The last guest A novel

Tess Little

Book - 2021

"A glamorous birthday dinner in Los Angeles ends with the famous host dead and every guest under suspicion in this dark, cinematic suspense debut reminiscent of an Agatha Christie page-turner crossed with and David Lynch's Mulholland Drive. There's more than one way to capture a life. When actress Elspeth Bell attends the fiftieth birthday party of her ex-husband Richard Bryant, the famous Hollywood director who launched her career, all she wants is to pass unnoticed through the glamorous crowd in his sprawling Los Angeles mansion. Instead, there are just seven other guests and Richard's pet octopus, Persephone, watching over them from her tank as the intimate party grows more surreal (and rowdy) by the hour. Come mornin...g, Richard is dead--and all of the guests are suspects. In the weeks that follow, each of the guests come under suspicion: the school friend, the studio producer, the actress, the actor, the new partner, the manager, the cinematographer, and even Elspeth herself. What starts out as a locked-room mystery soon reveals itself to be much more complicated, as dark stories from Richard's past surface, colliding with memories of their marriage that Elspeth vowed never to revisit. Elspeth begins to wonder not just who killed Richard, but why these eight guests were invited, and what sort of man would desire to possess a creature as mysterious and unsettling as Persephone. From the Hollywood Hills to the marshes of Norfolk, The Last Guest is a stylish exploration of power--the power of memory, the power of perception, the power of one person over another--that will leave you questioning every truth you tell yourself"--

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Subjects
Genres
Mystery fiction
Psychological fiction
Suspense fiction
Detective and mystery fiction
Thrillers (Fiction)
Published
New York : Ballantine Books [2021]
Language
English
Main Author
Tess Little (author)
Edition
First edition
Physical Description
325 pages ; 24 cm
ISBN
9780593238073
Contents unavailable.
Review by Booklist Review

Here's a sure bet for Agatha Christie fans. A group of friends, colleagues, and hangers-on gathers at an overnight party at the Hollywood home of a film director. By morning, the director is dead, and the eight guests are all under suspicion. Little has assembled a good cast of characters--the ex-wife, the daughter, the victim's boyfriend, the movie star, and so on--all of whom might have had a reason to kill the man, but none seems like the prime suspect. It's left to the ex-wife, Elspeth Bell, to do the sleuthing, even though she's a suspect herself. There are some genuinely surprising twists in the plot, some really fine interplay between the characters, and an increasingly claustrophobic feeling of suspense. At no time does it feel like the author is trying to imitate Christie (or writers of similar stories), but she very nicely captures a Christie-like feel of being confined in a small space and what it might feel like to realize someone you know is a killer. The juicy Hollywood backdrop adds still more appeal for classic-mystery lovers.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Former actor Elspeth Bryant Bell, the 42-year-old narrator of Little's searing debut, flies from New York to L.A. to attend the 50th birthday bash of her abusive ex-husband, director Richard Bryant, because her 19-year-old daughter, Lillie, doesn't want to go solo. When Ellie arrives at Richard's Hollywood home, however, she learns that Lillie begged off, and the event isn't the "sprawling carnival" she expected, but an intimate gathering comprising Richard's manager, oldest friend, and much-younger boyfriend, together with the cast and crew from his latest movie. Debauchery and drama ensue, and when Ellie wakes the next morning, Richard is dead of an apparent overdose. The police suspect homicide, though, and grill the guests, all of whom Richard somehow wronged. Stuck in L.A. until the case concludes, Ellie also starts digging, which forces her to confront her and Richard's own fraught history. Little intercuts the party's aftermath with flashbacks to Ellie's past and the soiree itself, imparting tension, heft, and drive. Flimsy supporting characters and a murky denouement underwhelm, but Ellie's emotional journey both grips and gratifies. Little is a writer to watch. Agent: Lucy V. Cleland, Kneerim & Williams Agency. (Oct.)

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"Elspeth," he said. His eyes were tired, but his teeth were whiter than before. He held open the door to the house. "Richard," I replied. "Happy birthday." We leaned toward each other for a kiss of each cheek. His stubble pricked. One hand on my inner elbow pulled me close--­his other still on the door. He pushed back to regard me once more. I told myself not to tuck the hair behind my ear again, not to smooth my skirt or run my finger beneath the gold band on my wrist, tried to calm the cells of my body. Let him look at me; let him see what I had become. "And what a fabulous present you are." He grinned. "I'm so glad you came." Laughter echoed from the belly of the house. "Here," Richard said, twitching to action with a wave down the hall. "Come in. I can't wait to introduce you to everyone." Entering the house, I found I had been deceived. From the driveway, the façade loomed large: two colossal cubes atop a thin rectangle, all in a smooth, pale concrete. Its angular gray assaulted the eyes, accustomed, as they had grown on the drive up, to the thick, hatching branches of the pines, the swells of the landscape. This was not the home we had once shared--­sold, immediately, to pay the settlement. This was a fortress. As I had stood in its shadow, tugging my skirt before ringing the doorbell, I'd tried to imagine the harsh surfaces, the darkness within. Instead, I followed Richard into brightness. "Welcome," he said, "to Sedgwick." He watched for my reaction to the name, but he would find no trace of surprise. I had seen the sign, driving in, and I refused to acknowledge it. "How long have you been . . . ?" I asked, trailing off as my eyes skittered over the bare gray walls, the cold marble and clean glass. All were flooded with natural light, but from where, I could not tell: Each room we passed seemed a floor of its own, overlapping and overlaid. To draw a map of the place would be impossible. "Living at Sedgwick? Five years now, and it does feel like home." He walked three feet ahead of me, spoke without turning. His voice--­that familiar British accent--­rang clear and confident, bounced off the walls. "And yet every time I welcome a new guest, when I see their expression as I open the door, I'm reminded of its beauty all over again. Classical in its modernity. Sparse, but with a flourish." I hummed my agreement, concentrating on the placement of my stilettos. My stomach was acid. My tongue was dry. And I was here, with Richard, a decade to the day since the last time we had spoken, unaccompanied, in the flesh. As we continued down the hallway, Richard asked about my trip, asked if he could put anything in the coat closet. I declined, clutching my purse close, regretting, not for the first time, that I had been forced into arriving alone. Perhaps it could have been interesting, peering into Richard's new life with Lillie on my arm. Facing him by myself, I could barely muster a sentence. I let him tell me about the architect, who had lived in the home until his death, which occurred, so fortunately, a month before Richard had begun his property search. I let him recount his first visit, how it had been love at first sight. I let him talk about the origin of the materials; the trajectory of the sun; refittings, renovations. They were nothing but boasts: a spiel he had presumably recited to his other guests. It was only when he mentioned the interior--­"the vision isn't mine, of course; I'm not the aesthetic genius"--that I bristled, knowing who that true visionary was. The voices grew louder--­my heartbeat faster--­as we passed into a darkening area illuminated cool by a wall of water. It was exquisitely blue, perfectly clear. "How unique," I said to Richard, who turned to me, shadows tracing the contours of his blue face, and smiled. I noted his lingering scent, still Eau Sauvage, of course, of course. "Some kind of contemporary sculpture?" Richard laughed. I waited, uncertain and unsmiling, for him to finish. "Yes, I can see it. A slice of the sea, a light installation," he said, and laughed again, one staccato: Ha . "What a marvelous notion. But no, it's not artwork. I had to find somewhere to show off Persephone, and this was the only suitable space." "Persephone?" The wall was empty. I would have thought the water motionless were it not for dancing rays of light. "You'll meet her soon enough," he answered, continuing along the passage. And then we emerged to sunlight and sound. Richard threw out his arms and announced: "The atrium." It was magnificent. If the façade of the house had concealed a secret, then this was its dazzling conclusion. The hallway opened onto a vast, vaulted room, which, I realized as we entered, was only a mezzanine, overlooking another floor below. But these shifting perspectives were not the showstopper. For where a wall should have faced us, at the far end of this concrete cathedral, there towered instead a window, stretching all the way across and up. There it was, the iconic sloping vista I had avoided until now. There, in the pit of my throat--­the sudden drop, the return of those hills. Richard called my name. I pried my fingers, knuckles white, from the balcony wall and turned to catch him disappear down a spiral staircase. However unexpected this architectural drama, none of it surprised me. Instead, I was surprised by the lack of faces that now tilted upward to register my arrival, examine my appearance. Seven faces: two known, the rest perhaps familiar--­from the pages of a magazine, pixels, or parties, I could not say. Lillie was not among them. Lillie had not arrived. My hands trembled, my nerves thrummed, at this terrible realization. I neatened my skirt, my hair, my bracelet. I followed Richard down. Picking my way, I told myself to calm. I had spotted Jerry and Tommo, two old friends. They would look after me until Lillie arrived. Which had to be soon. Everything would be fine. The group of guests, sitting on couches at the center of the cavernous room, was surrounded by twice as many champagne-­bearers; I was simply early. Lillie would arrive, the house would fill with people, and everything would be fine. My heels clanged the metal steps. I winced with each ringing note. Three staff, solemn in head-­to-­toe black, awaited me at the bottom of the stairs: one with a tray of full flutes, one with a dish towel and frosty bottle, one to ask, "Champagne?" and hand me the stem. Richard lifted a glass from the tray for himself. "You're drinking these days?" I asked, and took a mouthful. The fizz stung; the gulp was harsh. I blinked back the tears in my eyes. He laughed, like the question had been ridiculous. "For a once-­in-­a-­lifetime occasion, darling, yes." I pursed my lips, but he could do whatever he wanted. Richard was no longer my responsibility. As we neared the little gathering, the room fell silent. There were smiles both warm and empty--and, I noticed, a smatter of annoyance at my presence interrupting talk. "So"--­I looked around the guests, at the staff lined up behind them--­"am I early?" Jerry winked, approaching me for a kiss, and added, "Yeah, Rich, where are all your friends? Interstate bumper-­to-­bumper?" "F*** off," said Richard. Then, to me, gently, "I felt an intimate gathering would be more . . ." "Manageable?" said Jerry. "Fitting." Excerpted from The Last Guest: A Novel by Tess Little All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.