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good side,” Rath said. “I resent that. Just because her last novel got a less than favorable review from us doesn’t mean her next attempt won’t be treated impartially.”
    “Who said it wouldn’t be?” Cynthia said, genuinely confused. “I was just making some small talk. We’re both guests here....”
    “Just keep your distance,” Rath said. “Both of you.”
    Culver gripped both of Rath’s lapels and lifted the little critic off the ground. Culver said nothing at all, just looked at the wide-eyed Rath a moment, and set him back down. Rath swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry it would seem, and apparently couldn’t find anything nasty or witty or trenchant to say to Culver, who slipped an arm around Cynthia’s shoulder and escorted her a few paces away, near Jill and me.
    “Hi, Cynthia,” I said.
    She hadn’t noticed me before; she had tears in her eyes, which wasn’t common for this cool cookie, but she flung herself in my arms and gave me a hug.
    “Mal,” she said. “Mal, it’s great to see you. How long has it been?”
    “Two years, I guess. The Chicago Bouchercon. Looks like your next review in the
Chronicler
’s going to be a doozie.”
    She laughed. “That Rath’s a prize, isn’t he? At least we get to kill him this weekend.”
    Culver said, “That boy’s a born murder victim.”
    “He wouldn’t make it past the first commercial of
Perry Mason
,” I agreed. “Too bad this is reality.”
    The first few rows of players were abuzz; some had witnessed Rath’s outburst, and others were hearing about it via the grapevine.
    “All part of the show, kids,” Curt Clark said, stepping out before the crowd, a clipboard in hand. He adjusted his glasses and glanced at the top sheet and said, “Many of you have been here before, but for the newcomers let me explain that you’ve been divided into teams. We’ve already passed the badges out, some of you are wearing them already, I see—fifteen or so players per team. We’ve kept couples together, but otherwise the teams were randomly selected. We’ll have a lot of fun this weekend, and not all of it involves the mystery you’re going to
attempt
to solve....”
    Smiles and murmurings followed the word “attempt,” rolling like a wave across the crowd.
    “Our honored guests will be playing roles in the little melodrama I’ve concocted,” Curt went on, “and you will have at them only
twice
. On both Friday—that’s tomorrow—andSaturday—that’s the day after tomorrow—you’ll have a one-hour interrogation period, during which members of your teams can grill the various suspects. You’ll know them by their badges, which will be clearly labeled ‘ SUSPECT .’ Now, they all have to tell the truth, at all times... all of them except the
murderer
, that is.”
    Laughter.
    “And on Sunday morning, your teams will present
their
versions of how to solve
The Case of the Curious Critic
. There will be two awards—one for the team coming closest to the solution as I’ve devised it, and another for most imaginative presentation. And, yes, it is possible for one team to win both awards, though it hasn’t happened yet. The members of the winning teams will be presented with a reservation for the
next
Mohonk Mystery Weekend.”
    That brought applause, even though the reservations were
not
all-expenses-paid; they were in fact no-expenses-paid—but the Mohonk Mystery Weekend sold out every year in less than an hour, and hundreds, to put it conservatively, were shut out accordingly.
    Curt explained that the weekend would also include movies, lectures, and a dance; he then began to give each of us guests a gracious introduction.
    Finally he got to Kirk S. Rath.
    “And now,” Curt said, “allow me to introduce the critic we love to hate, a man who truly needs no introduction—our very own murder victim,
The Mystery Chronicler
’s Kirk S. Rath.”
    There was considerable applause, even whistles, for Rath, who did have his public. You