A Slap Dash Mystery

I was toting my laundry back to the room when I noticed the throng gathered down the hall. It wasn't in my way at all. In fact, I was right outside my room already. But, I had to see what the fuss was all about. I'm just that way.

I recognized a couple of the faces in the crowd. Mystery writers. Like me, only they were published and I wasn't. They were the lucky ones, the ones that had the time to devote to the calling. I didn't. Hadn't for a long time, now. But I could dream. And that was why I was at the hotel for the writers' convention, hoping for some tips to get me in the door, so to speak.

As I neared, lugging my laundry like a complete moron, I overheard snippets of conversation that buzzed between them.

"It's so bizarre, isn't it?" one asked.

"Lot's of blood, that's for sure," commented another.

"But where did it all come from?" another chimed in. "There isn't even any body!"

Well, that was interesting! Still, I could think of a lot of reasons for there to be a lot of blood and no body. Well, one, anyway. I couldn't figure out how they didn't consider it, though.

"And that creepy doll!" someone gasped from deeper inside the throng. "What's that all about?"

Okay, now I really wanted to see that room! I used the basket as a battering ram to ease the others out of the way as I squeezed myself into the room. The first thing I noticed was the severe lack of furniture. Someone had removed the bed, the armoire, and all the tables and chairs that normally went with the space. In their place, they had left a small folding table, about four feet square or so, and two folding chairs. The table was cluttered with poker chips and cards, as if someone had been playing a game. In the middle of it stood a whiskey bottle, half-full, and in the far chair, facing the door, was an old rag doll, its chest cut open and the wound covered in blood. Blood had pooled under the chair, and as I walked around the scene, I spotted the murder weapon laying nearby, a knife with a polished wood handle and a wide, short, curvy blade. The way it lay suggested it was discarded in a hurry, but not thrown.

There were others in the room doing the same thing as me, checking out the scene. More writers, who all probably knew more about this sort of thing than I did. I slipped past them as I moved around the scene; they were all going in the wrong direction, but I was too polite to point it out, unlike most of them, who even had the audacity to cluck at me indignantly.

Then, someone was calling out, "Folks, please stand aside. Stand back, please! Thank you!"

I turned and saw a man dressed in a green business suit, black shirt, and green tie, shoulder his way through the bottle-neck at the doorway. His shoes were shiny and black. His gold name tag read, "Mr. Granger. Concierge." The two following close on his heels were police officers.

"Is this the way you found it?" asked the first one as soon as she saw the room. The other officer moved everyone against the walls. I was pushed up against a tall, athletic type in a turtleneck sweater and khakies. He looked like one of those pretty-boys that worked the glamor muscles while ignoring his core. Real Tik-Tok material. I decided I didn't like him.

"One of the guests found it," Mr. Granger answered. "The door was wide open!"

"Who's staying in the room right now?" the officer asked.

"That's the thing," Mr. Granger told her. "No one is. There's an issue with the HVAC, so we took it out of inventory to get it fixed."

"Don't blame you," the other officer replied. "It's like an ice box in here!"

I hadn't noticed it until the man said it, but it was incredibly cold in there. Colder than it was outside. The AC had to be stuck on, I reasoned. But why wasn't I hearing it?

The officer took note, but that was about it. Then she asked, "Does anyone else have a key to this room?"

"Only about half the staff," Mr. Granger wryly replied. He hastily added, "But none of the guests."

"'None of the guests'," the officer jotted down out loud. Then she looked at the table and said, "Must have taken a while to set this up. Anyone complain of any noise or unusual activity?"

"No," Mr. Granger told her. "No one. And I have guests in the adjoining rooms!"

"And you're sure no one could get in here at all?" the officer probed. "Not even accidentally?"

"No, that would be impossible!" Mr. Granger assured her.

I saw her jot things down, but I was pretty sure she wouldn't do anything about it. Meanwhile, pretty-boy was drooling all over the proceedings, watching everything with the fascination of a ten-year-old. I half-expected him to tell me how cool he thought everything was.

The officers looked the table over, checked out the blood and the knife, finally coming to the doll. One of then even picked it up, checked it back and front, then tossed it back on the chair. I cursed them for destroying evidence. While I was glaring at their reckless behavior, the pretty-boy remarked, "Pretty cool, huh?"

I pitied whoever it was the man had chosen to talk to, but that was about it. My attention was riveted on what evidence the officers weren't currently destroying. They even touched the blood, rubbing it between their fingers like they do on TV. A waste of time! They should have taken a sample to run tests on! And, when they were done with that, they turned to Mr. Granger with the assessment I knew they would deliver.

"Just like on TV!" Pretty-boy avidly told someone. At that point, I had to know who was putting up with him like that. But when I turned, I found out he was talking to me!

"Well, sir," the officer told Mr. Granger, "I don't think there's anything else we can do for you here. It doesn't look like any law's been broken, and -!"

"No law's been broken?" the concierge demanded heatedly. "The furnishings in this room are gone! Stolen! And what about this mess? Vandalism! That's still a crime, isn't it?"

"Look, sir," the officer replied, sounding tired and a bit fed up. "This just looks like an elaborate prank, nothing more. Maybe for Halloween, or something. I think if you question the staff that have keys to this room, you'll find your prankster.

"If you need any other assistance, just call the station," she added, steering her partner out the door. Mr. Granger followed, telling them that they haven't heard the last of this, and demanding their badge numbers. You know, the cliche Karen things.

The other writers must have mutually decided the same thing as the police, or came up with a similar conclusion, because most began to filter out after the three. A few remained in the room to gawk, but I figured that, in their minds, the scene had become just a morbid curiosity, and nothing more. Why didn't they see what I did? How could they miss it?

"They shouldn't leave the scene of a crime like that!" I muttered aloud, moving in on the table to salvage what I could of the evidence at hand.

"Crime scene?" Pretty-boy excitedly asked, and I could hear him following me. "This is real?"

"What's real?" one of the lingerers demanded, and Pretty-boy replied, "This! It's a real murder!"

"What are you talking about?: another demanded, and the first one said, "How do you know?"

I was checking out the table's contents when I felt a tapping on my shoulder. Then, Pretty-boy leaned in and whispered, "How do you know this is for real?"

"Besides all the blood?" I asked, peeved. The last thing I needed was some neanderthal breathing down my neck.

"Yeah," he replied, undaunted by my attitude. In fact, he sounded too excited to contain himself.

"It's too elaborate," I pointed out. "The half-full whiskey bottle, the two shot glasses. The placement of all these chips; it's not deliberate. It took an entire game to get this way. And the weirdness of it all. I mean, who plays poker with tarot cards?"

"Are those tarrow cards?" he asked bluntly. He stumbled over the word.

"Okay, maybe not," I admitted. "But look at the suits. Hearts, moons, stars, clovers, and diamonds. Where'd they get it, out of a Lucky Charms box?"

"I like Lucky Charms," Pretty-boy told me.

"Good for you," I replied. "But five suits? Where do you get a deck of cards with five suits, anyway?"

"Google?" Pretty-boy ventured.

"Okay, probably," I relented, annoyed. "And then, there's the doll. Entry wound in the chest, no exit wound in the back, so whoever was stabbed, with that knife down there I might add, wasn't holding the doll when they were killed. And they weren't using it as a shield, either. There's only one explanation for that."

"What?" Pretty-boy asked, hanging onto my every word. Damn him for feeding my ego!

"The doll is the victim," I told him.

"But where did the blood come from?" Pretty-boy demanded in confusion.

"I would presume it came from the doll," I huffed. Man, was he being dumb on purpose?

Pretty-boy was quiet for a moment, and I thought he was finally going to go away. Instead, he said, "You can't get blood from dolls."

Finally, he was getting it!

"Exactly!" I told him. I was glad he was finally getting it, but he was getting annoying, too. I tried to ignore him as I perused the table some more, but it wasn't long before he was tapping me on the shoulder again.

"Then why is there so much blood?" he asked me.

I took a deep breath to keep myself calm and told him, "Because, before the doll was a doll, it was a person."

He was quiet, but still leaning in close, so I turned to him just to see how much of it was actually getting through to him. He looked completely lost. So, I told him, "A living, breathing person. Full of blood."

He digested that for a while, then said, "But isn't that a little crazy?"

I figured he might say that. Anyone else would have, too. That's why I usually keep these sorts of things to myself. I didn't ask him to become my sounding board, anyway, did I? No! So, it's not my fault if he just doesn't get it!

I ignored him for a while, and got the last tidbits out of the scene before I straightened up. The small of my back protested vehemently. Lately, it hasn't liked it when I bend over for too long or sit in the same position for too long. Actually, it protests my getting out of bed, too. I might have to see someone about that. Maybe they could get it to cooperate more often.

"How did the person become a doll?" Pretty-boy asked. I was so far ahead at that point, it took a moment to back-track through the facts so I could answer his question.

"I don't know," I told him. "A spell, maybe? Maybe something to do with the cards? Maybe a wrinkle in the fabric of the universes? Any number of ways."

"Is that even possible?" Pretty-boy gasped in wonder, his eyes wide with the possibilities.

I shrugged. "I've seen stranger."

"You have?" he asked incredulously.

"Yeah," I told him. I didn't bother to elaborate. Let him remain in suspense.

"Well," I said, picking up my laundry basket from where I left it at the side of the room. "This has been fun!"

"Where are you going?" Pretty-boy asked me as I headed for the door.

"I've got clothes to fold," I told him.

"What about the body?" he called after me. "What about the murder?"

"Murder?" one of the authors echoed, his ears pricking up.

"Body?" another responded just as avidly.

I wanted to reply, but suddenly, Pretty-boy was mobbed by the lingerers, demanding to know what he was talking about and asking him to walk them through the scene. I was pretty sure he would be fine with that, so I left. Besides, no one was really taking it seriously. No one seemed to care that someone died and the murder was covered up with magic. But I did. And there was a lot of Googling I had to do in order to solve the case.