Sharyn McCrumb - Missing Susan

“Susan… Susan!” Elizabeth MacPherson was shaking her head sadly. “It’s 1928, Susan. No irradiated thallium. No nuclear power plants.”

“Curare?” said Susan hopefully. “There’s another book…”

Several minutes later the answer to their speculations proved to be: none of the above. The actor reappeared with a bandaged arm, in good spirits again, and ready to resume rehearsal. It was only then that people noticed that another member of the cast was missing. Ten minutes of frantic searching by all concerned resulted in the discovery of his body in the hallway outside the banquet room. He was theatrically dead.

“Well,” said Maud Marsh philosophically. “They got us on that one. Did any of you see him leave?”

“No,” said Kate Conway. “I was too busy worrying about the sword wound.”

Emma Smith and her mother were comparing notes. “At least this pares down the list of suspects,” she remarked. “At this rate there won’t be many people left by tomorrow morning.”

“If we get any more clues, we’ll let you know,” said Elizabeth kindly.

After dinner that night there were more goings-on. The amateur sleuths were summoned to the leading lady’s room by a distraught Mr. Scott and a new murder victim was discovered, dead on the bathroom floor, with Mr. Scott’s scarf wound around her neck. Clues were dispensed left and right as the actors quarreled and expressed their sorrow over the loss of the grande dame. Elizabeth had been spending a quiet evening in her room, intending to write some letters, but after the dramatic interruptions, she was out of the mood for solitary correspondence. Instead she invited Kate Conway and Frances Coles back to her room for hot chocolate.

“It’s wonderful having these little electric kettles in the hotel rooms!” said Frances, as she settled in the chintz chair beside the window. She was wearing a dark green dressing gown that set off her auburn hair. “I wish American hotels would think of doing that.”

“They’re probably afraid the guests would burn the place down,” said Elizabeth. “Which they probably would.”

Kate Conway, in a white gown reminiscent of her bride of Dracula costume, sat down on the bed, nibbling on a piece of shortbread. “I still don’t know who the murderer will turn out to be. I thought it was Lady Alice, but now she’s dead. That was an exciting episode tonight, wasn’t it?”

“I’m glad they’ve taken to strangling people,” Elizabeth replied. “They weren’t sound at all on poisons.”

“Do you think they’ve killed everyone that they’re going to?” asked Frances.

“I expect so,” said Elizabeth. “It’s Saturday night. They’re running out of time.”

Kate giggled. “Too bad they can’t kill Susan Cohen.”

Frances Coles gasped. “It’s so odd that you should say that! I was thinking the same thing. And yet, she’s really a very nice person.”

Elizabeth unplugged the kettle and prepared their hot cocoa. “She’s a nice person in small doses,” she said. “But it’s the cumulative effect that’s wearing. After four days of Minneapolis travelogues and mystery fiction plot summaries, I think we’re all about ready to kill her.”

“I don’t think she’s used to interacting socially,” said Frances Coles. “Sometimes I get a second-grader who alienates the rest of the class just the way Susan does. It usually means they haven’t had much practice in getting along with people. I’ll bet she’s an only child.”

“But she’s very pretty,” Kate Conway pointed out. “It’s strange that we don’t like her. She’s so confrontational, which is strange. Pretty people usually find it very easy to socialize.”

“I can explain that,” said Elizabeth. She told them about Susan’s recent plastic surgery and her transformation from ugly duckling to swan.

“So that’s it,” said Kate, glancing at her own pretty face in the dressing table mirror. “Susan hasn’t learned how to stop acting like a wallflower. She’s only pretty on the outside; she doesn’t believe it yet.”

“Or perhaps she talks all the time to make up for all the times that she was lonely,” said Frances sadly. “It’s really awful of us to be so hard on her.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Well, then… would you like me to invite her over for chocolate now?”

“No!” cried Kate and Frances in unison.

At breakfast the next morning Elizabeth and the other members of the mystery tour sat together, comparing notes so that they could turn in their whodunit ballots.

“Don’t forget we have to consider motive,” Susan reminded them. “You get points for guessing who did it and separate points for saying why.”

Frances Coles groaned. “Everybody has a motive. Mr. Scott could be Sir Herbert’s long-lost son, and Jackie and Ginger may be sisters, and what about the diamond smuggling clue?”

“I think the baron did it,” said Alice MacKenzie.

“The baron? Why?”

“Because it’s 1928,” said Alice darkly. “And he’s German.” After a moment of stunned silence, Susan burst out laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous! It’s one of the women. The baron is so obvious that only an idiot would fall for it. Now is it Jackie or Ginger? Or maybe Gladys was only pretending to be dead…”

“Detecting is very difficult in 1928,” Elizabeth complained. “I wish I could get hold of some decent forensic evidence.”

“We’d better huny and mark our ballots,” said Kate Con-way. “That Eylesbarrow woman is herding everybody toward the banquet room for the final confrontation. Who shall we put? Jackie or Ginger?”

“I’ll vote for whoever you pick, Alice,” said Frances Coles loyally.

“Let’s split our votes,” Alice suggested, glaring at Susan. “Then at least one of us will win.”

At ten minutes until one the members of the murder tour assembled with their bags in the hotel lobby, still rehashing the murder mystery weekend and chatting with two of the actors, who were now out of character. Rowan Rover appeared a few minutes later, with his canvas bag slung over his shoulders, and sporting freshly laundered khaki trousers.

“Good afternoon, everybody! I see that Bernard has returned and is pulling the coach up out front. Did you enjoy the murder weekend?”

“It was quite well done,” said Kate Conway with her usual look of big-eyed sincerity.

“It could have been anybody,” Susan Cohen declared, scowling.

“And did you solve the crime?”

“We did!” cried Miriam Angel, holding up the bottle of wine that was their trophy. “Emma and I were the only ones who guessed who did it!”

“And who did it?” asked Rowan indulgently.

“Why the baron , of course!” said Miriam.

DARTMOOR

THE SUNDAY AFTERNOON drive to the next destination was a short one: seventeen miles to the edge of the Dartmoor National Park, to the Manor House Hotel, a beautiful Jacobean-style mansion nestled among the moors. Bernard maneuvered the coach up the narrow access road, past the golf course, and up to the massive stone arch that marked the entrance to the Manor House parking area. From the vantage point of a full-sized tour bus, the archway looked dangerously low and disastrously solid.

“You’ll never make it,” said Susan Cohen, surveying the obstacle from her usual seat behind the driver. “You’d have to be stupid to even try.”

Charles Warren got up and signaled for Bernard to open the coach door. He walked through the arch and, with a succession of nods and hand signals, he guided the coach through the archway with inches to spare. When he had parked in the paved lot on the side bordering the golf course, Bernard modestly acknowledged the cheers of the passengers and then climbed down to unload the suitcases.