Remember playing the game of Sleuth as a child? It's even more fun to spend an evening at the Ramon Theater questioning suspects and sleuthing a murder mystery with your table mates.
Tickets are $20 and Coffee and Desserts are included with each ticket. Guests are welcome to bring snacks or beverages of choice.
The citizens of Blarney are invited to a St. Patrick's Day party to honor Patrick Flaherty, owner of Flaherty's True Green Plant Nursery. When they arrive, they find out that Flaherty had died the previous night after a celebration of the nursery's centennial year.
Instead of a party, the guests are attending Flaherty's wake, the likes of which would make Ireland proud. Family members and acquaintances pay their respects to Flaherty and, in the process, drop hints that Flaherty's death might be more than accidental.
Flaherty's True Green Plant Nursery has been serving the Blarney area for the last 100 years since Pader Flaherty, the nursery's founder, built a greenhouse to grow plants that thrived in his native Ireland.
Through the years, operations expanded and, 10 years ago, Pader's grandson Patrick became majority owner of a business that is still family-run. Today, Flaherty's is a major producer of shamrocks, supplying the entire area with the plant, especially for the "wearin' of the green."
Although rumors persist that all is not well, the family has maintained an outward calm, denying all rumors of a rift. The business seemed to be going well until Patrick Flaherty's body was found in the pond at the nursery. Who would want to plant Patrick in a watery grave? And why is security so intense at the nursery? It would take a special brand of Gaelic gall to crack the case.
It was one of the marvels of 1937, the new streamlined train owned by industrial giant Peter Petulant came to be known as "The Petulant Express." The train's regular journey between New York City and Chicago constantly attracted a passenger list of the rich and famous.
And, on this particular journey, they all seemed, by temperament, to be irritated and angry. Petulant himself was a passenger on the noteworthy trek, occupying his plush Presidential Car.
But, last night after a stop in Akron, Ohio, someone made a permanent alteration to the industrialist's career. For, his body was found early this morning in his private car by a porter delivering his breakfast tray.
Still holding a crystal champagne glass, and with his solid silver cigarette case in the pocket of his robe, Petulant appeared to have died without a struggle, the victim of an unexpected attack.
With a world poised on the brink of war, who would dare trounce a titan of technology, especially one with the foresight and connections of Petulant? And, where would the trail lead that would eventually end up at the feet of a killer? Only effective sleuthing and expert investigative skills would dictate the answers.
He was called Evil-Eyed Emil. When he looked at people with his infamous right eye, so the story went, bad things invariably happened. Townspeople cringed and covered their faces as Emil came near, not daring to look directly into his ominous orb.
And, as he was being driven out of Reaper Junction on Halloween night exactly 100 years ago, Emil vowed to return one day to wreak his vengeance on the mob and its progeny for the way he had been so rudely tossed out.
That cryptic curse was all but forgotten by today's generation of Reapers who laughed at such nonsense. But the laughter has stopped. For last night, shockingly and unexpectedly, a local resident staggered into the town square and announced that Emil had been sighted in the woods and, true to his century-old proclamation, someone had been the victim of Emil's anger.
The deceased was Grimsby Graves, the patriarch of a family whose ancestors had helped found Reaper Junction in 1770. The Graves' seemed to have had their fingers in every pie that was ever baked in Reaper Junction. The history books say that it was, in fact, the Graves brothers who had led the torch-lit mob that oversaw Emil's abrupt exit into the stormy night.
So, how then can justice be done? How can someone who is already dead be brought to trial? And, can the court truly find a jury of his peers? Or, will the explanation be less scintillating and more sinister?
IT IS OCTOBER, 1936
The European continent is poised to either create a legacy of political order or unravel a system of post-World War checks and balances. It has been nearly four months since the Italian Duce, Benito Mussolini, ordered his troops into Abyssinia. Two weeks later, civil war broke out in Spain and Generalissimo Franco called up Adolph Hitler and his Nazi legions to aid the rebel troops.
Even today, the German Luftwaffe is practicing a new type of warfare called blitzkrieg because of the lightning fast speed which it takes place. Less than a week ago, Il Duce's son-in-law, Count Ciano, concluded the talks with Hitler that created the Berlin-Rome axis of power. In England, King Edward VIII's coronation is being planned for early next year. His affair with American divorcee Wallis Warfield Simpson is well-hidden from the public as the British press has agreed to publish nothing about the relationship to avoid a scandal.
And, at the English country estate, Conifers, Sir Hugo Smythe Armbruster's 70th party took place last night. Sir Hugo had been knighted after The Great War for his contributions to the war effort. His brilliant sense of both history and propriety established him as an able publisher whose newspaper, The Daily Truth, kept the citizenry informed of what was happening at the front.
The assembled guests celebrated the event with enough food and drink to choke the proverbial horse. But, it seems, the horse may have fought back. This morning, Sir Hugo was found dead in the stables. Although the death was at first viewed to be accidental, Scotland Yard took little time in declaring that, indeed, evidence pointed toward murder.
The old gentleman had been a cat fancier, priding himself in the rare breeds that freely roam the grounds of Conifers. It was said that he preferred cats to humans. He had even threatened to leave his vast fortune to The Royal Feline Society rather than have his millions squandered by "fools and scoundrels." One could only imagine what surprises would unfold when the will is read.