Two minutes.

That’s all the time I had left.

Two minutes until I solidify my status as either the greatest success or the ultimate failure with my new friends.

No pressure.

“So? Do you have an answer?” Someone shouts from the back. I look up from the incomprehensible to anyone but me scribbles of my notebook toward the gangle of costumed people surrounding me.

The murder mystery underway had gone unsolved the last four times it had been hosted. The first had been just a run of the mill murder mystery party with the caveat that the detective had three hours to figure out the killer. The twist had been so astonishing, it became a tradition to dust it off when someone new entered into the picture, just to see if they could not only guess the impossible but what their reaction would be.

I stand, monocle perched precariously on my face, and adjust the fore-and-aft cap in deep thought.

“Based on the events of tonight, I believe I have identified who the killer is.” I say, taking a fake puff of the wood pipe in my hand. I whip it around to point at the butcher, his plastic machete in hand. “The victim was found in your shop, which automatically places you as the number one suspect.” Another fake puff. “Hmm, but the wound does not match the weapon you hold and it’s too obvious. You’ve been framed! But who would frame you?”

Shoes squeak as I spin around. Gasps fill the air as the end of my pipe now points at the business man. “You can’t charge a premium for the space until you get rid of your current tenant who just so happens to be the butcher! Pesky rent control.” Two fingers rub my chin, “yes, you would have every reason to frame the butcher. He goes to jail, you get your space back and can now charge an astronomical price for a shitty store front.”

I slowly bring the hand rubbing my chin up to halt my thought, turning abruptly to point at the person dressed as an old woman sitting on the couch. “But you! Oh, you had all these suckers fooled. The little old lady who lived above the butcher, constantly complaining of the smell. You could have been in cahoots this whole time with the business man.”

Anticipation fills the silent room as I spin, taking in each individual, thinking my answer too preposterous to be true but deciding to roll with it anyways.

If I’m wrong at least I’ll go out with a bang.

Slowly I make my way over to the man dressed as the paper boy. “I didn’t want to believe it at first. What would a paper boy have to do with the death of man in a butcher shop. Where the butcher constantly threatens to call the cops if you don’t quick selling paper in front off his home.” The monocle comes off as I lean forward, hair falling over my shoulders. “Where an old lady won’t pay you the full price of that paper, yet somehow always makes off with one.”

The end of the pipe finally points true, right in his face.

“Where a man of a rival paper business shows up dead.”

I stand straight, both hands in the air.

“The paper boy is the killer!” I declare.

Seconds pass by too slowly and no one makes a sound until —

“How in the hell did you figure that out?”

Cheers sounds from all around as I’m rushed. It feels like a million voices are surrounding me as hand reach out to clap me on the back or high five. A final fake puff of my pipe is taken as I move the monocle back onto my eye, facing the source of the question.

“Elementary, my dear Watson,” I answer.

And I did it all with thirty seconds to spare.