Dinner Party Murder Mystery

The fake mustache looked more ridiculous than I had hoped it would. I guess I had expected to see Burt Reynolds staring back at me in the mirror. Or at least a Tom Selleck. Unfortunately, it was more like looking at Weird Al in the reflection. But it was too late to do anything about it now and, besides, the evening called for a little ridiculousness. One couldn't be too proud where a dinner party murder mystery was concerned.

"God, you look..."

"Ridiculous?" I finished Carly's sentence for her and looked over toward the master bathroom, where she had been putting the finishing touches on her own costume. She wore a short white dress, an enormous fake pearl necklace and a blonde wig that evoked a young Marilyn Monroe. The dress had a low-cut sweetheart neckline and Carly's strapless push-up bra took care of the rest. I whistled. She looked incredible, every bit the sexy Old Hollywood starlet she had been assigned to play.

"Well, at least one of us looks good."

Carly sauntered over, watching me fix my cravat in the full-length mirror, examining my outfit with a critical eye. She wrapped her arms around me, resting her chin on my shoulder. I noticed the fake beauty mark she had placed above her lip. It was like she was a totally different person.

"Looks are more important to my character, I think. What are you supposed to be again? You look like a pirate Charlie Chaplin."

"Jean Luc Beauregard," I said, stepping out from her embrace and kissing her hand with a courtly bow. I had been going for something a little more debonair than pirate Charlie Chaplin, although my grandpa's old bowler hat wasn't doing me any favors. "Riverboat gambler. Raconteur. Heart breaker."

"And I'm Verna Lake," Carly said, with a shallow curtsy. "I'll do just anything to be a star. And I do mean anything."

"We don't do much film production down Louisiana way," I said, pushing through the embarrassment at hearing my awful New Orleans accent. "But if I had some friends in Los Angeles I could connect you with, what would that get me?"

"Well, I don't know. I suppose I'd suck your cock, of course." Carly made it sound so innocent. "I'd be so grateful I'd just suck you dry!"

"I'll have to make some phone calls! Ha. Did they put all that on your character card?"

I had broken character. I didn't want to wear out the accent. Carly just shrugged.

"Improvising. Maybe I've been doing some research into my character's motivations? You know. Figuring out what makes her tick. I'm not much for acting the old-fashioned way. We'll see if I can pull it off, tonight."

This wasn't going to be like one of our usual "parties." You see, Carly and I were swingers. We had been in the lifestyle for a few years, after kind of stumbling into it on a group vacation to Turks and Caicos a few years back. We were both 35 at the time, married for a decade, no kids, no plans for kids, and I guess we were just in a place where we needed something new and sustainable to spice things up. So when our friends suggested swapping after an evening of Mai Tais...

But I don't bring this up because I want to tell you how we became swingers. That's another story for another time. No, I bring it up only because this dinner party murder mystery we were going to was decidedly

not

a swingers' party. Carly had been emphatic about that.

We had been invited by Carly's friend Miranda from the local jogging club she had found on social media. We were still pretty new in town - We were getting sick of city life after watching all of our friends decamp for the suburbs - and Miranda offered to introduce us to a few of the other couples she was friends with. I had rolled my eyes when Carly suggested it. A dinner party murder mystery sounded incredibly lame, especially compared to our usual weekend exploits. We hadn't been swinging at all in the couple of months since we'd moved, and it felt like another waste of a Saturday night. But Carly worked from home, and the lack of friends - friends we didn't fuck, at least - was getting to her. So I agreed to go, and I kept my mouth shut about my reservations.

It was nice of her to pretend I had a choice!

"It'll be fun!" Carly said. "We'll have a nice evening, get to know some new people in the area, maybe make some friends."

"You mean some potential play partners?" I asked.

"You're the worst. I don't know! Maybe down the line," Carly said. "But let's not push it tonight. Let's just see if we like these people. Ok? Before we ask these nice people if they want to swap spouses and fuck? Can you do that for me? For a night?"

"I won't push it," I said, bringing back my Bayou accent. "But I can't just turn this charm off, you know."

"Keep talking like that," Carly said, kissing me on the lips, "and there will be no question of fucking anybody at all tonight."

"Well how about this," I said, holding her hand. "If we think we're feeling a vibe from someone, we can squeeze the other's hand. If the other squeezes back, it's game on. If not, it's not. Deal?"

She looked at me like I had two heads, but then started laughing when she realized I was mostly joking.

"You're incorrigible."

"I'm taking that as a yes."

#

The long gravel driveway was full of cars when we arrived and the enormous house was all lit up. I could see people milling about through one of the windows as the tires crunched the gravel, and wondered what kind of line of work someone had to be in to afford a mansion like this. When going to one of our typical parties, we'd each usually know most of the people present, but not everyone. This time, I didn't know a soul. But I shooed the butterflies away and tried to get into the spirit of my character. Jean Luc Beauregard never walked into a room he couldn't command, or met a stranger he couldn't charm.

I don't know if it was just due to conditioning, but when Miranda greeted us at the door and I saw through the expansive foyer to the living room, where everyone else was mingling, I immediately started assessing the crowd for my favorites. Yeah, yeah, I knew it wasn't

that

kind of party, but old habits die hard. Besides, just because I couldn't fuck them didn't mean I couldn't

want

to fuck them.

There was the petite brunette in the flapper dress and gloves, sucking on a long, plastic cigarette bat and shaking her skinny hips left and right, sending the sequined tassels on her dress into bouncy fits. She alternated between snarling like a femme fatale and giggling like a schoolgirl. Quite the delightful little spinner. I liked her energy. She seemed spunky.

There was the thick redhead in a too-tight maid outfit, the kind that looked like it came in a plastic bag from one of those discount party stores. She wasn't shy about her body, that was for sure. She must have been wearing a corset underneath her uniform, because there was no way a cheap Halloween costume like that provided that much shape and lift. Her cleavage was outrageous, and her thighs looked like they could crush a man's head. If I wasn't careful with the booze, I'd be trying to bury my face in there at the first opportunity. Either upstairs or downstairs.

In between those two extremes there was a dirty blonde in a prim party dress, with covered shoulders and short frilly sleeves. It gave off Little House on the Prairie vibes, and betrayed no hint of the figure underneath. Her face was very handsome, framed by dark brown eyebrows and high cheekbones. She looked less comfortable than the others, forcing smiles and laughs, clutching her drink with both hands. She seemed like she'd rather be anywhere else. Despite her outfit being less sexy or suggestive than the others, she was the prettiest woman at the party by some distance. I could have kept staring there for hours if Carly hadn't elbowed me to step inside.

And of course there was our hostess herself. Miranda looked a little older, a little bigger than the pictures Carly had shown me - who didn't at our age - but she was wildly attractive if you had a thing for preppy, athletic girls. She had freckles and jet-black hair that she wore down to the middle of her strong back, wavy and full of bounce. She also had by far the nicest outfit of the ladies, Carly included: a floor-length strapless dress made of folded blue satin that flared out at her luscious hips before tapering off tight to her legs. If you can picture a freckled, black-haired Jessica Rabbit on prom night, you wouldn't be too far off the mark. Awooga!

"Miranda, that dress!" Carly exclaimed as we handed her our coats in the foyer. "I feel like you downplayed how dressy this was supposed to be!"

"It's a bit much," Miranda said. "But it's my party, and besides, when else am I gonna wear this thing? My character is the lady of the manor, Arabella Standish. So it's not totally out of the question that I'd be wearing this."

"Well Ms. Standish," I said, breaking out the drawl again. "It is an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance. I do declare your beauty exceeds your reputation. Jean Luc Beauregard, at your service. At your every beck and call."

Miranda laughed and held out her hand, which I kissed with a big, wet smack. I grinned at Carly, who was too busy rolling her eyes to notice.

"He's been like this all night," Carly said. "I hope you know what you're in for."

"I love it! We need someone to get everyone out of their shells. Help everyone get into character."

Miranda led us into the living room and introduced us to the other guests. The flapper was Ava, and her husband was Scott, who was dressed like a vintage golf caddy. He had a powerful handshake and skim milk levels of body fat. The maid was Nichole, whose husband Greg wore a police uniform from the same Halloween store his wife had shopped at. Greg was about a quarter of Nichole's size, and looked pleased as pie to be standing next to someone as voluptuous as his wife. The blonde Miss Prim was Lucy, and I missed her husband's name because for one, he was off at the bar refilling his drink with Miranda's husband, and for two: I was too busy scanning her dress's silhouette for a hint of her shape. If wanting to know what someone looked like naked was any kind of sign, then it would have been fair to say that Lucy was my favorite. I couldn't keep my eyes off of her.

But of course, it wasn't that kind of party.

Lucy's husband Rob and Miranda's husband Patrick rejoined the group with fresh drinks in hand. Rob wore a suit and a trench coat, like some kind of Al Capone cosplay, while Patrick looked sharp in a smoking jacket, dark slacks and velvet slippers. Patrick looked like your garden variety hedge fund type, with Ivy League good looks and slicked back hair. He looked like the kind of guy who lived in a house like this.

Carly introduced herself, as Carly, and I introduced myself as none other than the notorious riverboat gambler Jean Luc Beauregard. That drew polite laughter from the crowd, and everyone excitedly talked over each other to announce their character names as well, like they had just remembered they were supposed to be roleplaying. Everyone except for Lucy, that is, who just kept that same pained look on her face, trying and failing to smile through it.

"I'm Jack Hoffman," Rob said, slurring his speech somewhat. "Get it?! Jack... off... man?!"

He got a big kick out of that, and the others' silence was telling. The ladies besides Carly shot Lucy a knowing look, and I started to understand the situation a little better. Hardly the first time I'd seen a woman embarrassed by her alcoholic husband. I made a note of that.

#

"Alright, well, we're all here," Miranda said, sparing everyone the awkward silence that followed Rob's remarks. "Let's get started!"

Miranda handed out a series of envelopes with our character names on them, and explained the rules of the game. In each envelope was a series of questions we needed to ask the other guests, along with a handful of relevant facts to the case that each of our characters secretly knew. In the first round, we had an hour to find as many answers to our questions as we could, writing down facts about the other guests in order to start generating clues. In the second round, we'd get a new envelope, new questions and clues, and one of us would learn that we were the killer.

"Wait," Ava said. "But who gets killed?"

"Oh shoot!" Miranda said, running in short, shuffled steps back to the game box and producing a large piece of cardstock, on which bold writing could be seen. The flared bits on her dress bounced and floated as she hustled away, and Carly elbowed me when she caught me gawking. I nudged her back. Maybe I couldn't play, tonight, but I could hardly be expected not to

look

!

"As you all gather for your feast at Standish Manor, a bloodcurdling scream rings out from the halls beyond. You run - just pretend, don't actually run - you run to the sound where you find the body of Bartholomew Standish lying on the ground." Miranda pointed at her husband and shooed him off. It seemed unfair that he should be excluded from the game before it had even begun, but then he returned to the scene with a stuffed effigy in a tuxedo t-shirt, and threw it down in the middle of our little circle.

"No!" Miranda cried out, with mock devastation. "My husband! Who could have done such a thing?!"

"He was making moves on my best girl," Pat said, grinning. "I say he got what he deserved."

"I'm not your best girl in the game, hon," Miranda said. "My husband is dead. And I'm in mourning, so don't get any ideas. Ok, where was I... right. The murderer must still be on the premises! It may even be one of your fellow guests." Miranda shot accusatory looks around the group, and we all demurred. "It's up to you to figure out

whodunnit

, before the killer strikes again..."

Miranda threw the card back in the box, and tore open her envelope. The rest of us did the same, eager to dive in and see how we would go about learning the killer's identity. I didn't expect my card would call for an intense, one-on-one interrogation of Lucy, maybe a strip search to be sure she wasn't hiding any evidence under that dress, but I wouldn't have been mad if it did. I'd even change my mind about dinner party murder mysteries altogether.

"Wait," Greg said. "Do you know who the killer is, Miranda?"

"Nope," Miranda said. "It's sealed in an envelope. I have no idea. It could even be me..."

"Hon, aren't you forgetting something?" Patrick asked.

"Hmm? Oh yeah! Ok, so, there are prizes! Yay! We're going to vote on best costume, best role playing" - I stroked my mustache in Carly's general direction - "and best detective work. The prizes are one-year memberships to Olympic Fitness!"

"Wow, thanks Pat," Lucy said, speaking for the first time since I had walked in. I gathered Pat must have done the prize procurement. But I was mostly interested in Lucy's apparent taste for fitness memberships. It suggested the contents of her dress might be to my liking, as if I could have been any more keen on seeing them.

"Don't thank me yet," Pat joked, smiling at me when I caught his eye. "I plan to rig the voting."

#

I reviewed my questions and facts, which I was disappointed but unsurprised to see involved significantly fewer strip searches than I'd hoped, and tried to get a peek at Carly's. She turned away from me, tut tutting. I decided to start easy and ask my wife the first question.

"So, darlin'... how did you know our poor, unfortunate host?" I asked.

"Oh, I guess our questions are all the same. Well. Mr. Standish was going to set me up with a big Hollywood studio! We were going to leave for California tomorrow morning, after the party, leaving his wife behind and everything. Oh, I've just always wanted to be in the pictures, ever since I was a little girl. I don't know what I'll do, now. "

"I've heard there may be ways for beautiful girls like you to get ahead in Hollywood."

Carly smacked me with her cards.

"Why I'm sure I don't know what you mean. I'm just an innocent girl from Lincoln, Nebraska. What do I know of Hollywood, and pleasing all the powerful men there?"

"Did somebody say pleasuring powerful men?" Ava asked, leaning in to our conversation. "Sounds like a gas. Count me in!"

"And how did you know Mr. Standish," Carly asked. "Miss..."

"Holly Foxtrot," Ava said, striking a pose. "Party girl extraordinaire."

Ava lifted her arms dramatically, exposing her smooth, shaven armpits. She lifted one foot up on her toes, and her short, sequined dress rode up the straight leg. Ava was living proof a woman didn't need crazy curves to be sexy. She was absolutely smoldering.

"You do seem like quite the extraordinary party girl, Miss Foxtrot," I said. "You know, I'm something of an expert on the subject."

"Is that so? Well, I don't know what backwater you come from, buster, but I promise you've never met a girl like me."

Ava pretended to blow smoke in my direction, and I made a big show of inhaling it.

"Well golly, Holly," Carly said, with that doe-eyed innocence she had mastered. "I wish I had

your

confidence. You two seem like fast friends already."

Ava pretended to take another drag off her cigarette bat. "All my friends are fast, toots."

With that, Ava sashayed off to talk to some others. Carly and I looked at each other quizzically. Had she also picked up on Ava's vibe? Or were we imagining things? Or was Ava just that good an actress? Her character was a prohibition-era flapper, after all. It wouldn't do her any favors in the roleplaying contest to play it straight.

Should I grab Carly's hand and squeeze it right then and there?

I learned a lot about the other characters, moving around the room, quizzing them and being quizzed in return. Everyone seemed to have some sort of arrangement with Mr. Standish. Could he have tried to back out of one of these deals? Would that be enough of a motivation for murder?

I discovered that Pat's character Danny had been some sort of a business partner with the deceased, and their new venture was just about to take off. I found out Greg's character Sergeant Franklin was investigating a disappearance for Mr. Standish, and had just gotten a break in the case before his untimely demise. I learned that Nichole's character Genevieve had just been hired as the maid at Standish Manor, and Nichole hinted at the possibility of an illicit romance between her and the master of the house with a coquettish shake of her ample breasts.

"Monsieur was so kind to me always," Nichole said, in an accent about as terrible as my own.

"Well, it's easy to see why. There's a whole lot to like about you,

cherie

."

Nichole tittered, turning her head to locate her distracted husband before gently squeezing her breasts together with her arms. Maybe it had been incidental, but the effect was tremendous. From this distance, I could make out faint blue veins running down into her tight uniform. She looked about ready to pop.

"Ah, yes, the maid," Miranda said, sneaking up behind me, and resting her chin on my shoulder. "My husband isn't exactly subtle with his tastes."

"Madame," Nichole exclaimed, placing her hand on her cleavage and feigning shock. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Jealousy is a powerful motive, Ms. Standish," I said, turning to the hostess. "You'd hardly be the first wife to off her man after catching him in the arms of another woman."

"Oh, please," Miranda said, with a casual flip of her hair. "Bartie had his little flings. Everybody knew. As long as he let me have mine..." She cast a glance toward Pat, who winked at her while Ava and Greg interrogated him.

"You certainly maintain a lively household, Ms. Standish!"

"Call me Bella," Miranda said, tilting her head back, exposing her long, freckled neck. "Everybody does."