What’s worse than a table full of mystery writers at a Mystery Theatre Dinner? Answer: Six tables of mystery writers.

While at the Left Coast Crime Convention last weekend, I attended the Mystery Theatre Dinner that took place on a 1920’s riverboat, The Delta King. I’ve always wanted to participate in one of these events—what mystery writer doesn’t want to test their skills. I’ve even been tempted to buy one of the games and host one at my house.

There were about 21 tables with 12 diners per table. The mystery writers were mixed in with other people from other conventions ranging from high-tech to air-conditioning cleaning. These poor saps didn’t have demon’s chance of winning against 72 mystery writers.

The theatre began when a hit man ran in and started flirting with two female diners. A detective followed and, in self-defense, shot the hit man, fake blood flew everywhere. Victim number 1.

Meanwhile, at our tables we’ve been told to note anything that might be a clue so we were busy jotting down who got their salad first verses who got the salad dressing first. And why did my roll look darker than the rest in the basket? Was that a clue? And why did we have a gun in our centerpiece when table 4 had only handcuffs in their centerpiece? A centerpiece was never just a centerpiece, was it?

The main course brought victim number 2, supposedly the long lost daughter of a man in dire need of a kidney transplant. Poor thing went to the bathroom and got flushed.

Between the main course and dessert we were left to review our clues: 2 people dead. The salad dressing was gone. The chicken was better than the fish. No one was using the gun in our centerpiece. Did it not work?

Now, one of the first lessons of writing is make your readers care about your characters. We had a jerk, needing a kidney, so he and his new wife were looking for a child that he abandoned. No one at our table was crying over the jerk losing his daughter. Actually, we were trying to figure how to make him victim number 3.

Low and behold, the real daughter appeared. She had tested to the waters with her best friend, (now dead best friend) to see if her father was sincere. Yes, he sincerely needed a kidney. A lovely, moving reunion with father, real daughter, and new wife during which the real daughter was poisoned.

Oh no!

Where’s dessert?

If you’re a mystery writer you’ve probably already figured out the story, if you aren’t I won’t spoil it for you. It was much less complicated than the writers at my table were trying to make it. We were fed misdirection with clues about a baby, a fax, etc., (called red herrings in the mystery biz), but the misdirection we fed ourselves while trying to complicate the story was a ton more fun. Turns out, who got the salad dressing first wasn’t a clue. But that’s all I’m going to reveal.

Not a surprise, the winner was a mystery writer, not an air-conditioner tech.