Murder Mystery Dinner Boston
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The other night I was invited to attend the Murder Mystery Dinner at a local restaurant. The invitation came from an old friend who had moved back into town, and we hadn’t seen each other in years; so it seemed like a good idea. I mentioned it to my wife, but she didn’t seem interested.
But when I told her that the tickets were only $25 per person, including dinner with all the trimmings, she agreed that it sounded like a nice way for us to spend a Sunday evening.
We arrived at the restaurant early to make sure everything went smoothly. We signed up for our costumes (it was Halloween weekend) and found seats by the window where we could watch people passing on Tremont Street. It wasn’t long before one of those passersby caught my eye—a very pretty young woman dressed as a ghost.
She looked quite fetching in her black dress and white face paint, and I couldn’t help but stare at her. Then, just as she was about to walk down the street, she turned around and smiled at me. My heart raced. For some reason, I thought maybe she recognized me too!
I tried to act casual until she left, then asked my date if she’d noticed what had happened. “Yes,” she said, “but you’ve been staring at her for ages.”
“No, really!” I insisted, “Didn’t she turn around and smile at you?”
She shrugged. “Maybe she’s doing it to everyone in the place.”
The show started right after dessert, which consisted of pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream. While the actors prepared their characters, I decided to ask my wife how she felt about ghosts. She explained that although she believed they existed, she didn’t believe in them because she didn’t want to. When I suggested there might be something worse than death, she clammed up.
Soon enough, the murder mystery began. My wife went off with one of her friends, leaving me alone with my new friend, whom I liked even more now. I told him he must have been surprised to see me at the restaurant since I’d never done anything like this before.
“It’s not every day that someone invites a ghost to attend a murder mystery dinner!” he laughed.
At that moment, my wife returned with another couple and sat down next to me. Her friend said, “Have fun!” and gave me a hug. Soon enough, the lights dimmed, and the actor portraying Sherlock Holmes walked onto the stage, followed by his assistant Watson, who was played by my new friend.
He turned out to be a brilliant actor; so much so that the audience was soon convinced that he was indeed Sherlock Holmes and that Watson was merely his assistant. The plot unfolded; the clues were revealed. And when it ended, the murderer was exposed. Most of the guests applauded.
But not all of us. Some clapped, but others just glared at the murderer. As the lights slowly rose, the murderer stood up and took off his wig and gloves. His name was Paul; and in real life he was no longer wearing a wig or gloves, which made sense since he was dead. All of us were startled, especially me, because I’d been so close to him.
My wife had been sitting next to me throughout the whole thing, but now she got up and stormed over to the table where I’d met Paul. “You’re such an idiot,” she yelled at me. “How could you fall for that? How could you let yourself get drawn in?”
I apologized, and she replied, “Don’t bother! I’m embarrassed to be here with you. You should have known better!”
Then she turned away and left me standing there alone. I knew she would have nothing to do with me ever again. So, with only my new friend for company, I left the restaurant, not knowing if I’d ever return. But I did. Three days later. And two weeks after that. Each time I asked the hostess for the bill, she’d say, “Oh, you don’t owe us any money. We’ve already paid it for you.”
And each time, without fail, I thanked her, and we parted ways.
One night, about six months after the first time I’d attended a Murder Mystery Dinner, I ran into Paul and Watson, who were seated at the same table. I invited them to join us. They accepted, and we enjoyed a pleasant evening together. At the end of the dinner, Watson gave me a little gift. It was a small silver locket attached to a chain.
“For your wife,” he said.
When I opened it, I saw the picture inside: it was my wife. This time, however, she was smiling.
***
One afternoon in the spring, I took my wife to a diner near Boston Common, where we enjoyed a delicious lunch. Afterward, we decided to take a walk through the park. We wandered along the duck pond, then passed under the elms on Beacon Street. We stopped at the bookstore nearby and looked at books for a while. Then we headed back home.
As we approached our house, I noticed a man walking toward us from across the street. He turned out to be an old acquaintance of mine. I recognized him immediately and wondered why he hadn’t come to see me sooner.
“Hello, Harry,” he smiled. “Come meet someone.”
We crossed the street and stopped. My friend introduced us.
“Harry, this is Paul, the ghost who lives next door to you.”
Paul smiled. “Yes,” he said, “I know. I’ve seen you many times. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?”
“Of course not!” I exclaimed. “Why, you’re famous!”
He smiled. “Not exactly.”
Now that my wife and I knew the truth about Paul, she seemed perfectly comfortable talking to him. She explained that she’d once believed she was married to a ghost until I’d convinced her otherwise. Now she understood that she’d been wrong, and felt bad for treating him badly. Paul laughed and shook my hand warmly.
His wife appeared at that moment and joined us. We talked for a while. I told them how much I’d enjoyed their book. They were happy to hear it and asked if they could visit us at home. I agreed.
Several months later, Paul and I were sitting in our living room when my wife came downstairs. “Do you remember Paul’s wife?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“She died last year.”
“Really?” Paul looked shocked. “How terrible!”
“Very,” my wife replied. “They both loved to read, especially mysteries. In fact, that’s how we met.”
“What was her name?” Paul asked.
I told him. “And what was yours?” he continued. “Was it Helen?”
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t Helen.”
Paul didn’t seem surprised by my answer. “That’s too bad,” he said, shaking his head. “If you’d only asked me before, I might have known.”
The following week, Paul called my wife and invited her to the annual Halloween party being held at his house. I’d never been, but I wanted to go with her anyway. The two of us spent the afternoon making costumes. By sundown, we were ready to begin.
After saying hello to everyone at the party, I finally found Paul and asked if he remembered me.
“Of course I do!” he laughed. “You’re the ghost who lives next door!”
My wife explained about the ghost who lived next door to us, and how we’d known each other for years.
“But you still haven’t told me your name,” Paul said.
“Right,” she replied. “I forgot to tell you.”
“Well, actually, I don’t need to know. Because I know who you are now.”
“Who am I?” I insisted.
“The author of those books I love so much! You’re the one who writes the great detective stories!”
A wave of relief washed over me.
“Yes,” Paul nodded. “I’m Paul.”
***
Years went by. Life changed, and we moved away from Boston. But we often thought of Paul and his family. It saddened us to realize that we would probably never see them again, except perhaps at holiday parties like the one we’d attended in the spring.
We occasionally received Christmas cards from Paul, as well as his wife, Helen. I always wrote back, expressing how much we missed them.
Then, in early October, I got a call from a local reporter. Paul had been murdered, he said.
“Murder?” I gasped. “What happened?”
“Well, it’s not quite clear yet,” the reporter replied. “But apparently, he was shot in the back. His wife was also killed.”
My heart sank. “Oh no,” I said. “What a tragedy.”
“Yes. And they left behind three little children.”
“Three? What did they do to the kids?”
“Apparently nothing,” the reporter responded. “Police say that Paul was alone and returning home late one night when he was attacked. They think whoever it was may have followed him from a party. There’s been some talk about a possible connection with the previous murder.”
“I can’t imagine,” I said. “Poor kids.”
“Yes. That’s what police are calling them—the poor kids. It’s very sad.”
“Is there anything more?” I asked.
“Actually, yes,” the reporter said. “I just heard something interesting. A man named Harry has come forward and claimed that Paul is really alive and well. He says he’s been seeing him around town for years. He even claims that he once met Paul’s wife.”
“That’s wonderful news!” I said excitedly. “Did you mention me?”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t,” the reporter admitted. “But I’ll be sure to let you know if anything else comes up.”
The End