Nice Weekend for a Murder by Max Allan Collins Page A

murder.”
    He pulled his head back and pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes in an expression that said, Are you putting me on?
    “I am not putting you on. I just saw something, and it looked a hell of a lot like a man getting killed.”
    “You really
are
serious....”
    “I really am.”
    His expression grave now, he said, “Give me a second. Kim’s already in bed; I’ll just wake her and let her know I’m stepping out for a second.”
    The door closed. I heard him say something to Kim in there, and a minute or so later he emerged fully dressed, in the same patched-elbow sports coat and cords as before.
    “Let’s go to your room,” he said.
    “Good idea. That’s where I saw it from.”
    Jill and I led him there, where I took him to the window and pointed out at the now peaceful white landscape that had minutes before seemed violent and blood-red. I explained what I’d seen.
    As my explanation progressed, a sly smile began to form on Curt’s face; by the conclusion, he stood with his arms folded, rocking on his heels, looking down at me—both figuratively and literally—with open amusement.
    “I fail to see what’s even remotely comic about this,” I said, petulantly. Curt was one of my literary godfathers, and I didn’t like feeling a fool before him.
    “They reeled you in, Mal,” he said, chuckling. I hate it when people chuckle.
    “What the hell do you mean?”
    He chortled. I hate it even more when they chortle. “These Mystery Weekenders have obviously staged a Grand Guignol farce for your benefit.”
    “What? You got to be kidding!”
    “Not at all. Not in the least. You’ve never been to the Mystery Weekend here at the illustrious Mohonk Mountain House. You don’t
know
what sort of shenanigans to expect.”
    “Shenanigans. Since when is slashing a guy to ribbons a
shenanigan
?”
    “When it’s staged by some overly ambitious game-players.”
    Jill was standing off to one side, but now she moved in between Curt and me, like a mediator.
    “You’re saying this was a practical joke,” she said, “played by some of the Mystery Weekenders.”
    “Exactly,” he said. “Kirk Rath stormed out of here, insulting the intelligence of the players, refusing to cooperate. Leaving before the fun could begin.”
    “That’s right,” I said.
    “So isn’t it natural that some of the players might want to stage what he denied them? Namely, his ‘murder’?”
    I let out a sigh of exasperation. “And just how exactly did they convince Rath to stick around and go along with this farce?”
    “They didn’t.”
    “I saw Kirk Rath die!”
    “Did you? How close was he to your window?”
    I thought about it. “Well, not all that close—not all that far, either.”
    “Could it have been someone else?”
    “I don’t think so....”
    “Possibly someone who looked something like Rath—similar hair, similar build.”
    “Maybe,” I granted.
    “And you had Rath on the brain—you had the ‘murder’ of Rath on the brain, specifically. If someone who resembled him were ‘killed’ outside your window, wouldn’t Rath come immediately to mind?”
    “Curt, I don’t think so....”
    He was shaking his head now, gesturing out the window at the now barren stage where I’d witnessed what he insisted was a performance.
    “You haven’t been here before,” Curt said. “You don’t know the lengths these lovable crazies will go to. When we assembleon Sunday morning, for the teams to present their solutions to my mystery, their presentations will be as elaborate as an off-Broadway play. And not far off Broadway at that.”
    Jill looked at Curt thoughtfully and said, “You give an award for the team presenting their solution in the most creative manner, don’t you? Whether they solve the mystery correctly or not.”
    “That’s exactly right,” Curt said.
    “Don’t encourage him,” I told Jill sternly; she gave me an apologetic look and shrugged, but I could see she was being swayed by this.