Tenting his fingers and giving his best Cheshire Cat grin, the great detective surveyed the suspects around the well appointed dining table. A cold buffet was ideal for a satisfying denouement. Gathering the interested parties together to reveal a mystery’s solution was a classic ploy from the Golden Age of Mystery. The fact that it brought Atticus Finch a devilish delight was icing on the cake.

To Finch’s left, there was the too Merry Widow Gladys Woodcock. Next was her eldest son and heir to the Woodcock Publishing empire Albert “Bertie” Woodcock, III. Bertie’s wife, Bubbles, blew Atticus a kiss. The great detective almost gave the tempting hussy a wink then he caught his colleague’s eye. Atticus’ old partner Sheriff Bobby Hibou looked mad enough to chew lead and spit bullets. Atticus licked his lips.

On Finch’s right nearest Hibou was the Woodcocks’ chief of security, the formidable Cass Jones. Second son and resident playboy “Goodtime Gordy” Woodcock appeared to be wrestling a hangover and losing. And finally the timid secretary Miss Ren Carola trembled and looked up at Atticus with big beseeching eyes. With this cast of characters Atticus was glad there were police stationed at all the exits.

“So Detective Finch is that a plot twist in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” Gladys purred and chomped on a celery stalk.

“Mother, behave. Father is barely cold in his grave. Mr. Finch is here to help find out what happened,” Bertie pleaded.

Gladys cackled.

“Al has been cold for considerably longer than that, Bertie!”

Bubbles joined in the laugh and then shrank from Bertie’s poisonous stare.

“Cut the play acting. My head, my aching head,”

Gordy said with a pitiful moan.

Gordy rested his forehead on his salad plate. Ren poured him a glass of water and encouraged him to drink it.

“You’ve hit the nail on the head. Play acting, each one of you is character. That’s what made solving this case so challenging,” Atticus said.

“You’ve solved it!” Cass said, moving her hand beneath the table.

“Who is it!” Sheriff Hibou shouted.

“There were too many red herrings. Bertie’s embezzlement, Bubbles’ affairs with anyone in long pants, the mercenary widow, the lovesick secretary, the missing will naming Drinky McDrunk here as the new CEO. All we needed was a missing heir for locked room murder bingo.”

Leaning back, Atticus watched the Woodcocks argue. Kite the butler brought in a silver domed dish and set it in front of Finch.

“Atty stop looking like the cat who licked the cream and come out with it,” sheriff Hibou said. “Who did it?”

“Why you did old pal,” Atticus said.

The sheriff spluttered. The dining room was silent as a grave. With a flourish the great detective whipped off the dish’s lid. A half burnt manuscript sat in the tray.

“It took a while to find. But once I knew what I was looking for it was dare I say elementary. You’re a decent man Bobby except for that temper of yours. You finally worked up the courage to show someone that mystery you used to talk about. You shared it, didn’t you Bobby?”

Sheriff Hibou flushed scarlet. Finch thumbed through the pages.

“I—I—“

“You showed the old man your life work and he criticized it. I can see the red proofreader marks, Bobby. He laughed at you. Told you to work on your story. So you plotted to take him out and set up so many suspects no one would see you were pulling the strings.”

The sheriff lunged on the table. Screaming the other guest scattered. Cass caught the sheriff’s temple with a brass knuckled punch. He collapsed on the potato salad. Deputies stormed into the dining room. Gordy sat up with butter lettuce on his head.

A few hours later at Robin’s Roadhouse Atticus and Cass sat at the bar. The bartender set down a bucket of beers, a bowl of ice for Cass’ swollen hand, and buffalo wings for Finch.

“So when did you suspect?”

“When you told me Hibou recommended you for the job as new security head. He must’ve been researching old man Woodcock when he discovered you were the victim’s long estranged daughter. Hibou couldn’t resist adding one more red herring. He never mentioned who you really were. I figured out who you were so either he was a bad cop or a lousy writer.”

Cass blinked.

“Or both,” she said