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her.”

 
 

Chapter 7

 
    “What do you mean you read it in a book, Boston?” the Chief demanded.
    “Like I said, I read it in a book. Murder in One Act by C. J. Masterson. I read all of the C. J Masterson when I was young. Haven’t you read them?”
    “No, I can’t say that I have. But I fail to see how a book relates to this murder.”
    “But Chief , it’s all the same. From the murder mystery party, to the shooting out front, to the stabbing of the woman in red. It’s all the same. Look, even the glass figurine found by the hand of the true murder victim is the same.”
    “But come on; murder someone at a murder mystery dinner party? Isn’t that a little too public?”
    “Having so many people here with many of them acting suspiciously is the perfect cover for murder,” I explained patiently. “Just look at the predicament we’ve had trying to secure the crime scene.”
    “So, what about this C. J Masterson. Tell me about him.”
    “First, he is a she, and second, I can do better than tell you about her. I can introduce you to her.”
    I stepped into the crowd, and when I returned I was leading Mrs. Agatha Graves by the arm. The Chief raised an eyebrow and I nodded my head.
    “Chief Wallace, I’d like you to meet C. J. Masterson,” I said in introduction.
    “Oh my. I haven’t heard that name in so many years,” exclaimed Agatha.
    “You’re C. J. Masterson?”
    “Yes, I am, or at least I was.”
    “The author of Murder in One Act ?”
    “Strange you should mention that particular title,” Agatha replied. “I’ve begun to notice similarities between my book and the occurrences of this evening.”
    “Me too.” I added. “Similarities like they’re exactly the same.”
    “Oh no, dear. My novel took place at a posh country club. The Morningside Inn, no matter how quaint and comfortable it is to us, would never do for that clientele.”
    “But what about the other elements that are identical? The murder mystery dinner. The shooting to distract the guests. The stabbing of the woman in red. And most important of all, the murderer.”
    “I seem to remember the murderer made a brief appearance at the scene of the crime. He was wearing an elaborate party mask.”
    “Like they wear in New Orleans,” I added, thinking back. “Chief, I wonder if you could assign your officers to cordoning off the building. We have to find someone before he’s had a chance to leave.”
    “Boston, I doubt he’d be wearing the mask if it’s a dead giveaway that he’s the murderer. Besides, several of the guests have already left. We have the list of all the actors, guests, and servers at the inn during the time of the murder, but the party has already started to break up. I don’t know how long it would take to assemble a crew large enough to cordon off the building.”
    I looked around the room to see that there were far fewer people crowding the murder scene. Colin Collins was sitting in a chair at one of the tables looking pale and nauseated while his wife fanned him with her handkerchief.
    “So, what do we do now?” asked Agatha.
    “We talk with the author of the murder mystery dinner script. Chief, we need to speak with the actors.”
    “Bryce did manage to gather them before they got away. Come this way.”
    The Chief led the way to a nervous group of actors sitting at the Sherlock Holmes table. I nodded my head in acknowledgement as I approached. Lady Winters still had tears in her eyes from what must have been a serious cry.
    “Hello. My name is Chloe Boston. I’m assisting with the investigation into the murder of Supervisor Daniels. I wonder if I might speak with the author of the script for tonight’s performance.”
    “I’m the director,” a young man said, raising his hand.
    “Who wrote the play?” I asked.
    “I’m not sure. The script was passed to me by somebody. I don’t remember who. I assumed the script had already been reviewed and agreed upon. I flipped through a few