12 July 2026
1185
R. Linda:
There I was, expecting to enter the evening as more of a spectator, when it gradually dawned on me that I was responsible for making it a good evening for everyone. That put me where I usually end up — at the centre of events against me will!
Tonya and I were invited to a murder-mystery cocktail hour/dinner party at the home of a couple living in the village centre. This couple is heavily into the Public Broadcasting of British mysteries. It doesn't matter if it's Miss Marple, or Hercule Poirot, or even the great Sherlock Holmes; if it's murder, they are there. So much so that they have transformed their old colonial home into what they imagine to be an English country manor!
The antique stores had to be bought out at first glance in the hallway. Somewhere, they purchased two suits of armour that stand on either side of a large, studded, and caged (at the top) door that hits you square in the eye as you come in. The outside entrance door, also a heavy piece of ex-castle decor, creaks when it's open. When we arrived, I almost expected the Addams Family Lurch to open the door. Well, it wasn't Lurch, it was Harry Spears, the sweeper-upper at the local general store, decked out as a 1920s butler who greeted us in. I had to hold back me laughter; he was looking not a thing like an English butler. Let's say Harry's look was rather on the relaxed side, not impeccable.
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| Harry (photo courtesy of Tonya) |
We were all assigned elaborate characters, and it was a written rule that once the "mystery" got going, we would not break the house rule: Everyone must stay in character the entire evening. I got a special role, since I am a professional journalist, I was assigned the detective role. I hated it immediately upon opening that invitation a week ago and said so. Tonya, naturally, thought it hilarious until she discovered she was the official photographer for the evening, which I found hilarious.
Tonya had a flapper costume from a Halloween party she had made it for, all beaded, complete with a headband, and even flapper shoes, so she was all set. She looked beautiful, actually. I had to rent an old-fashioned tuxedo-type outfit, which made me feel more like a gangster than a detective. Everyone went all out for this, and I believe there were maybe 10 couples, quite possibly the entire village I live in.
When we received our mailed invitations, they included a description of who we were, a bit about the manor and its occupants, and a note about what to expect and from whom. The evening started with each of us getting our first clues, which Harry handed out at the door.
At cocktails, we all got to know who was supposed to be who and had a pretty good time of "acting" and talking about our false lives to each other.
The gong, yes, there was a gong that was rung, and we were ushered into the dining room, which, if I didn't know it was 2026, I would have thought I went back in time to 1924.
We had just sat down, chatting quietly and marvelling at the old-fashioned decor, awaiting the soup to be brought out, when an entirely unexpected scream rang out. This had most of the men on their feet, looking around. Suddenly, the swinging door from the kitchen swung open, and a maid (dressed in the part) was old Betty Langford, the local golden cane (walking stick awarded to the oldest resident) recipient, with her maid's dress full of blood, a knife in her right hand and a horrified expression on her face. She dropped the knife and dramatically looked at us.
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| Poor Betty! |
"Ee's deed." She said, her English accent not quite making the "He's dead" distinguishable.
"Whose deed?" Our host, Charlie (call him Charles for the evening), ventured to ask.
"The…the…the butler."
"The butler is standing right there." Charles corrected, pointing to Harry standing by the banquet table.
"OH! I mean the FOOTMAN, Robert!" She looked astounded and quite a bit frazzled when she said that. Her eyes were wide, and she looked as if she knew she had misspoken the first time and was embarrassed, but not sure. It was almost laughable, but we all kept it in.
"Robert? Who's Robert?" The hostess asked, looking distressed.
No one knew.
"There's no Robert here for real or otherwise," Charles' wife said under her breath.
Of course, the ladies at the table all put their napkins to their lips in distress, and a few feigned ohs and oohs were murmured in false horror.
"Rodney, don't you think you should go see?" Charles addressed my character.
I cleared me throat and nodded as I started off to the kitchen.
Betty caught me arm and whispered, "Not the kitchen, the library."
"Library? But…" She shook her head at me. "Where is that?" I whispered back, catching on.
She pointed in the opposite direction, to my further chagrin, adding to the general confusion.
"Here, old chap, I'll go with you," Someone said, and then many of the gentlemen said the same, and before I knew it, a sea of black tuxedos was on its way to the so-called library.
Well, the library was a sunroom where books were hastily (it looked) thrown around, including Little Red Riding Hood, open, with the wolf stalking grandma. One man in particular, a man I hardly know but who has a reputation for intensity, was at me side as we looked down on Jesse Preston, AKA Alec Fawnsfoot, footman (and son of the host and hostess). Well, that's what his nametag (yes, for the forgetful among us) said.
"Looks like he's been stabbed." The genius next to me observed. "With a knife." That last was when I knew I was not with the brightest bulb in the box.
"Well, the maid had the knife, so we know who 'done it'," I announced, thinking good, the mystery is over, dinner to be served.
"NO! NO! NO! I did not kill James, I mean Jesse, I mean ALEC!" Betty shouted, all agitated and alarmed.
"I saw you with the knife, that knife," I pointed to her hand holding the offending article, "and look at you all covered with blood," I observed brightly.
"NO, I was in the kitchen trimming a brisket." She shook me arm, "THIS is the library!" This last said like I was some mental midget.
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| The murder in the sunroom, I mean, the library |
After a bit of discussion, with the ladies wandering in and appropriately feigning horror before swooning back into their chairs in the dining room, Harry announced that soup was on the table. And, looking at each other, a little confused, we went back, sat down, and discussed what to do with "THE BODY."
The soup was cold strawberry, so seeing a bowl of what looked like red blood did little for the old appetites. Of course, Betty was serving the soup along with two others, still wearing the blood-spattered maid's outfit. Sam was sitting next to me and said, "So, we meet again." I looked at him, ah yes, so we do, and the recent memory was not a good one. "That isn't blood on Betty, that's soup." He said, ever his observant self.
"But she said she was trimming brisket." I reminded him, pushing me bowl away at the thought.
He smiled at me like, Come on, it's soup. Then he said, "Sounds more like a murder mystery to say brisket."
As we awaited the salad course (which was served by a catering company that was also dressed for the occasion), conversation burst out almost at once. All kinds of theories were going around, and by dessert, we still had no murderer, but clues were coming in disguised ways, like a maid dropping a note in a woman's lap, or Betty, pointing at someone across the table so another would notice and then she'd shake her head like, 'yes, it's her.'
After-dinner drinks were served in the main salon, which was really the living room converted to a hodgepodge of knick-knacks on tables placed between platters of cheeses and crackers, finger sandwiches, and tea pastries. That was odd, and I told Tonya that the Prestons (our hosts) needed to study English etiquette a little better because this was all wrong.
Meanwhile, Duchess Agatha (Harriet Pritchard) came running into the room, bringing drama with her as she announced, "He's GONE!"
"Who?" Was shouted in unison.
"Why the murdered man, Robert. I mean, Alec!" This said with a hand to her forehead like she was going to faint, and she started to, but no man was close enough to catch her, and PLUNK! Down she went like the Titanic.
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| Harriet goes PLUNK! |
Within ten minutes of confusion, and Mrs Pritchard having the 'vapours,' I was approached by Sam.
"I don't think Mrs. Pritchard was in the library when she claims she was."
"Mrs. Pritchard was playing a fictional duchess, and there is no library." I quipped.
"That's exactly what she wants you to think." He quipped back.
Duchess Agatha (Harriet Pritchard) was overdoing her role big time. I think she thought she was doing a wonderful impression of Maggie Smith's Violet Crawley. I can tell ya, not so much. More Angela Lansbury imitating the Bride of Frankenstein.
I was discovering, after a few more of Sam's observations, that the man was good at this. And the reason he was good at it was that, as it dawned on me, the mystery was badly constructed by our host and hostess. Clues were missing. Someone accidentally ate a clue because it was hidden beneath a piece of cheese on the cheese platter. One guest forgot who he was supposed to be, and another refused to reveal information because she had decided her character "wouldn't trust detectives." Add to that, our hostess kept disappearing into the kitchen to Google the rules!
Meanwhile, me new partner and I began solving an entirely different mystery. Sam noticed somebody's car had been moved. At first, I was like what does that have to do with what's going on in here? He didn't know, but he noticed it. Ok, note taken.
Then he elbowed me in the side as we entered the sunroom, which we were all told was a library, and said that a valuable antique had disappeared.
"I noticed that right off when we first came in there. It was a Limoges box, a tiny porcelain box handcrafted in France, worth what? Thousands of dollars? AND, there were muddy footprints where there shouldn't have been any by the sunroom door, where the missing car was. PLUS, someone keeps sneaking outside, AND I think an actual crime is taking place during a fake murder!"
I dismissed him at first, but he pulled me through the sunroom and pointed to where the Limoges box had been; hadn't I noticed it, how could I not? Well, I told him how not, I am not an aficionado of small porcelain boxes. Then he pulled me to the doorway, "Look at the footprints." Well, okay, there were muddy footprints that came in the door and out the door, and yes, I did remember a car being parked near the door that wasn't there now. UH OH!
Sam's evidence was becoming annoyingly persuasive, and me journalistic instincts (forget the detective business) were kicking in. I covertly started interviewing me neighbours in the next room as Sam kept producing observations.
"You notice Henderson changed his shoes?"
"No."
"He arrived wearing loafers."
"How do you know?"
"I don't trust a man who wears loafers in July. Bet he changed them because they were muddied."
Soon, we established a headquarters in the Butler's Pantry (really the rear hallway).
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| Me and Sam in the faux butler's pantry discussing our clues, photo courtesy of Tonya |
It was then that Tonya found us whispering over a hand-drawn map of the house.
"What are you up to?"
"Nothing."
She looked at my detective notebook and looked surprised.
"Gabe, you're investigating the guests."
"We're eliminating possibilities, and yes, of course I am, I be Rodney Stouthart, the detective."
"You've been in here for forty minutes." She accused.
We looked at her like two idiots. She seemed concerned, not because she thought I was in any danger, but because I was enjoying meself a bit too much.
It was then that Sam left us for something that popped into his head. I looked at Tonya and said, "I know people find him annoying, but I think I have accidentally found me perfect village friend."
"Really? The village friend you avoid when you see him. The same village friend who you say talks too much, the same one that appears without warning, who owns equipment for every conceivable emergency, talked you into a pie-eating contest without you knowing it? Has strong opinions about septic systems…is your new bestie?"
"Uh…yup." I said, "Yet this evening I have slowly been realising the man is intelligent, observant, loyal, and just odd enough to make perfect sense to me."
Tonya nodded like I had lost me mind.
Sam re-entered, and she left us "to it."
"I know what happened to the Limoges box. I asked Charles if he knew it wasn't on the table in the 'library,' and he said he told his son to get it, along with a few other things, while we were at dinner. Seems he bought that stuff for the son's collection. That's who left the muddy footprints and why the car was gone, and guess who the son is?"
It took me no time at all.
"Robert Fawnsfoot, the murdered man, or it's Alec Fawnsfoot, I believe."
"He is an antiques dealer. He didn't want to leave the valuable items out too long, so Charles told him when he was "dead" and everyone was out of the 'library' to take the valuables out." He looked steadily at me as if this were normal.
"Mystery solved."
Great, just great! Sam had solved that mystery, but we both completely forgot about the fake one. We went in to join the others when our host triumphantly gathered everyone together and, with no warning to meself, asked me to identify the murderer, and I had no idea what he was talking about.
"The murder, Gabe, I mean, Rodney."
"What murder?"
"The reason we're here."
Sam leaned toward me and whispered, "I told you we should've kept better notes."
Before I could say I didn't know who the murderer was and make a jackarse of meself, Betty burst in, waving a wooden spoon over her head that had what looked like raspberry jam dripping down it, shouting, "I did it! I admit it, I did it! I stabbed him with the spoon!" She looked back at me and winked. She knew I had no clue who the murderer was, and she saved me arse. I guess she's not as bird-brained as I thought, but then I changed my mind at the admission she "stabbed him with the spoon!"
The next morning I awoke pleased with meself. I survived a crazy evening with crazy people. I helped Sam solve a mystery, sort of, and I may have made him a friend.
Then Tonya looked out the window.
"Gabe?"
"What?"
"Why is Sam DeGeorges coming down the driveway carrying a metal detector?"
Well, it seemed old Sam decided after last night's crime-solving fiasco that WE, yes, he and I, are an investigative team. So here be a new source of misery and a new complication entering me life.
Gabe
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