Murder Mystery Hotel
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The hotel was one of the most expensive and luxurious in town. The lobby was decorated with expensive, gaudy artwork that looked like something out of a museum, rather than a public building – although the only people to be seen were a couple of bored-looking security men who seemed to be on permanent standby for guests coming off a long flight.
As they approached the reception desk, it became clear that the hotel was almost as exclusive as their last stop. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered around the front desk where three staff members waited patiently.
All wore white shirts, black trousers, and dark ties – an expensive suit combination that made them look more like waiters than any customer service staff. As soon as we entered, all eyes were drawn to us – including those of one of the hotel guards standing by the entrance door.
A middle-aged man stood behind the counter wearing a smart, navy blue jacket over his dress shirt and tie. His balding head was cleanly shaved and he sported a neatly trimmed beard that matched his hair perfectly. He nodded once at me before turning towards our two companions, who had just arrived in silence from the car park.
“Ah,” said the man cheerfully as he took his eyes off my companion, “you’re the detective team! Thank you very much for joining us today. I’m sure we’ll get some good answers.”
He turned back to face the crowd. “I hope everyone has had a chance to have a look around the place, but if anyone is still curious about anything, please do ask the staff. It would save me having to repeat myself every few minutes when it comes to the murder!”
There was another round of applause from the audience and he smiled.
“And now, let’s start our investigation by asking ourselves what this place means to these people. Let’s start by looking at you all – who here is a regular visitor?”
A few hands went up around the room. One was immediately pointed out as being the same woman who had been with us at our first murder mystery event. She was wearing a red jacket with matching trousers, but her shoes seemed unusually high-heeled for workwear and she appeared uncomfortable walking down the stairs. As far as I could tell, though, none of the others were familiar.
One of the security men raised a hand, then quickly lowered it again.
“Very well. What brings you all to this hotel? We know that some are regulars, while others are visiting us for the first time, so please explain your reasons.”
More hands rose up around the room. Most claimed to be regular visitors and some even mentioned their loyalty cards, which seemed strange considering the way that hotels generally treat their customers. Some said they liked the food, some loved the rooms, and others enjoyed the service. One man said he came because the pool was open early.
“What we don’t know,” the host continued as the discussion began to grow heated, “is who among us is here specifically because they think they’ve seen someone who isn’t supposed to be here. Someone who should have left hours ago, maybe, or perhaps someone who shouldn’t be allowed on the premises at all.” He turned back to me and winked.
“Now, Detective Inspector Llewellyn, why don’t you introduce yourself and tell us how it is that this murder might actually happen?”
We followed the host into a brightly lit dining area, where a dozen or so tables stood in a horseshoe arrangement around the center of the floor. There was no carpet, just wooden planks that showed signs of wear and tear.
The walls were decorated with abstract artwork and there was an array of plants and flowers along the window sills, creating a welcoming atmosphere, despite the fact that most of the lights looked as old and tired as those on the street outside.
The whole place had an air of neglect and disorganization that reminded me of a restaurant owned by a slightly eccentric old man who’d run it alone for too many years without ever bothering to replace any of the furniture or buy new bulbs for the chandeliers.
In places the paintwork had worn away from the corners of the table tops, leaving a patchy effect in its wake. Even the chairs were mismatched.
But there was no mistaking the effort that had gone into making the place look nice. Everything about it suggested that someone really cared about the decor. The staff wore bright red jackets and matching trousers, whereas the guests were dressed conservatively in grey suits and dresses, with the women often sporting large gold jewelry and elaborate hairstyles.
They spoke quietly amongst themselves and avoided eye contact with one another.
The host led us to a small table against the wall opposite a large window and told us we could take our seats there. A waiter came forward and handed out menus, then retreated to collect orders. I sat down next to Emma, who gave me a smile and a nod but kept her attention on the room.
I looked around. Everyone else seemed to be sitting down with their drinks. But I hadn’t taken a sip from mine yet, so I followed suit. Then I pulled my phone from my pocket and scrolled through my messages for the tenth time since we’d arrived.
My thumb hovered above a message from Nick telling me that he was already in his seat waiting for us, as promised. And then I realized something: I couldn’t find the camera app on my phone. At all.
My head started pounding and my heart thumped wildly in my chest as I tried to remember how I’d set it. I checked under the menu and behind the napkin holder, but still nothing. Finally, I glanced across at Emma, who was staring intently at a tall dark-haired woman who was speaking softly to one of the waiters.
As soon as she spotted me watching her, she looked away, but not before giving me a slight nod. Was this what the killer did? Staring at his victims until they knew exactly when to strike?
He’d obviously done his homework. Or maybe Emma had. Either way, I didn’t like it. Not one bit.
The waiter returned shortly after we’d ordered and collected our plates, then hurried off. I studied him carefully. He seemed to be the only person in the entire hotel that had put effort into looking neat and tidy, although there was certainly less of him than I expected from an average waiter.
He wasn’t wearing a bow tie or anything fancy like that, but there was a faint scent of soap in the air. Perhaps that explained it—he’d bathed recently, which meant he was probably fresh-faced.
And now, as if he had read my mind, the waiter appeared again, holding a tray bearing two more glasses, plus a single wine bottle between his fingertips. This time the wine bottles looked older and worn, but the rest of him looked perfectly clean and fresh.
He approached the table, set my glass down in front of me, then placed a white cloth over the top of the cutlery on the table. The moment he’d walked away, the waiter who’d been serving us came past, carrying four more glasses and setting them down with an apologetic smile. It made sense: he must have served us before and the manager would want everyone’s drink order known.
When I turned back to my food, I saw that Emma had finished hers. She was studying me with an appraising expression, her head cocked slightly to one side as she chewed the last mouthful of pasta. Her expression had changed completely; gone was the casual friendliness from before and in its place was suspicion and caution.
“So are you going to tell me?” she said. “What did you do at the hospital today?”
She didn’t even ask me first. Maybe it wasn’t a question, but a demand.
Forcing myself to ignore the throbbing pain in my temple and the tightness in my chest, I reached for a slice of bread, took a deep breath, and forced myself to meet her gaze. Emma had always been direct.
I was used to people trying to avoid asking too many questions because the answers usually came out as criticism and judgment. Emma was different. If she asked a question, it was because she wanted to know.
“We found some things,” I began. “Some very interesting stuff.”
I paused. Emma nodded encouragingly.
“You see, we went down to the morgue…”
***
After a week of searching, police officers finally caught up with John Paul O’Connor, just three days after he killed his mother-in-law. The news spread fast among the residents of Cumbrae. They knew John well: as far as they were concerned, he was a respected local businessman, a man with no history of violence.
But they hadn’t counted on him being able to hide the fact he had a long-term mental disorder so well that even he himself wasn’t aware of it. And now he’d finally confessed to murdering. In court, he pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity.
His lawyer argued that his client was suffering from a chronic mental illness, which had caused him to commit the heinous act. The prosecution disagreed; the defense team had been unable to produce any medical records to prove that he suffered from such an illness.
So, after months of debate, and two trials, the jury finally acquitted O’Connor and sentenced him instead to the lesser charge of manslaughter.
The judge ruled that John would be sent to a psychiatric institution for five years. After that, he’d serve an additional fifteen-year prison sentence for the crime of which he was actually convicted. There wasn’t much justice in this case. The system had failed, but at least the murderer had finally admitted to what he’d done. That alone could make life easier for some of those involved.
John would be sent to a psychiatric facility to undergo treatment and hopefully learn to control his impulses. The doctors had warned that his condition might worsen over time, especially once he was released into society again, but if they treated him effectively and early enough, perhaps this was something that could be cured.
A small part of me hoped that was true, even though I wasn’t sure it was fair to say so. John had done what he’d done, and he’d paid a heavy price. Now, maybe, it was time to let him go.
But if he really was ill, then it couldn’t all be taken care of easily. I wondered how many people had slipped through the cracks because their conditions weren’t obvious enough for others to notice. How many more were out there?
“I’m sorry.” Emma was still watching me intently, her eyes full of concern. “About your dad, I mean. I wish there was more I could have done to help him.”
Emma’s father had died in the early hours of Monday morning. He’d fallen down the stairs and broken his neck when he fell; there was no way anyone could have seen that coming. But I knew why: he had drunk himself into unconsciousness until he passed out on Sunday afternoon. Then he must have climbed the stairs later in the night while sleeping.
It seemed strange that Emma had managed to get home from work during daylight, only to arrive back at the hospital around midnight or so.
“Don’t worry about it,” I repeated the same line I’d given my wife. “He wouldn’t want us to feel sorry for him, and I certainly don’t. I’m just glad he isn’t suffering anymore.”
“I can’t imagine what you went through,” she said quietly. “Not knowing what was happening. Not being able to see him before… I think my dad was dead for at least an hour before I even realized it. It’s hard to believe, considering how healthy he is normally.
I guess that’s one good thing about having a drink or two before bedtime—it makes you feel like you’re ready to face the day again without a hangover. I bet that never happened to your dad.”
I nodded, although I didn’t answer. I couldn’t tell Emma about my dad, not yet anyway. When I spoke with my own family, I needed them to remember him for who he was: a kind, gentle man who loved his family dearly and always tried to make the best of what he had.
Not for everyone else to hear about his drinking habits or, worse, to learn that he’d left us all behind. Dad would have wanted it that way, especially if it meant his children would continue to love him despite the problems he’d brought upon them.
The End