Death For Dinner
A short mystery yarn by T.J. Martinell
“Good morning, what murder would you like to solve for dinner?”
“Edward Sullivan’s.”
“Who?”
I had a serious smile as I walked further into the business after closing the door behind me. The receptionist at the desk at the end of the room was a middle-aged lady, though she still had her looks. Not that I cared about that…
“Edward Sullivan’s murder,” I repeated.
The receptionist didn’t speak at first.
“You do remember Edward Sullivan, right?”
“Yes…Eddie…”
“Your name, ma’am?”
“Lucy Trenton. Yours?”
I flashed my detective’s badge. “I’m with the homicide bureau. I got handed the case this morning and I’m making the rounds.”
“I see….I’m still not believing it…I mean, when they first called.”
“I get it. He worked as an actor for you guys for these murder mystery dinners. I can imagine when they first called to report it you thought it was a prank.”
Her face was expressionless. “….Yes…I actually laughed when they firs told me, but I felt awful afterwards.”
I put my badge away and approached the counter, leaning against it. “I was over at the murder scene earlier today, then at the morgue. The officers who responded sent me their report. I just want to ask some questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I’m glad they assigned it to someone who’s eager to find out who did it. Tell me: are there any suspects?”
“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
“I’m not a reporter, Mr.?”
“Lancaster. Frank Lancaster.”
“Detective Lancaster, I’m not a reporter. This won’t show up in print.”
“I still can’t comment.”
Miss Trenton appeared intrigued. “You think someone here might have done it?”
“I don’t think anything. I’m just gathering facts.”
“But you’ve got the reports from the coroner and the officer who found Eddie, right?”
The way she said it threw me off. “Yeah, but that doesn’t tell the whole story. It’s just what they know. I aim to find out more.”
“What do you want to know?”
I shoved my hands into my pockets, uncertain of her tone. She sounded more fascinated than nervous.
“How long have you known Mr. Sullivan?”
Offering me a long, studious look, she answered calmly. “I think you should save the questions for the others, detective.”
I hardly got another breath before a burlap bag was thrown over my head and a violent blow to the back of neck sent me into darkness. The last thought on my mind was that I had found the killers, only to join their list of victims.
***
The first thing that came to my mind when I awoke was that my “final” thought was neither my last nor correct. The bag was still covering my eyes as I opened them, seeing what appeared to be candlelight twinkling in front of me.
As I raised myself up, the bag came off. I found myself sitting in front of a round wooden table covered with food. Around it was a collection of men and women, none of whom I recognized.
I was about to speak, but Miss Trenton stepped forward and stood before us. She wore a majestic gown, with sparkling rings on her fingers and a diamond necklace wrapped around her neck. She treated me to a teasing smile before gesturing with a broad sweep of her hand.
“Welcome all to this special occasion. As you all have already become acquainted with me individually, I’ll need not introduce myself. You’re here to partake in a very unique festivity put on by colleagues of mine who have seen fit to be entertained in the best manner humanity can offer; where the stakes are life and death.”
She placed her hand on my shoulder as she directed our attention to a shadowy group of men and women sitting against the wall of the room, watching us intently.
“We are not content with mere games, in which the winners or losers get up and go about their lives as if nothing happened. Such festivities fail to bring out the true human spirit that inspired us to become the dominant species on the planet. This real murder mystery dinner will perform that role.
She let us think her remarks over before she promenaded around the table, her hand sliding sensually up and down a man’s arm.
“The rules are simple: You all have access to the same documents giving you the same information as to the murder of Edward Sullivan.”
She then pointed at each of us one at a time. “Among you, there is the killer. Who is it? You must find out before the dinner concludes. Whoever names the killer first, lives.”
“And the rest of us?” a woman asked in a soft voice.
Miss Trenton’s smirk was small, but powerful. “The rest you of you become mystery murder victims for others to solve…except the killer, of course. It’s not a mystery for him.”
A man in a grey suit came to the dinner and popped the champagne bottles before us, pouring us each a glass before he placed the bottles in ice and stepped away.
Miss Trenton glanced at her watch. “You have two hours. Good luck.”
With that, she stepped away and joined the shadowy crowd in the corner of the room, as all of us at the table instinctively began studying each other.
I maintained a calm disposition as I discreetly examined my peers.
The first was a woman. Young, mid-twenties. She was in a state of hyperventilation. Others might have thought it was an act, but I could tell it was real.
The man next to her had convicted felon written on him like a book title. But I wasn’t certain. The facts of the case didn’t connect with anything about his persona. Edward Sullivan had died seemingly from a murder gone wrong, but the forensics and ballistics didn’t match the exact causes.
Besides, the felon didn’t bother to hide his past, judging by the way he held himself. He was too busy taking a long view of the woman beside him.
Across from me was an older man, likely early fifties. Well groomed, a timid demeanor. I found it unusual. He wasn’t so much trying to read us as trying not to be read.
Curious and curiouser.
“Please,” Miss Trenton insisted. “Enjoy yourself. For all but one of you, it will be your last meal.”
I didn’t wait for others to go first before taking a swig of my champagne, somewhat bothered by how good it was. They had spared no expense on our meals. Such a waste, one could argue.
Others joined, and after enjoying our drinks for a while, everyone settled into their seats and began asking questions in-between mouthfuls of exquisite food. We quickly realized the Prisoner Dilemma: if we said nothing, we’d reveal nothing. But that meant others would say nothing.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Mutually assured destruction, unless someone was able to beat the odds and guess correctly based solely on outward appearances.
I obviously wasn’t a preacher man, but I recalled my childhood Sunday school days about the Lord looking at the heart and all that.
But I wasn’t God, so I couldn’t look without them talking.
The conversation finally commenced. The young lady was Vera, a nurse from the local hospital. She had had a night shift at the time of the murder. Sounded like a nice alibi.
The man beside her, as I figured, had served two stints in jail, one for robbery and another for aggravated assault. He had just got out a week before the murder, was trying to get back on his feet. He claimed to be at home working on a job resume when the murder occurred.
The man across from me was a banker. He lived three blocks from where Edward Sullivan lived, but claimed never to have known him. If he did and had done it, money wasn’t the motive. Nothing in Sullivan’s house had been touched beside him.
Eventually the questions turned on me.
“What do you do?” Vera asked.
“I’m a detective.”
“What do you investigate?”
“Homicides.”
Everyone grew quiet.
“You mean…like murder?” Vera inquired carefully.
“Yeah, like this one.”
“You’re investigating this murder?” the felon posed.
“Yeah.”
Everyone looked down at their food as they ate, and I could tell that some of them had made up their minds: I was the culprit.
Except I wasn’t, and if they guessed it was me, they’d all be the topic of the next dinner in that room.
“What do you think of his murder?” Vera asked me.
“Unusual. He was shot in the heart with a .25 auto. Point blank.”
“We know. We all have the police report. What’s unusual about it?”
“The murder weapon was left at the scene. We found it near the body, along with it a note that read: I had to end him.”
“I’ve heard that before,” the felon laughed. “Thankfully, it was never said about me.”
“And the murder weapon?” I asked.
“Leaving the gun means the culprit couldn’t be caught with it.”
“It also had Sullivan’s fingerprints on it.”
“The killer then put it in Sullivan’s hand so it would remove his.”
I peered at Vera. “How do you know the killer was a ‘he’?”
She freaked out for a second, then grew defensive. “I assume the killer was a man.”
“Why?”
“Because if I was going to kill a man, that’s not how I’d do it.”
“Forgive us if we don’t take that at face value,” the felon chuckled.
Vera was about to argue, but I cut her off as I looked at the clock on the table. We were running out of time.
“What makes the murder unusual is that nothing was taken,” I said. “We have no way of knowing what the motive was.”
“Unless one of us knew him,” the banker said.
“You lived closest to him,” the felon answered.
“Proximity to his home means nothing.”
“It means you didn’t have to travel far.”
“So why would I do it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you were jealous he got paid to do some interesting instead of ripping people off.”
The banker scoffed. “I can’t imagine envying an actor who got paid a quarter of what I do.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “How do you know what he got paid?”
“It was a figure of speech. I haven’t a clue what his salary was, but if it was as high as mine, he would have had better home security.”
“He did have home security.”
“And it wasn’t set off?”
“Yes, but by the time we got there he was already dead. Home security is a deterrence, not a failsafe plan.”
“So, whoever did this was quite determined.”
“Or they knew in advance the security was in place and knew how long they’d have to get the job done and get out.”
The banker nodded. “It goes back to what would motivate someone to kill him?”
Vera chuckled darkly. “Maybe someone hated his performances during the dinners and decided they couldn’t take it anymore.”
I concealed my face as I sipped the last of my champagne, and by the time I set the glass down, I had a stoic expression. I watched the clock tick away as the end of the two hours drew close. With every passing second, the others kept glancing and staring at one another. I could tell by the desperation in their eyes that they wanted to name me. They craved yelling out my name. But something inside them hesitated. Maybe it was the fact that my profession made me too obvious a choice, but it also made the most logical sense.
Who better to do a murder and get away with it than someone tasked with solving it, like a firefighter who lights his own fires to put them out?
With just minutes left, Miss Trenton came over and stood before us. “If you don’t answer, the rules are that you are all to be killed, save the killer. I suggest you make up your minds and speak up.”
The others were paralyzed. None of us seemed to fit the bill.
Just as Miss Trenton let out a breath of resignation, I spoke.
“I know who did it.”
Everyone else was momentarily stunned, only to turn to the other. By speaking out, I had revealed I was not the killer. Who was it?
“Yes?” Miss Trenton said. “Name the killer.”
“I will answer only on one condition: Everyone here goes free.”
“Including the killer?”
“Impossible.”
“How so?”
“The killer is dead.”
The room was eerily silent. Miss Trenton was taken aback as she turned to her colleagues on the other side of the room, then addressed me.
“You answered incorrectly,” she said.
A man was about to approached me with a pistol, but I stayed him with a confident hand.
“No, I did not.”
“Then who is the killer?”
“Edward Sullivan.”
“What?”
“Sullivan killed himself.”
Miss Trenton responded instantly. “This is a murder mystery dinner. There is always a murderer.”
“According to the coroner’s report, his time of death was a full hour before the officer’s report said his security alarm went off. As the note said, Sullivan put an “end to him,” meaning the killer character he played for these dinners. He then killed himself for the sake of taking these festivities to a whole new level, didn’t he? The killer was the victim.”
A look of horror fell across Miss Trenton’s face as she snatched the coroner’s report from the table, then tossed it aside as she read through the police officer’s report of the murder scene. The report slipped through her fingers.
I could feel the look of every person on the other side of the room watching me as I spoke to her. “Nobody at this table killed him or even tried to kill him. That’s it, isn’t it? It was meant to be the ultimate murder mystery. A murder mystery in which the only way to solve it was to uncover the fact that there was no murder.”
Before she could answer, a gunshot sent Miss Trenton to the floor, a pool of blood forming near her head. Standing next to her corpse was a man with a small handgun. He put the weapon away as he examined me.
“It seems Miss Trenton has retired from hosting these dinners,” he said. “On behalf of my associates, I’d like to invite you to host them moving forward.”
“Until I join her on the floor? No, thank you.”
“You don’t exactly have a choice.”
I sat in my chair as the others from the table were quickly escorted out, and several of the individuals from the opposite end of the room joined me. I couldn’t make out one of their faces, but he spoke as if he preferred to keep me around.
“We can have this go one of two ways,” he said. “You host these dinners, and you stay alive to solve more murders. The alternative is that you join Miss Trenton in the afterlife, and someone else gets to solve your murder for the next event. Which do you want?”
“You mean I get to go home if I agree?”
“Of course.”
“What’s to stop me from reporting all of this to my higher ups?”
The man chuckled. “How is to say they don’t already report to us?”
A potential bluff. It didn’t really matter at that moment.
“What if I decide later that I don’t want to do it?” I asked.
“We know where you live. There is nowhere you can hide from us. So, what will it be?”
I feigned deliberation before I offered a hand, which was shortly accepted.
“I’m sure you’ll make a fine host,” the man said as he rose along with the others, pointing to the side as he spoke to the armed man. “Please escort Detective Lancaster to the front. I’m sure he’ll find his way back home on his own.”
The armed man led me out the room and through a narrow, darkly lit corridor. He kept glancing at me as if to see if I intended to make my escape, despite his superior’s assurances that fleeing my fate was hopeless.
We kept walking, and at one point I wondered if it was all just a show, if I was going to end up the next murder victim.
It didn’t matter.
Up until then I had wondered about the last thought to go through Eddie Sullivan’s mind before death.
I vowed I would find out myself.
There’s the saying that revenge is a dish best served cold.
What I planned to serve would poison whoever ate it.