Greetings gentle readers! You are about to embark on a journey that will take place over the course of several months (in fact, I plan to make this last the entire year). That’s right–a mystery revealed in slow chunks over the course of 12 months in which I hope to have a complete novel. There will be minimal editing so bear with me as nothing will be perfect. This is a writing experiment at its core–a challenge I hope you will enjoy. And now, let the show begin. -G.M. Stevens
ONE – A UNWELCOME GUEST
The Hotel Rivendale is a “boutique” hotel located deep in the countryside near Rye, a town about two hours away from London. It is a hotel that sits on a beautiful sloping hill, with rolling green lawns and a long drive that is dotted with several trees. It is the destination to go to if you are trying to live a reclusive lifestyle but still maintain the standards of home that the rich and famous are accustomed to.
A full suite of chefs and butlers are employed year round to attend to their every need during their stay–ensuring that guests needn’t worry about such trivial details as ordering food or ensuring that their clothes were neatly pressed and ready for a day full of relaxation. Guests need only press a golden button in their room to notify the staff of their needs–day or night. The owner of the establishment, Arnold Callaway, prided himself on every single detail being absolutely immaculate– and the customer was always right.
Which made things rather difficult for the Hotel Manager, Amelia Fletcher. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure how she had gotten here. After graduating from university, she had wandered aimlessly for a few years–working in a curry restaurant, taking odd jobs as a freelancer–before her friend who worked in hospitality suggested this gig. Arnold Callaway had taken a risk on her, and grateful to him, she tried her best to make things work. Unfortunately, her capacity to handle only a few things at a time led her to having a short fuse.
Which is why the customer always being right…was difficult. Rich people were simply a different class of people and demanded things to be the way they wanted. Just the other day one of her cooks had burnt the corner of a waffle slightly too much and a banker went on a tirade for several minutes, claiming that “there was no way he could now concentrate on work with a ruined meal.” She stressed the details too much, taking things very personally, and therefore had no real friends to speak of at work.
Callaway stood before her, a clipboard in his neatly manicured hands, with a wrinkled shirt. He had a disheveled look about him and Amelia noticed that his hair was greasy, sweat running down his brow to his angled cheekbones. He was nervous.
“Okay, what is it?” she said.
Callaway looked up from his clipboard and began to chew on a cigar with abandon. She shuddered inside. Gross.
“Amelia, I haven’t told you all of the details for a reason, because I know how you can get.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about,” she said, pursing her lips.
“You get way into the weeds sometimes. Overthink things.”
“I would prefer to know what the hell is going on,” she said slowly. “So that I may actually do my job.”
Callaway sighed a deep sigh that rivaled many before it.
“It’s Jonathan Hyde. He’s hosting the event.”
She had to stop her eyeballs from involuntarily rolling backward into my skull. Of course it was Jonathan Hyde.
Hyde was a bestselling author of several mystery thrillers…Death in Cabo, The Deranged Man, and perhaps the most famous book of them all: St. Christopher’s Cross. They all featured a generic, bland detective who apparently smoked thirty packs of cigs a day, drank far more than a human liver could ever logically handle, and had catch phrases such as “We Bloody Got’em…again.” Amelia had never understood the allure of the books–frankly, they were rather drab and boring. The detective would always solve the case at the very end with some sort of half-thought-out solution, and he always got the girl. Always. He was like James Bond but a thousand times duller.
“Okay,” she said coming out of her deep well of thought. “What is the event?”
He paused, battling internally whether it was worth arguing, before handing her a piece of paper.
The paper was thick like parchment, and the text was shiny; it looked like it was written in golden ink, with tidy lines drawn in an elaborate border around what Amelia now realized was an invitation:
To my humble friends, I wish to play a game
Let’s play…murder.
Join me at the Hotel Rivendale on 13/2/2023 at 6 PM sharp, and Enjoy The Show
JONATHAN HYDE
N.Y. Times Bestseller, James Beard Winner, Best Murder Mystery Author of the Decade – The Times
Amelia handed it back.
“So, what, is this a book signing or something?” she said.
Callaway bit his lip. “No…it’s ah, a little more involved than that.”
The front door to the hotel opened and a man in a crisp linen suit walked to the front desk, deciding for some reason to ring the bell–even though both Callaway and Amelia were clearly standing right there.
“Greetings. I am the organizer for this weekend.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. “I am James Peabody. Where am I allowed to set up?”
“Setup?” said Amelia, blankly.
“Oh, right this way, Mr. Peabody. You will have the whole ballroom.” said Callaway, gesturing down the hallway from the desk.
Mr. Peabody nodded and snapped his fingers. Two men opened the door and suddenly a stream of people holding chairs, tables, linens, and more burst in, startling Amelia. It was as if the circus had just moved in and it was suddenly chaos.
One of her regulars, a couple from Spain descended the grand staircase that led to the upper floors, looking shocked at the commotion. “Mr. and Mrs. Serrano–I’m so sorry, but–”
“Oh, it’s for the Murder Mystery Party, isn’t it? I can’t wait!” said Mr. Serrano. Mrs. Serrano was beaming, clearly excited.
“The WHAT?” shouted Amelia.
~
It was now evening, and Amelia was in Callaway’s office, fuming.
“I’m responsible for a Murder Mystery Party this weekend?! There’s no one else here! All of the other managers are out sick…you’re on vacation in Majorca…”
Callaway was looking sheepishly at her. “Listen, not that we’re hurting for money, but this is great exposure. When Mr. Hyde rang–”
“Mr. Hyde is a fucking hack,” said Amelia, sharply. “His writing is so boring…and–”
“Amelia. We’ve talked about the language–”
“Fuck off. You don’t have to deal with this. How many guests are going to be here?”
“It’s…it’s ah… a full house.”
Amelia froze and then began rubbing her temples. “I’m sorry, what?”
“All of them are booked,” laughed Callaway nervously, his eyes darting around and refusing to make eye contact with her. “All 50 rooms, it’s really quite something –”
“You picked a hell of a time to take a vacation,” she said, storming out of the room.
The hotel was in absolute bedlam. Peabody had been barking orders all afternoon. She had never seen so many people, arguably an army of people descend upon the hotel in a manner such as this before. Peeking into the ballroom, it had been completely transformed. Rows and rows of round tables dotted the room covered with deep maroon tablecloths. A single candle sat in the center, ringed with immaculate, bone-white china that sparkled in the low light. In the very back of the room, far away but somehow still massive was a stage that had been erected with flickering incandescent lights illuminating the wooden deck that rose out of the ground.
She began walking towards the stage, wanting to see exactly what she would be having to deal with that night. To her left, out of the shadows, Peabody appeared as if out thin air.
“Hello. I am sorry for all of the mess,” said Peabody. “But I am supposed to enact Mr. Hyde’s plan with…precise details.”
Amelia stopped and stared at him. “Why on earth does he want to do a Murder Mystery Party?”
He smiled wanly and walked towards her, his hands behind his back. “Oh, they’re all the rage, dear. People love murder…podcasts about murder, television shows…who doesn’t like a good Who Dunnit?”
She had to admit that was true.
“So…what’s behind the curtain?” she said, taking a step towards the stage. Peabody cut in front of her, holding his hands up. “I’m afraid that no one is allowed on stage except for key players. Mr. Hyde doesn’t want to have anything spoiled for the show.”
Amelia rolled her eyes. “Fine. I guess I’ll go get dinner then before Callaway has to leave.”
“Well, actually–you are the manager for the weekend, correct?”
“Yes, the General Manager…why?”
“There’s a few details I need to go over with you,” said Peabody, pulling out what looked like a giant blue print with thousands of scribbles all over it. Amelia’s interest was piqued, and she walked towards him.
“Let me tell you about the safe…”
But before he could go on, the doors to the ballroom burst open, and in walked a man dressed in a fancy suit and bowler hat. It took a few seconds for Amelia to recognize the person, but it was undoubtedly him: Jonathan Hyde.
He had a pompous air about him–the kind most rich people do who haven’t been living in the real world for sometime. Taking off his hat, Amelia saw that his hair was slicked back and jet black–also clearly dyed, as Hyde was in his mid-fifties and should have had the tell tale signs of grey coming in. His face was also what she would considered to be very punchable–the kind of fake warmth, snobbish grin that just really made you want to choose violence today. She knew instantly that her feelings of him being a hack were well placed, and he had hadn’t even opened his mouth yet.
“Dudley, my good man!” he said boorishly.
“It’s…James, sir,” said Peabody, looking obviously crestfallen. Amelia felt validated.
“Oh, yes, yes, sorry–my brain is just swimming with details. What a hotel! What a setting for my next masterpiece.”
He had finally noticed Amelia was standing next to Peabody. Amelia didn’t consider herself to be astoundingly pretty, but she felt like she had done alright in the looks department. Her appearance was that of someone who seemed to be constantly stressed: her flame red hair was tied into a tight bun, with loose ends fraying everywhere, some drifting over her pale face. She wore a white blouse and tartan skirt, with polished black shoes. Her clothes spoke volumes about her: immaculately pressed, wrinkle free. The mark of someone who placed professional appearances above all else.
So when Hyde made his next comment, Amelia had to stop herself from rolling her eyes again.
“What an enchanting creature,” he said, trying to flatter her. “And you are–?”
He had extended his hand, but she coldly refused to take it. “I’m Amelia, the General Manager. And I guess I’m here to help manage your ruddy event.”
Hyde’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, but it’s not just an event. It’s going to be the greatest production ever produced! Truly, my most famous creation ever.”
Amelia just shook her head, not quite believing that someone could so clearly love the sound of their voice like Hyde did.
“Now, we must talk about the proceedings. Specifically the safe.”
Peabody lit up. “Yes, I was just getting to that, sir–”
“What’s so important about the safe?” said Amelia, peering around the room. “And where on earth is it?”
“Well, for one…everyone’s cell phones are going inside until the morning after the show.” said Hyde with dramatic flourish.
“Uhh…what?” said Amelia.
“This is going to be an interactive experience.” said Peabody, his voice wavering with excitement. “There will be no way to communicate with the outside world at all because this…this is a period piece! It’s genius! A masterstroke, if I do say––”
Hyde waved his hand impatiently.
“Yes, yes. A period piece. Try not to ruin too much, Harold!”
“Wait…when you say there’s no way to communicate with the outside world…?” said Amelia, putting the pieces together.
“All communication…all cell phones, radios, laptops, computers, even the internet will be shut down–we’ll be completely isolated. It’ll be just as if we have taken a time machine to the 1950’s…the perfect setting for my play! No modern technology at all!” said Hyde, clearly delighted with himself.
Amelia looked on in disbelief. Not only was he a hack…he was absolutely fucking mental.
Til next month….
1 comment