Murder Mystery Parties!

Hi again! :)


I know that a lot of people, especially with Hallowe'en coming up, like murder mystery parties. You can generally buy them on the internet for a range of prices from £5 - £50.


I love writing mysteries (as I'm sure you've guessed by now!) and so if you're interested, I am happy to write you a personalized mystery party absolutely FREE. I can't guarantee I'll be able to do with with everyone who asks - my free time is pretty limited at the moment - but I'll do my best.


If you are interested, please comment below and I'll get in touch. I will need to know your email address, the number of people at your party, the boy/girl balance and the age group. You should also mention if you have any topic preferences.


~ Tiula

The Vegas Victim

"What a waste," sighed River, as she glanced down at the woman lying on the floor. She couldn't have been more than mid-thirties, but her life had already ended. Tenderly, she knelt beside the body and brushed the short blonde hair away from the tired face.

A deep voice interrupted her thoughts. "Her name's Kathy Carey, according to her driving license. She came here with a friend, who said she was playing the tables for most of the evening. She won a bit but mainly made heavy losses, and ended up borrowing quite a lot from a loan shark. She lost everything in a few hours, gave her friend the slip, and before you know it..."

John mimed putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. River shuddered.

"So, suicide, then?" Carlton commented. He was sitting on the bench designed for the pathologist and swinging his legs back and forth.

"Hmm," said John, noncommittally. Carlton's eyes met River's over the body, and they both smiled.

"Not a suicide?" they said in unison.

John leaned back. "I didn't say that," he began. "It's just... well. Something doesn't add up." He leaned forward again and pointed to the gun that was clutched in the dead woman's hand. "This gun is held in the right hand... but the bullet wound is on the left side of the forehead."

"So it was murder?" Carlton breathed.

John gave a slow nod. "Don't quote me on it. Suicide is still possible. Only... a bit less likely."

Carlton's face cracked into a wide grin. "Excellent. Let's get started."

The pair found it easy to track down Kathy's friend Freya, who was sitting in a corner of the garden sniffling, staring at her friend's body. She had a scarf tightly wrapped around her naked arms, which had raised goosebumps from the cold.

"I can't believe it," she stammered. "Poor Kathy."

"You can help her by telling us as much as you can about the evening," River said kindly.

"We arrived at about half eight. We had a couple of drinks and then played blackjack for a while. Kathy and I did okay at first, but then I wanted to stop and she wanted to continue. She kept on playing - blackjack, roulette, the slot machines, everything - and kept on losing. Soon she was broke, and borrowing everything I had too. I tried to persuade her to come home, I'd pay for her taxi and everything. But she got chatting with a guy who offered to lend her some money. He looked pretty serious - I tried to tell her not to - but she was convinced she'd win it back straight away. When she didn't... she started crying and getting panicky. She said she was going to the bathroom, but - she must have come out here." Freya began to cry again.

"When you say 'we'..." began Carlton.

"Me, Kathy, and Ben, her boyfriend," said Freya. "Ben's gone in to the bar."

Ben didn't have much to say other than corroborating Freya's story. "I guess Kathy just couldn't take losing so much," he muttered, biting his lip to stop the grief showing on his face. He swirled his cocktail glass once before draining the contents and placing it beside the three empty glasses that stood already on the bar. Clearly he was planning to drown his sorrows tonight.

He took out another small pile of cash, bound in the way winnings always were, extracted a twenty and pushed it across the bar. "Same again," he grunted.

River watched as he sipped at another glass. "She lost a lot?"

"More than she had," nodded Ben. "And more than she knew she could pay back."

"Whom did she owe?" asked Carlton.

"She called him Gold, but I don't think it was his real name. He had half a dozen gold teeth and had some serious gold jewellery."

"You didn't stop her trying to borrow money?" asked River, skeptically.

Ben slammed down his glass. "Of course I did!" His eyes, red with alcohol and tears, glared at her from under thick brows. "I didn't want her getting involved with him. But she insisted, she wouldn't stop..." Tears leaked from under his lids; he sat back down, back to the world. Silently, the pair left him to it.

Gold was not difficult to spot. In a corner of the room, two heavily built men in black stood either side of a squat dark-skinned man, matching the description. A gold ring twinkled on his left little finger, and it did not escape Carlton's notice that he wore a gun holster on his hip.

An empty gun holster.

Quickly, he pulled River back into the crowd.

"We can't go and talk to him, he'll guess we're cops and we won't get out of here," he muttered in River's ear. "He's probably got wind that we're here already, so we can't send you in as bait or anything."

"Just as well, because I am not bait," she hissed back. "But isn't it obvious? Haven't we got our guy?"

Carlton shook his head. "In a law court, he'd just claim that the casino bans firearms and so left it outside, or that Kathy stole it from him herself. No, we're going to need more evidence."

River chuckled. "Okay. Then that's what we're going to get."

Answer (highlight to read): Kathy had no money and had resorted to borrowing from a potentially deadly and armed loan shark. What kind of boyfriend lets her do that without lending her any of his big stash? Ben is the killer - he stole Gold's gun and shot Kathy.

The Fast Food Robbery

Carlton took no notice of the delivery boy’s obvious distress as he shivered from cold and shock in his flimsy uniform. “Go over what happened again,” he ordered.

Robbie nodded. “We’d received a big order for a party, so I loaded up the van and set off. As soon as I arrived, I knocked, delivered the fast food and received the payment of £572.50 in cash. It was a lot of money, so I counted it quickly and wanted to get back to the store as soon as possible.”

“And then?” Carlton pressed, his pen hovering over the notebook.

Robbie nervously looked up at the police detective, who loomed almost a foot above him. “Well, I was opening the van door when a man jumped out from behind the bushes with a gun. He waved it in my face and demanded that I give him the money. I was so scared I just handed it straight over. Then he demanded the van keys, got in and drove off.”

Carlton had finished noting down the boy’s story. “Would you be able to describe him to a police sketch artist?”

Regretfully, he shook his head. “He was wearing a mask. I only knew he was above average height, fairly heavily built, with a couple of days of stubble and dark hair. Sorry I can’t be more accurate.”

“Hey, sir!” A uniform came running over, sweat running down his pink face. He paused in front of Carlton, breathing heavily as he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

Carlton sighed. “Spit it out, Brent, for god’s sake.”

“We’ve – we’ve found the van, sir. It was – dumped only a few streets away.”

Carlton’s eyes lit up. “Show me,” he commanded, and whirled round to Robbie. “Can you come with us to identify it?”

The van had been clumsily driven into a ditch and dumped there at a precarious angle, its rear wheels sticking out into the road. Carlton ducked easily under the police tape surrounding it and greeted the officers who were swabbing it for prints.

“That’s the van, alright,” said Robbie, nervously. “I know the number plate.”

Carlton nodded. “What are you guys getting?”

A blond uniform emerged from the boot. “Where’s River?” was his first question.

“On holiday in Seville,” Carlton answered curtly. “Now answer my question, Curtis.”

Good-humouredly, Curtis grinned. “Okay. We’ve only got one set of prints here, and my guess is that they match yours, Robbie.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nope. Looks like your man was wearing gloves.”

Carlton shrugged. “It was a bit of a long shot. Let’s have a look inside.”

He opened the door and got in the driver’s seat, and then swore sharply as he tried to squeeze his long legs in.  After sliding back the seat, he examined the glove compartment, panniers and seat wells, all of which were empty.

“I think our bird has flown,” muttered Curtis, as Carlton emerged from the van.

Carlton gave his curious half-smile, the kind he always did when he knew something others did not.

“What?” Curtis demanded, and Carlton’s smile broadened.

“I think if we search hard enough, we’ll find our guy,” he commented.

Who is the thief, and where should they look?

Answer (highlight to read): If there really was an “above average height” villain, why did Carlton struggle to get in the car? It must have been driven by someone shorter – i.e. Robbie. He was making up the story of thief and stole the money himself.

The Three Red Heads

"Thank you, guys, thank you!" Danny struck a chord on his guitar, and the screaming crowd quietened a fraction. "You guys mean so much to us, thank you for coming tonight. I'm afraid that was our last song, we're going to have to leave you now. So, let's hear it for our band members one last time, I give you... Harry!"

Harry gave the crowd a dramatic drum roll and a twinkle of a smile as the crowd roared.

"Lucy!" cried Danny again, and Lucy waved and winked at the audience. "And me, Danny!" he finished, as the crowd screamed. "Okay, folks, thank you once again, this is the Three Red Heads saying goodnight!"

They headed offstage as quickly as they could, hoping to beat the crowd out of there. Danny slung his guitar over his shoulder - he was never parted from it, even for a second - and the other two followed him out of the club.

The streets were already lined with people, mainly teenagers, waving pieces of paper and shouting their names. Danny, his arm protectively around Lucy's waist, made his way down the row, signing as he went. Harry was less lucky - his round baby-face and russet-red hair made him a target for girls, one of whom literally threw herself at him from the crowd. Apologizing and flushing pink, he was saved by a security guard, who quickly bundled him into the taxi with the others.

Lucy laughed. "Survived, Harry?"

He gave her a sheepish grin, pulling off his gloves to reveal hands blossoming with bruises above the knuckles. "Just about."

Danny slicked back his shoulder-length bright red hair into a ponytail. "That was the maddest gig we've ever done, for sure," he nodded, as Lucy snuggled into his arm.

The taxi ride was short, and it wasn't long before they reached their hotel, and were hurried up to their room by back stairs to avoid the fans waiting for them at the door. Joking and bickering, they walked in, slightly later than their published end time.

The smiles drained from their faces.

"What the hell was all that about?" Jen was sitting in her usual chair in the middle of the room, glaring at them. She rose, and ran a hand through her hair as she always did when she was mad. "That was a shambles," she began again, her voice dangerously low. "Sit down."

Obediently, they sat.

"Ten minutes it took you from the end of your last song to leaving the stage. Ten minutes of thank yous and goodbyes and I love yous. You're supposed to be wrapping up the show quickly, not getting into bed with the fans! And then there was Harry at the end - what the hell? You know you're supposed to walk with your guard to avoid exactly that sort of thing happening. If you think that fame will cut you any slack from me, you've got another think coming."

They sat in shocked silence for a moment. "It was a great gig," Danny said, slowly. "We did good."

"I don't give a damn how good you are!" Jen screamed. "No-one cares! It's your public image!"

Danny jumped up. "No, Jen! It's us! We did good tonight! And what did we get from you? Not a single thanks or congratulations - just criticism, criticism, criticism! Don't forget that it's us who hired you, so as you'd help us! We're adults and perfectly capable of looking after ourselves!"

"How dare you?" hissed Jen. "After all I've done for this band -"

"No. We made this band what it was. And don't you forget it!" Shaking with anger, he ran from the room and slammed the door.

"Danny!" cried three voices, simultaneously - Jen furiously, Lucy and Harry pleadingly.

Lucy rose to follow him, but Harry held her back. "I'd better go. He listens to me." At her nod, he followed him out.

"Damn him," cursed Jen. "This'll be all over the press tomorrow, and it'll all be his fault."

"Don't you speak about him like that!" Lucy jumped up. "I'm not saying he was right to yell at you, he wasn't. But at the same time, he's right. We are adults, Jen. I appreciate that you've done loads to help us get here -"

"Help you? I flaming pushed you!"

"- but we made the music. We gave an amazing show tonight. There's no need to berate us like that."

Jen silently turned to Harry, who had just slipped back into the room. "You turning traitor too?"

Harry flushed a deep red. He was useless at arguments. "You've done so much for us, Jen," he began, quietly. "But, um, I still think they have a point. You see -"

Jen didn't let him finish. "I've given my life for this band," she said, perilously quiet. "All my money went on you. Everything. Tours, gigs, the lot. Not just money - my time, too. I've traveled everywhere with you guys. Made this band from a school disaster to world-famous in just four years. And this is how you repay me."

"Not like that, Jen," pleaded Lucy. "We still want you around, you've done so much for us."

"We don't all get what we want!" she screamed. Heading to the table, she drank the remainder of her cocktail in one go, before stalking out of the room.

Lucy sat down, heavily. "Oh my god," she breathed.

Harry looked over at her, wanting to say something comforting. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "It'll be okay once they've both cooled down," he promised. "You know what their tempers are like."

She smiled at him. "I hope you're right, but I doubt Danny will have her back any more. He's been thinking of letting her go for ages. She's not really one of us any more."

Harry chuckled. "Redhead by name, but not by nature. Bit like Danny, really."

Lucy laughed out loud at that, and then glanced down at Harry's hand, which was still resting on her shoulder. She discovered that she did not really want it to move.

"Sorry," he muttered, and slid it away, but not before his eyes had brushed hers.

A scream broke into their silence, and Jen stumbled back against the door. "I - oh my god -" she slurred incoherently, her breath coming in panicky gasps. "It's Danny - he's -"

But Lucy had already flown out of the door and into Danny's room. "He's dead!" came her horrified sob.

Harry bolted after her. "Dead? Oh my god -" He stared down at Danny's body, slumped over the bed. A pillow, now tossed aside, was stained with his stage make-up, which had been held over his mouth and nose. A yellowish bruise on his right arm indicated a serious struggle.

"What's going on?" Jen pushed the hotel manager out of the room and locked the door, but not before he'd had a glimpse of Danny, with Harry holding the now hysterical Lucy in his arms. "What? Let me in!"

Who killed Danny? Jen, Harry, Lucy, or an enraged fan?

Answer (highlight to read): Harry killed him. The fact that the bruise on Danny's arm was yellow indicates that it was from an old fight. Harry has bruises on his arm consistent with a fight a few days ago. The two boys have been fighting over Lucy for longer than that, and Harry took advantage of the argument to kill him.