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“Ooh, an inquest! Like inRebecca,” says one of the Pittsburgh sisters, eliciting a wink from Germaine.
“—and it was determined that the orthodontist had died of natural causes. An undetected heart condition. Not murder.”
Murmurs of disappointment throughout the hall.
Germaine goes over the ground rules.
“You are to gather at the village green tomorrow morning at nine, at which time you will be informed that a murder has occurred. You will be briefed on the case and then taken, by groups, to the scene of the crime.”
Excited chatter. Germaine raises a hand and waits with the practiced patience of a kindergarten teacher. The room falls silent.
“Each team will have an opportunity to examine the crime scene and interview witnesses and suspects, some of whom may be in character and some playing themselves, but with minor adjustments to adhere to the storyline. In other words, it is up to you to decide who is real and who is not and which information is relevant to solving the crime. If you identify a suspect whom you would like to interview and their location is not easily discernible, you may ask us how to locate them. If they are not part of the game, that information will not be forthcoming. We want you to be challenged, but we have no desire to send you on a wild-goose chase.
“You will have five days to investigate the crime. Your written solution must be turned in by seven o’clock on Thursday evening. You must provide not only thewhodunitbut also thehowdunitand thewhydunit. Obviously, your conclusion will contain some theories that can’t be proven. Fingerprinting and DNA testing have no role in this challenge. You may not use the internet, which would be of no use anyway, as all background facts pertinent to the crime are fictional. The team that comes closest to the truth will have the honor of presenting the details at our evening finale. If you believe you have figured out the crime before then, please keep it to yourself so that we may all enjoy the denouement together.”
Germaine glances to the wings of the stage.
“I’d now like to introduce our special guest, who has been quite instrumental in the development of our mystery.” She clears her throat, looking like she’s tasting something unsavory. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Willowthrop’s very own Mr. Roland Wingford, author ofMurder Afoot, the first in his series of eleven murder mysteries featuring Cuddy Claptrop, the crime-solving farrier.”
Silence but for the sound of Germaine’s clapping.
“A furrier? How fabulous,” Wyatt whispers.
“Farrier,” Amity says. “Who shoes horses. A blacksmith.”
“So much for Anthony Horowitz,” grumbles the man sitting behind me. “Hey, Siri, tell me something about Roland Wingford.”
From the man’s phone, a robotic voice: “Winsford Devine was a Trinidad and Tobago songwriter who composed over five hundred calypsos.”
“I said,” the man repeats, sounding irritated, “who is Roland Wingford?”
Siri doesn’t answer.
“You have to say, ‘Hey, Siri,’ again,” whispers the woman next to him. “But quietly.”
“Hey, Siri,” the man rasps, “tell me who is Roland Wingford.”
“Sorry, I didn’t quite get that.”
“No phones,” someone hisses.
A white-haired man dressed all in tweed—jacket, vest, and slacks—has joined Germaine at the microphone.
“Good evening.” Roland Wingford is barely audible. He leans a bit closer to the microphone, which squeaks, catapulting the author a step back as if he’s been bitten. He tries again. “Uh, good evening.”
Germaine, standing beside him, says, “Go on, then.”
“I am Roland Wingford.” He waits, presumably for applause; none comes. He clears his throat. “I am a most devoted acolyte of the works of the golden age of detective fiction, classic murder mysteries written between the wars. I am, I believe, soon to be selected for membership in England’s famed Detection Club.”
The Detection Club sounds like a spin-off of the Baby-Sitters Club, but Roland Wingford says that it’s a prestigious “secret” society established in 1930 by a group of legendary British crime writers (no thriller writers, only “detective novelists”) that included Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, and G. K. Chesterton.
“Membership in the Detection Club, which exists to this day, is by invitation only,” Roland says. “Initiation involves a candlelit procession in the dark. New members place a hand upon a skull, known as Eric the Skull, whose eye sockets are illuminated from within by red light bulbs.”
“How can that be real?” I whisper to Amity.
“Oh, no, I’ve read about it. Though apparently a doctor’s analysis strongly suggested that Eric the Skull is female.”
“Sacre coeur!” whispers Wyatt.