Murder in Montauk

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Whitt looked devilishly at Finley and asked a question that almost always led to a game: “Who do you think did it?”

Finley replied with a wolfish grin.

This was to be the beginning round of the Murder Game, a story-building pastime that the sisters had regularly played as children when they accompanied their parents on holiday or business trips overseas. The object of the game was to incorporate their fellow travelers into macabre scenes of murder and mayhem, much like a live game of Clue. It was not unusual for the girls to giggle through breakfast after seeing guests that had engaged in sordid affairs, shady dealings, and drunken drama during their bedtime round of the game the night before.

“Did what?” Mooney asked innocently.

“You girls should quit!” Mama looked at Whitt reproachfully, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to nip this unbecoming behavior in the bud. But Whitt’s smile said she wasn’t backing down, and she knew her sister would stand with her.

“Who was murdered?” Finley  asked quietly.

“Murdered?” Mooney choked out, her face in tormented surprise.

“No one was murdered, dear,” Mama explained. “These two are playing a silly, very warped childhood game. Please ignore them.”

Mooney listened as the sisters continued as if nothing else had been said.

“The woman in the green sundress. Attractive, but she needs to be knocked off, if for no other reason than to get her out of that unfortunate dress. That putrid-looking color does nothing for her skin tone, and the style is not flattering. Does she not have a mirror?” Whitt said under her breath.

“How did she die?” Finley was meticulously dissecting the elements of the murder and pointedly interrogating Whitt to construct a plausible scenario.

“Poison. No visible signs of foul play. No incriminating fingerprints on the glasses. Seemingly, no enemies. No unusual smells or behaviors. She was just found dead in her reading chair.”

“Makes one want to give up reading,” Finley quipped, tucking into a Greek omelet oozing with spinach and melted feta. “Did she live by herself?”

“Girls, stop this! Not over breakfast. It is enough to turn my stomach!” Mama cried.

“Sorry, Mama. We’ll quit.” Finley stared at her plate before turning to her sister. She winked. This ain’t over, baby sister. I will figure it out before bedtime.