MYSTERY MANIA MAY 11, 2016

After completing the two mysteries with your partner, you are to complete the information below in GOOGLE DOC.  Save it as a document....call it MYSTERY 2016.  There are FOUR mysteries to read and solve.  

SHARE THE DOCUMENT WITH ME AND A FRIEND IN YOUR CLASS. 

Name:________________________       Title of story: _________________

Use the chart below to record facts or clues from the reading and your thinking about these facts that could help you solve the mystery.  If necessary, use the back.

FACTS/CLUES FROM THE TEXT:	WHAT I’M THINKING ABOUT THE FACT/CLUE:
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Now reread your chart and answer the following questions:

1.  Which clues made you do a lot of thinking? 

2.  Why do you think these clues are important? 

3.  Where did the crime take place? 

4.  Who are the suspects? 

5.  What are their motives? 

6.  Are there any red herrings? If so, what? 

7.  Name 1-2 important conclusions or ideas you thought about while reading: 

8.  Solve the mystery: 

"The Writers' Retreat" by Richard Ciciarelli

Solve-it #292 - March 2006

Originally appeared July 1998

An author took all his ideas from others. Who took his life from him?

"Ken Moyer was a plagiarist, a thief," Sheri Lathrp said. She was speaking to Police Chief Tom Wayfare. "He stole story ideas, characters, plot twists...anything he could."

"Yeah," Henry Dana agreed. "Then he'd crank out a detailed plot outline, get it to Hawthorn Publishers before us, and we'd have to rework our books because no publisher will put out two similar books."

"So you all hated him?"

"We write suspense novels," Bert Ticotin explained. "The plot is everything. Of course we hated him."

"Then why were you all here together?"

"We had no choice," said Bert. "We're all under contract to Hawthorn. They arranged for all of us to spend a week here getting our new books outlined and organized."

"And you all claim to have been asleep last night when we figure Moyer was killed?"

All three authors nodded.

"Okay. You may all return to your rooms, but don't leave this property until I say so."

After the writers had left, Wayfare strolled back through the spring growth of the Maryland woods to the office of Jack Comstock, owner of Comstock's Retreat.

"What do you know about all this?" Wayfare asked.

"Not much. I found Moyer's body this morning by the fountain as I was going to the writers' condo units to wake them for breakfast. We rent out rooms to authors who want to work on their books with no interruptions. Our apartments have no telephones, no televisions, no radios...nothing that might distract the writers from their work."

"And their publishers pay for this?"

"Not always. In fact, usually the writers come here on their own. Hawthorn's sending us four of their people is very unusual."

"Do you believe Ken Moyer was a literary thief?"

"I've heard others who came here make comments about not discussing a work-in-progress with him. These three are not the only ones to accuse Moyer of plagiarism."

"And these writers -- where do they originally come from?"

"All over," Comstock said. "Bert Ticotin is from London, Henry Dana is from Chicago, and Sheri Lathrop is from Portland, Oregon. The retreat is well known. My family's been running it for three generations. As I said, the only unusual thing about this group is that they were sent here by their publisher and didn't come on their own."

Chief Wayfare was about to ask another question when he was interrupted by his lieutenant.

"We just checked Moyer's apartment," the lieutenant said. "It's been torn apart. Somebody was pretty desperate to find something in there."

"I wonder if it was a plot synopsis, something Moyer had stolen." Wayfare rubbed his chin.

"Oh, and another thing," the lieutenant added. "The medical examiner pried open Moyer's closed fist. This was in it."

He handed Wayfare a crumbled ball of paper. Wayfare carefully opened up the wadded paper to reveal a note written in spiked handwriting. It was dated 12/4.

"I found an item you might be interested in, a rough outline for someone's plot that didn't make it into the paper shredder. If you're interested, meet me at the fountain at 10 tonight." It was unsigned.

"Well, looks like we were right about the time of death," Wayfare said. "Someone lured Moyer out last night, then bashed his head in with a rock."

"But who?" the lieutenant asked.

"According to Mr. Comstock, his only clients this week are Lathrop, Dana, Ticotin and Moyer, so that narrows our suspects down to three, four if you count Comstock himself. And I think I have an idea I know which one it was."

"The Deadly Safe House" by Gary Sensenig

Despite the cold, Officer Alex Morelli was sweating heavily as he stood in the front hall of the dingy safe house, waiting for a superior to show up and take charge of the strangled body on the floor. Morelli himself had been in charge of the body while it was alive and that, of course, was the reason for Morelli's sweat.

For two days, he'd been one of the guards assigned to Jake Fishel, a harmless accountant who'd been unlucky enough to witness a mob hit. The D.A. had begged Fischel to testify and vowed he would be kept safe from the long arm of the Popov crime family. Officer Morelli had stayed with Fischel, working 12-hour shifts and actually growing to like the meek, mousy witness. And now this.

The doorbell startled Morelli and he opened up to admit Captain Cromwell, a whirlwind in a rumpled suit that flapped in the frigid breeze.

Cromwell stared down at the corpse. "Why was he left alone?"

"I got a call from your office," Morelli stammered, pulling out his two-way radio as if it proved something. "I was ordered back to the stationhouse. They said another guard would take over. It was half an hour before I got wise and got back here."

"Just because it came on the right frequency, you didn't think to question it? The Popovs have connections, you idiot. They own people." The captain sighed. "Who all had keys?"

"I had the only set. I told Fischel not to open up for anyone. When I closed the door, it locked behind me, then I heard him throw the deadbolt. You know him, Captain. He wasn't a reckless guy."

Cromwell knelt by the body. "Strangled from behind. Probably a wire. Who would Fischel open the door for? Who knew he was here? It's time we got answers."

The captain grabbed his overcoat from a hook and led the way to his car. Morelli grabbed his own coat and followed.

The first lead came from the safe house's phone records. Just the previous night, the victim had sneaked a call to Luther Dross, his brother-in-law. "My wife's in intensive care," Luther told the officers when they visited him at his locksmith shop across town. "Jake and her were real close. Jake was worried and wanted the latest news about her condition. We talked for maybe five minutes. He knew it was against the rules and he never told me where he was."

The captain pulled a notepad and pen from his coat. "Where were you today around two?"

"Is that the time of death?" Luther asked weakly. "I was installing locks in a new apartment complex on Prospect Road. Some of the workmen must have seen me. I came back here to clean up before going to the hospital. Can I go now?"

Officer Morelli came up with the case's second lead. Four months ago, he remembered using this same safe house to protect Buddy Banks, a mob informer. When the D.A. was trying to convince Fischel to testify, he brought in Buddy to calm the accountant's nerves and tell him how safe protective custody could be. "Buddy knew where the safe house was. He had mob connections. And Fischel knew him, so he might have opened the door."

Banks had moved 20 miles away and changed his name. Cromwell and Morelli tracked him down to a phone company where he worked as a directory assistance operator. Cromwell showed his badge and had the former informer sent out on a break. He told him the news.

"Wow," Banks said and looked sick to his stomach. "I feel terrible. If I hadn't talked him into testifying, he'd still be alive."

"Did Fischel make contact with you?"

"No, I swear. I only saw him that once in the D.A.'s office. And I had no way of knowing they'd send him to that safe house."

"You could have found out."

"Look, I've cut my ties to that whole world. I work 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. every day, and I'm straight as an arrow."

Cromwell and Morelli drove the 20 miles back to the city, turning everything over in their minds. "The killer always makes a mistake," the captain mumbled.

"Yes," Morelli agreed.

They both stayed silent for the rest of the drive.

The Case of the Ruined Roses Solve-it 28

featuring
Nina Chase and Max Decker

"That was a neat program on UFO's," said Nina to her cousin Max as they walked down the street. "I think what really amazed me was that UFO's were reported as early as 1800."
"That's pretty hard to believe," said Max. "Anyway, do you really believe there are such things?" Nina started to answer when they heard a loud scream coming from Coach Thornton's house.
"Come on," shouted Max. They ran into the yard where the coach was staring at ten rose bushes that had been pulled from the ground.
"Look at that!" he demanded. "Just look at that."
"That's terrible," cried Nina. "Who could have done it?"
Coach Thornton looked disgusted. "I had to bench three of my best football players for cutting class. They were pretty mad at me."
"First thing, we'd better get these roses back in the ground," said Max. "Then we'll figure out who did it."
Nina and Max helped Coach Thornton replant the roses. Then he invited them in for milk and cookies.
"Now," said Nina. "Am I right? You benched Sam Cartland, Mike Brooks, and Alex Avery."
"And you lost the game," added Max.
The coach rubbed his eyes. "I know, but rules are rules."
"I'll bet one of them did it to get even," said Nina. "How about we nose around a little?"
"Let's see," said Max after they left. "Coach said the roses were all right when he looked out at nine. But shortly after ten, he found them pulled up."
"So, we check to see who doesn't have an alibi between nine and ten. Look!" Nina pointed. "There's Alex Avery over at the Dairy Bar."
Alex looked up as they came in. "Hi kids," he drawled.
"Hello, yourself," said Max. "We missed seeing you in the football game."
"That was a bummer all right. But I guess the coach didn't have any choice."
"Where you been all morning?" asked Nina.
"I've been right here since nine." He turned to the girl behind the counter. "Isn't that right, Amy?"
"Uh huh. You helped me carry in that heavy box."
"So you weren't anywhere near Coach Thornton's house?" asked Max.
Alex looked surprised. "No, I'm not mad at him, but I don't intend to visit him."
After they left, Nina looked down the street. "That's Sam Cartland's house. Let's see what he's been doing."
"What do you two want," growled Sam when he came to the door.
"Hey, lighten up, Sam," said Max. "Can we talk with you?"
"Sure, come on in." He pressed a button on his remote control and turned off his VCR. "I've been watching some football tapes to improve my game."
"We wondered what you were doing between nine and ten this morning," said Nina.
"I was right here watching that program on UFO's."
"That was a good program," said Nina. Remember when that guy from Roswell, New Mexico insisted he had been abducted?"
"Yeah," laughed Sam. "The one with the bushy hair. Funny how this has been going on for so long. That pilot, Kenneth Arnold, started it back in 1947 with the stuff he saw."
"Very interesting," said Max, trying not to look bored. "But we have to get going."
"Maybe we can find Mike Brooks working out at the gym," said Nina as they left.
"Probably," agreed Max.
They found him on the treadmill. "Hey, you two want to join down here? It's a great place to work out."
"Not right now," said Max. "We were wondering about what you were doing from nine to ten this morning."
"Right here. You can check the log book. Why?"
"Just curious," said Nina with a smile as they went back to the desk. Sure enough, Mike had signed in at five of nine.
This is great," Nina groaned. "They all have alibis."
"I'm not so sure of that," said Max.

Solve-it 27
	The Case of the Disappearing Dimes

featuring
Nina Chase and Max Decker

Nina had expected her great-great uncle's house to be like mansions in the movies, with marble columns and rose gardens, not peeling paint and a weed- filled lawn. But Dad explained that Waldo hated spending money, except on his collections.
Nina's parents thought the kids were playing outside. Instead, they snuck into the candlelit parlor.
"Your Mom will freak out if she catches us," Nina's cousin Max muttered.
"I know. But Uncle Waldo traveled a lot and I never got to meet him while he was alive. I just want to see what he looks like."
"At least turn on some lights," Max grumbled. "This is creepy."
"Didn't you hear the lawyer talking to Mom and Dad? Uncle Waldo called the parlor his 'candle room.' He never had it wired for electricity." She crept over to the coffin and peered inside.
Waldo wore a tuxedo with a ruffled shirt and red cummerbund. His white hair was neatly combed, his nails manicured, and his diamond stickpin and silver cufflinks glittered in the candlelight.
"He looks nice," Nina whispered.
Max took one glance inside, then pulled Nina away from the coffin. "Weird," he said. "I didn't think people wore tuxedos when they were buried."
"He liked it. Dad said Uncle Waldo even had his portrait painted wearing this exact same outfit. He put it in his will that he wanted to be dressed for his funeral exactly the way he is in that portrait."
Max shivered. "I wonder who had to dress him?"
"Harvey, Waldo's assistant."
"Like a butler?"
"Sort of."
"So he really was rich. Hey, your Dad was kidding about inheriting twenty cents, right?"
Nina led her cousin back down the hall. "Well, Waldo did leave Dad two dimes. But Mercury is facing the wrong way or something, and that makes them worth a lot of money. Mom said it was enough to pay my way through college someday."
"Cool."
"Uncle Waldo's daughter, Fiona, inherited the house and all this stuff." They entered the study where Nina's parents were talking to the lawyer, Mr. Baxter. Max gawked at Waldo's "collections." Display cases everywhere were filled with jewel-encrusted objects.
Harvey, Waldo's assistant, handed glasses of lemonade to the kids, then left. Nina thought he looked as sour as the drink tasted.
"Fiona arrived earlier, but you probably won't see her until the funeral tomorrow," the lawyer was saying. "Waldo requested burial near his gazebo. Harvey will dig the grave himself."
"Poor Harvey," Dad murmured.
Baxter nodded. "At least Waldo set up a trust that will continue to pay Harvey's salary, small as it is. Now, would you like to see the dimes?"
In the master bedroom upstairs, the lawyer twirled the combination lock on a wall safe while Nina studied the painting of Waldo that hung above the fireplace. Decked out in his tux, ruffled shirt, jade cufflinks and diamond stickpin, he seemed to wink down at her.
Baxter removed a box from the safe and opened it.
Everyone gasped. The box was empty.
"Impossible!" the older man exclaimed. "They were here an hour ago."
"The safe isn't damaged," Mom remarked. "How many people know the combination?".
He frowned. "Just myself, Fiona and Harvey. I'd better call the police."
"Go ahead," Dad said. "But no matter who stole the dimes, they're small enough to be hidden anywhere. Even if the police tear the house apart, I'll bet they never find them." Nina stood up, staring at the portrait. "I think I know who took the dimes," she whispered to Max. "And if I'm right, I know where they are."