by Mamrie Hart
Though I threw a lot of parties in my college days, I never got the murder-mystery theme off the ground. I did go to college in the South, so people were less into “whodunnit?” and more concerned with “who-done-got-a-fresh-keg?” Murder-mystery parties seemed ridiculous and cheesy to most people, which, lucky for me, was the exact recipe to make something cool in hipster, late-aughts Brooklyn! So, before I knew it, my friends were throwing murder-mystery parties themselves. For those unfamiliar, this is how they work. . . .
A few days before the party, the host e-mails you the character you’re supposed to be playing, so you can dress appropriately as well as develop a little backstory for him or her. Once the party kicks off, someone will “die” in the first five minutes, and over the course of the night, the host will reveal a series of clues that leads to everyone interrogating one another while still in character. It’s a fun way to get friends to come out of their shells and also see which ones have taken an Improv 101 class at UCB.
For one of these particular parties, I had RSVP’d late, and the host, my friend Alessia, had already doled out all the characters for her luau-themed evening. Rather than miss out on the affair, I volunteered to be the person who gets killed in the first five minutes—this person being a sleazy, mustachioed mobster. Perfect! I was going to rock a suit, draw on a ’stache with eyeliner, and slick back my hair with a quart of gel. I was ready for it.
Alessia’s place was in Queens, and I lived in Brooklyn. But what might look like a simple three-mile straight shot north on paper was an hour-and-a-half subway ride into Manhattan, then back into Queens, or what us rednecks would call “Going around your ass to get to your elbow.”
However! I am a professional actress; I wasn’t going to show up at her house in my street clothes and then get changed there! I needed to roll up in character so as to not risk losing the illusion for my fellow attendees.*
Surely a woman dressed as a mob boss in a ruffled shirt isn’t going to turn heads on the goddamn NYC metro system, I thought. I’ve seen a man naked from the waist down, wearing shoes made out of duct tape, take a shit in the middle of a subway car while singing “Memories” from Cats, and still some passengers stayed just to not have to lose their seat.
My plan was thwarted, however, when the train broke down and I had to stand on a crowded platform for an hour waiting for another train.
Never realized just how well I could pull off a John Waters ’stache!
While I got blasted had a blast at these parties, they always felt like such open-and-closed cases. The killer would be found before you’d gotten your share of hummus. In case you haven’t noticed, I like to go full-tilt in my quests for fun. Put simply, I needed a full weekend experience dedicated to using my detective skills. But life happens and schedules fill with responsibilities. Free time needs to be delegated to gross things, like visiting family.
So, when planning adventures for this book came up five years later, I was beyond prepared and had already been eyeing a spot. There was a murder-mystery weekend on Jekyll Island, a little vacation spot off the coast of southern Georgia. The Jekyll Island Club rang a bell for some reason, and then I remembered where I’d seen this historic masterpiece: on the Bravo channel’s magnum opus, Southern Charm.
In Bravo’s top-notch roster of Top Chef and The Real Housewives of City-Where-Everyone-Screams-Constantly, Southern Charm was the turd in their crown jewels. In the first three seasons alone, there were multiple pregnancies, a train wreck of a state senate campaign, and an evil matriarch who rang a bell when she wanted a martini. It’s basically a telenovela but with a lot more bourbon and Lilly Pulitzer luggage. But despite these types of reality shows always being packed to the gills with dramatic thrills, they’re always crazier when their characters are on vacation. This was especially true when the Charleston gang headed south for a weekend trip to Jekyll Island. Could it be that this place was named after Jekyll and Hyde and made people’s personalities change? Would I become mad with power? Or paranoid after a few clues? Or leave the island knocked up by a potential state senator with a definite cocaine problem?
I knew I needed to have an excellent partner in solving crime for this trip, so I invited my old pal Maegan. Maegan, based on my side-eye observations of her at those NYC parties, was a finessed interrogator, never breaking from character for a second. A veritable Meryl Streep of her craft. She was the perfect choice.
Before we knew it, we were driving over a bridge and onto the little island. It was gorgeous. Spanish moss hung from massive Southern oak trees. The buildings were perfectly maintained, all white columns and wooden shutters. We rolled up slowly, to avoid hitting the people riding by on their golf carts and beach cruiser bikes. It was just like the Southern Charm episode! Surely someone would throw a mint julep in my face in no time.
We checked into the hotel and received our itinerary. Essentially, the murder mystery would be active during all the meals of the weekend. We would meet for cocktails and dinner that night, all three meals the next day, and a closing breakfast on Sunday where the truth would be revealed. The rest of the time was ours to chill out and/or obsess about our theories. We popped into our definitely haunted room and got ready for the opening dinner.
Walking over to the cocktail hour, I was already nervous, and not just because I’d convinced myself that the ghost of a Civil War soldier had watched me get dressed. Maegan and I booked this trip on such a whim that we didn’t really know what to expect.
“Are y’all here for one of the weddings?” the bartender asked us as we sat at the old mahogany horseshoe-shaped bar. “Oh no,” I replied between sips of my martini. “We’re here for the murder mystery.”
“Really? Hmm,” he said, his eyes scrunching up before turning back to his register. Maegan and I exchanged a “WTF was that?!” look, but before we could ask the bartender if these things were lame or if he was just being judgmental, he had pulled his till out of the register and was being swapped out for a fresh bartender.
As soon as we entered the mystery ballroom, we understood his “hmm.” We looked out over a sea of men in polo shirts and pleated khakis and women in their finest pastel dresses from Talbots and sensible kitten heels. It was like walking into a mixer for recently divorced sexagenarians, or a welcome reception for new timeshare owners. We knew out of the gate we should probably mingle and get a head start on cracking the case. But instead we headed straight to the buffet so we could load up on the carbs. Mama didn’t raise no fool, ’cause when I’m back in the South, there’s not a lot a vegan can eat. Just like back in the Poconos, my plate was a beacon of beige. A castle of carbs. A citadel of starches. Before I could ask the chef if they were gonna refill the mashed potatoes, a woman tapped on a microphone.
“Hello, everyone! And welcome to the Jekyll Island Murder Mystery.” Everyone golf clapped and found a seat. “My name is Margot, and I am so excited you all decided to join us this weekend. Well, some of you decided . . .” A collective “ohhh” spread across the room as Margot continued, “Some of you here are not who you say you are. And it is your job this weekend to figure out who and why. And on Sunday, all will be revealed! Now, to get started, why don’t we stand up table by table and introduce ourselves? Your name, what you do for a living . . . whether you’re a murderer not. I’m kidding!” Margot really liked her own joke.
One by one, tables rose, and people gave their intros. For the most part, it was a lot of retired teachers or contractors. When it came time for Maegan and I to do our thing, I could feel eyes glaring at us. Sure, we weren’t the usual crowd. Both young (in comparison) redheads, with Maegan covered in tattoos. But, damn, they were looking at us like we were holding bloody butcher knives and matching shirts that read “I ♥ Murder.”
“Hi, my name is Maegan. I live in New York City, and I own a vintage clothing company.” Whispers weaved throughout the tables. She sat back down, gesturing that I now had the floor.
“Hi, my name is Mamrie . . . and I’m an alcoholic.” Blank faces from the crowd. This was not my audience. “I’m not, I’m kidding. I mean, maybe I am, but this isn’t the place— Okay! Sorry. Again, I’m Mamrie. I live in Los Angeles, and I am a writer.” Audible gasps. Go to iTunes right now and look up “shocked crowd of adults” and that is verbatim what we heard. No gasps off the alcoholic joke, but plenty from the actual facts of my life.
Now, most of the guests were so vanilla that I can’t remember any of their names. But allow me to go down the roster of the key players who stood out to me.
THE LONG ISLAND SISTERS: The only siblings of the batch, these two were a straight-up SNL sketch, and I loved them despite the fact that they were clearly talking about us every time they went out on one of their several smoke breaks.
BUCKET HAT & HOTTIE: This girl in her late twenties was PDAing all over her dude in his late fifties. I am never one to judge a May–December romance, but I am one to judge a bucket hat. They’re unforgivable. I don’t care if you are Idris Elba in a three-piece suit holding a tray of warm cookies, if you throw a Gilligan hat on that dome, it’s done. Parents, if you don’t want your teenage son getting a girl pregnant, just convince him that bucket hats are in style.
DAGGER EYES & CHEESE: As soon as we walked in the door, this woman stared Maegan and me down. If for one second you think I’m paranoid, please know that she literally did the “I got my eyes on you” sign language with two fingers pointed toward me before she introduced herself. Her husband, on the other hand, was a lovable big dude with a wide smile and a kind face. Dagger Eyes clearly wore the pants and even introduced him: “This is my husband, Cheese. Yes, that is his god-given name.” Ya can’t make this shit up.
REAL ESTATE DOUCHES: Other than us, this was the only younger duo. Both in their midtwenties, the young Guido-looking dude was wearing a suit, and his girlfriend donned a short red dress. Apparently they were both real estate agents in Atlanta. I was immediately suspicious.
As soon as we were done with intros and everyone went back to their meals, the doors to the ballroom burst open. In ran a woman (I could tell only by the lack of sports bra) with a mask over her head and a fake gun. I screamed. None of this “Oh my pearls!” feigned-surprise yelling that I pictured myself doing—I straight-up screamed bloody murder and was practically perched on top of Maegan’s head like a spooked cat. Can’t be sure if I yelled “oh shit!” or not, but based on the way Dagger Eyes was shaking her head at me, I’m gonna go with yes.
The masked woman got twenty yards in when we heard a man’s voice yell, “FREEZE!” Back at the door was a man in a Hawaiian shirt and (yes, another) bucket hat, holding up a fake gun at the perp. “Put down the gun and back away slowly!” he yelled in a New York accent. But Titty Bandit was having none of it. She raised her gun and BANG BANG!* Shots were fired! When the smoke cleared (and not from the Long Island Sisters vaping at their table), the masked woman lay on the ground.
Hawaiian Shirt moved to the middle of the room, standing above the lifeless goon.* “Ladies and gentleman, there is no need to panic. My name is Rocky, and I am a professional detective. I was on my way to Disney World when I got tipped off about a hit that had been put out here on Jekyll Island. I immediately turned my car around and came straight here. . . . Except for those two stops at Chick-fil-A.” Oh no, Rocky was a hoot. He reached down to the masked body and pulled a business card out of her shirt pocket.
“Looks like we have our first clue!” he said and began reading the card. “‘He’ll be on her right. Don’t mess this up.’” Interesting. So the hit was for a couple, but the message was vague. Did someone want the man dead, or the woman? Our mission was to find out not only who the hit woman’s target was but also who hired her to make the hit. I went to look at the corpse one last time to see if maybe there was a clue that Rocky missed, but that bitch had already sprung back to life and was scooping up alfredo sauce at the build-your-own-pasta bar. So much for staying in character until you’ve cleared the curtains!
“We’ve got a big weekend of crime-solving ahead of us, everyone! We will reconvene at breakfast. But for now, get some rest. I’d tell you to sleep with one eye open, but that’s physically impossible. Good night!” Rocky declared with such bravado you’d think he was playing Jean Valjean in Les Mis, not a detective whose trip to Disney World had been thwarted. We all watched as he stormed out of the room. Once the sound of his waterproof khakis rubbing together cleared, everyone started to file out, eyeing one another suspiciously, the true MVPs landing back at the horseshoe-shaped bar. Maegan and I sat there with the Long Island Sisters, exchanging theories.
“What do we think about the guy in the bucket hat and his girlfriend? Something’s fishy,” Maegan said, sipping her martini.
“I agree!” Sister #1 piped in. “I watched them leave the party, and as soon as they rounded the corner, they quit holding hands.”
“Forget the May–December romance!” I added. “What’s with the skeezy real estate guy? He gives me bad vibes. No one that young comes to one of these—”
“The same could be said for you.” I looked over, and sure enough, it was Dagger Eyes walking past the bar. “A writer? From Los Angeles? Sounds made up . . .”
“Made up? You said your husband’s name is Cheese. Perhaps we should call him Daiya, ’cause that shit is clearly fake.” Another fantastic joke wasted on ears that had clearly never heard of soy cheese, let alone a specific name brand. I tried again. “Or maybe we call him Swiss, because your story has some holes in it!” Big, gentle Cheese spoke up from behind his wife. “Actually, it’s short for Wanchese, who was the last ruler of the Roanoke Island Native American tribe. Very well-revered.” I nodded and went back to my drink as Dagger Eyes snapped her fingers to get Cheese to follow her like she was Danny Zuko rallying the T-Birds.
Maegan and I kept the barstools warm for a while, even after the sisters ran out of vape juice and called it a night. Just when we were about to do the same, who rounds the corner but ol’ douchey real estate guy! He sidled up to the opposite end of the bar and ordered a Mich Ultra. A man scared of carbohydrates? Extra suspicious.
“So, what’s your deal? Real estate, huh? More like get real estate!” I whipped my head to Maegan, who nodded in approval of my wordplay.
“Yep, real estate in Atlanta. The market’s very hot right now,” he said with a smirk. “About how long is that drive from Atlanta?” I asked with an eyebrow raised.
“Wouldn’t know. We decided to private jet down here—”
“PFFFFT!!” Maegan and I scoffed in his face. “Private jet? Yeah, right! Who takes a private jet for an hour flight? Besides a Kardashian.”
“Like I said. The market is hot. Now, I’m gonna go meet my girl. You two ladies enjoy your drinks, and good luck, ya know, raping dudes or whatever.”
Yes, you read that correctly. Take a moment. This mothafucka with his low-carb beer and high-and-mighty attitude wished us luck on “raping dudes or whatever.” We sat there in shock as he walked away, each with a hand to our chest like a flabbergasted Southern belle. What had we ever done to him? And who uses rape as a punch line? What an asshole.
Maegan and I headed back to our probably haunted room in silence,* reeling from the night’s events. I had no doubt in my mind that Real Estate Douche was a fraud, but who did he want to put a hit out on? And why?
“He told you to have fun vaping dudes?” Sister #2 asked me at breakfast the next morning, blowing a strawberry-scented chemical cloud away from the table. Before I could correct her, a pissed-off older woman came storming through the banquet doors.
“Where is that no-good cheating rat?!” she screamed. Homegirl was working those local theater chops as well as my nerves. It was too damn early for screaming. Her head turned Linda Blair–style to the young hottie.
“Oh, if it isn’t the tramp that’s sleeping with my husband!”
“Tramp?! He said you were divorced!” Someone yelled to look outside, and sure enough, there was Bucket Hat hopping over the handrail and making a getaway. “We aren’t divorced yet!” the wife screeched. “Not until he agrees to give me the house!”
Before Wife and Hottie could claw each other’s eyes out, Rocky got in between them. Apparently, Bucket Hat had been cheating on his wife while telling the mistress he was single. Things were starting to really heat up, so Rocky, of course, dismissed us till lunch.
We spent the afternoon lounging by the pool, drinking margaritas, and telling everyone within earshot about RapingDudeGate. “You know, come to think of it, I’ve never seen him at one of these before, but what could he possibly have to do with the affair?” Sister #2 asked. Apparently, the LI girls attended murder-mystery weekends all over the East Coast several times a year. And they weren’t the only ones. Over by the cabana, Dagger Eyes and Cheese were eating barbecue they had brought from home to give to Rocky. He’d been their murder-mystery host before, and they were old buds! It was like we became part of a whole community I’d never known existed.
Later, at dinner, I wasn’t three bites in before Rocky burst through the doors once more. “There’s been a murder! Everyone follow me!” I swear, this weekend was almost becoming a cleanse. The real victim of the weekend was my buzz, because I couldn’t get a sip down without someone busting into the banquet hall.
We followed Rocky out of the ballroom and down a flight of stairs. Sure enough, a murdered Bucket Hat lay lifeless on the sidewalk, stabbed through the heart with a butter knife. Questions raced through my brain. Who killed Bucket Hat?! Why would they use a butter knife?! When was the buffet going to refill the goddamn mashed potatoes?!