city was now gone.

Arriving at the Law Office of Martin Statler, she double-checked the address. She had envisioned an enormous glass skyscraper, but this was a narrow nineteenth-century row house, an anachronism wedged between two high-rises. It looked almost whimsical.

The reception area was cozy and filled with plants. Natural light streamed through a large bay window. A tall man resembling a weathered version of Martin Statler's LinkedIN photo appeared in the hallway, wearing a rumpled suit.

"Ms. Paget?"

"Hi, yes," she said, standing up to shake his hand.

"My sixteen-year-old is going to be jealous that I'm meeting the creator of his favorite game."

Addie looked down, embarrassed. "Well, co-creator," she replied.

"Aha. Precisely the issue we're going to fix," he said, guiding her into his wood-paneled office.