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couldn’t take that away from him. He was seen by many mystery fans as daring, iconoclastic. I found him a terrible, pretentious writer, but had to admit he could be entertaining in his boldness.
    When the applause died down, Rath stepped forward; none of us had spoken after our intros, but Rath, it seemed, had something to say.
    “I think you people are pitiful,” he said, speaking not only to the other professionals/guests, but to the fans/players before him. A sea of smiles ebbed.
    “If you’d ever read an issue of the
Chronicler
,” he said, “you’d know I’ve striven to make the mystery something that could be taken seriously, that could be viewed as literature, not mere pulp. Now, I’m not without a sense of wonder, a sense of fun... and I thought I’d enjoy this weekend. But what I see here—this assemblage of alternately rude and fawning writers, this horrific assortment of starry-eyed fans and drooling ‘gamers,’ armed with pocket calculators and deerstalker caps—is perhaps the most nauseating sight I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness. You’re denigrating, belittling, a serious American art form, a form perhaps second only to jazz in its cultural worth—
at its best
, that is, as opposed, say, to its nadir as represented by the likes of such small fish as Mr. Sardini and that pretentious poseur who signs his work only ‘Mallory.’ ”
    Every jaw in the house had dropped to the floor.
    Except Rath’s, which was still churning: “I have a certain respect for the work of Curt Clark. So when he approached me, I agreed to attend this charade—only to discover when I arrive that I’m to play a cruel parody of myself, and
then
to be ‘murdered,’ to play a corpse, to be what so many of you wish I truly were: dead. Well, you’ll have to find yourself another body. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I’m not playing.”
    And Rath walked through the crowd’s Red Sea, which parted for his Moses, and was gone.

5
    Curt calmed the crowd by pushing the air with his palms and smiling.
    “We all know Kirk’s a shade temperamental, but I’ll do my best to catch him and convince him to stick around for the fun. In the meantime, Pete Christian has a movie scheduled for about half an hour from now, in the Parlor upstairs. I think you’ll find it apropos.”
    Pete stepped forward and said, “It’s
Laura
—the classic Otto Preminger film featuring Clifton Webb as an obnoxious critic.”
    That got some laughter going, but it was mostly of the nervous variety; Rath’s outburst had cast a shadow over the previously lighthearted proceedings. The casually dressed guests—ranging in age from late teens to senior citizens, with all stops between represented, baby-boomer Yuppie types perhaps the most predominant—rose slowly from the floor, as if their collective bones ached. Chatter soon filled the air, but the merriment quotient seemed low.
    “What do you make of that?” Jill asked, looping her arm in mine again, as we headed out into the hall.
    “Kirk Rath’s a self-important dope,” I shrugged. “That’s hardly a news flash.”
    We headed down a hall toward our room and, soon, up ahead, there was Curt, who was standing talking with anattractive brunette about thirty or so, her nice shape snug in a navy-blue blazer and gray skirt that seemed to say “hotel management,” not guest.
    It was an animated conversation, which carried. Curt was shrugging, smiling, doing a lot of body movement in an apparent effort to be charming as well as apologetic. The woman was frowning, shaking her head, not quite buying it. But she seemed more worried than cross.
    “I just don’t like seeing our Mystery Weekend begin with the murder victim refusing to cooperate,” she said.
    “I think he’s been very cooperative,” Curt said. “Everybody in the hotel wants to kill him.”
    “I don’t find this amusing, Mr. Clark.”
    “Curt. Please. Curt.”
    “Curt. But our guests pay a premium price for a