Murder, She Wrote: Murder Most Trivial

Chapter One

Seth Hazlitt opened the door of Riley's for me, and I'll admit I hesitated to look around the room. The promise of a "genuine" Irish pub experience here in Cabot Cove, Maine, was one I found intriguing yet, I feared, was doomed to disappoint (not for lack of advertising).

My friend Dan Andrews, the editor of our local paper and a principal investor, had been crowing about nothing else for months. His partners, Pierce and Riley Collymore, couldn't be more excited. That Riley hailed from the Emerald Isle herself and would be active in managing the establishment was slightly encouraging. I loved to hear Pierce, who was also Cabot Cove's fire chief, enthuse about how his aging father, who had tended bar for many years in Vermont, seemed reanimated at the prospect of getting his hands on the taps again.

But as much as I respected the owners and wished them success, my travels had taken me to visit the real McCoys, so to speak, as well as the real Raffertys, O'Flanagans, and multiple Paddys, and I found myself sadly dubious that this new venture, however well intended, could live up to those treasured experiences.

"There's Mort and Maureen," Seth said. I kept my gaze down, even as my good friend took my arm and directed me through the bustling opening-night crowd. Strains of flute and fiddle from a live ensemble somewhere in the corner permeated the congenial hubbub. Rustic wood floors appeared authentic enough, but I found it a bit sad to think that the age and distress they showed was the result of the tireless work of creative designers and contractors, and not the trudging of generations of brogues and hobnailed boots.

It wasn't until after I greeted Mort, hugged Maureen, and then slid into a green (faux?) leather booth that I allowed myself to take in my surroundings. No, it wasn't a genuine Irish pub, at least not as I recalled them. For one, the ceilings, although a dark tin that seemed to set the correct mood, were far too high. There would be no ducking through ancient doorways here. Still, the lighting was suitably dim, and the walls above the dark wood wainscoting were painted with darker hues and covered with Irish artwork, signage, and memorabilia, probably a mixture of reproductions and a few imported from across the pond.

"Isn't this great?" Maureen said, and I spared a moment to survey the rest of the room before answering.

The ubiquitous neon Guinness sign was prominent over the mahogany bar, the back wall of which was stocked to the ceiling with an ambitious collection of whiskey, a few bottles of which I recognized as imports. Pierce's father was all smiles as he drew a foamy pint and set it before a customer. A group of raucous fishermen trash-talked over a dart game nearby. The collective odors of alcohol, fried cod, and malt vinegar were present, but without that faint hint of old pipe tobacco left behind by generations gone. Not that I was ever a smoker, but my late husband, Frank, favored an occasional pipe, which was probably why I missed it. Present, however, were a convivial atmosphere and laughter.

"They've done a remarkable job," I finally acknowledged.

"I'm so glad you could come, Jessica!" Riley Collymore stood at the side of our table and shouted to be heard above the din. Her natural brogue, which had begun to fade from years of living in the United States, had returned in full force for the occasion. Her auburn hair hung in loose curls, and her simple but stylish green dress pulled out the color in her eyes. "So, what do you all think?"

"It's gorgeous," Maureen piped up first. We'd discussed my apprehensions, and I suspected she was trying to spare me an awkward moment.

"It truly is," I said.

"Is it always so loud?" Seth asked.

Riley shrugged. "I have no way to answer that, since it's only opening night, but I certainly hope so!"

Seth scowled and tugged on his ear.

"Lighten up, Doc," Mort said.

Riley laughed and took our drink orders.

When she was out of earshot, Mort leaned forward against the table. "So, how does our resident expert on Irish pubs think this one rates?"

I sent Maureen a sidelong glance for giving me up. "I must say, it comes pretty close."

"Look again." Seth gestured to all the people enjoying the busy bar. "I visited a few of those watering holes myself on that last trip to Ireland, and I honestly don't see how they could have done a finer job."

"Not without violating any health or building codes," I joked.

Riley came with a tray and set our drinks in front of us. "Know what you'd care to eat yet?"

"Not yet." Mort handed us each a menu. "Seems I've been hogging the menus." He turned back to Riley. "What appetizers are most popular tonight?"

"Most folks have been ordering the potato skins, perhaps because they're familiar, or the Scotch eggs, if they want to try something new. But for this group . . . may I recommend our Reuben rolls?"

"That sounds great." Mort rubbed his hands together. "Bring us an order of those to share. And the Scotch eggs. I'm also in the mood to try something new."

Seth cleared his throat. "Hardly seems right to go to an Irish pub and not get some kind of potato."

"And the potato skins for those of us who'd like something familiar," Mort said, then took a sip of his beer.

"With that many appetizers, how will we find room for the entrées?" I asked.

"We'll make a way," Mort said. "After all, we have a lot to celebrate tonight. The opening of this great new addition to Cabot Cove, and Jessica, I gather by your presence here that your next book made its way to your publisher?"

"Just in the nick of time," I said.

"And I," Mort continued, "have got the best reason of all: a whole weekend off duty! That is, barring any new homicides." He cast me a warning look.

I held up my hands. "I certainly don't have any planned."

Mort laughed and raised his beer. "Then, cheers!"

"Sláinte." I clinked his glass with my mineral water. Seth and Maureen joined in the toast.

I split portions of each appetizer with Maureen, hoping to spare room for my entrée. I'd skimmed over the lighter fare of the menu, debating a salad, then scrutinized the grilled seafood options before remembering Seth's words that it didn't seem right not to order something with potato-or at least something more typically Irish-and opted for the shepherd's pie. Everything proved delicious, and by the time Riley had come to clear our plates and bring the dessert menu, I couldn't imagine taking another bite.

"But you can't skip out on dessert," Riley urged, slipping back into a heavier brogue. "Our Irish apple cake is me own nana's recipe, and our Baileys cheesecake is nothing to sneeze over. Besides, Dan is comping it for the whole table tonight!"

Mort put a hand on his bulging stomach and exhaled. "How about we take a break, then, and play some darts?" He pointed to the board where another group was just leaving. "Maybe work up an appetite. Me and Maureen against Mrs. F. and Doc?"

"Fine by me," Seth declared, not being one to give up on the offer of a free dessert.

"I haven't played in years," I said. "I don't think I'd be any good."

"That's what I'm counting on." Mort slid out of the booth and offered a hand to his wife.

Mort had reason to gloat, although Seth wasn't nearly as rusty as I was, and we made a near comeback at the end. When we finally settled back into our booth, Dan Andrews stopped by.

"You've done an amazing job here," I told him. "Might be the closest I've seen to an Irish pub in the States."

"That's high praise coming from her," Seth said. "I'd take it."

"And yet I hear you haven't availed yourself of my offer of dessert yet," Dan teased.

"Maybe coffee for me," I said. "I'm afraid with all the good food, I simply have no more room."

Maureen echoed my comment, but Seth's and Mort's faces drooped with disappointment.

"Well, I suppose you could wait on dessert until after pub trivia," Dan said airily.

"A trivia contest?" Mort asked.

"Yes, we're hoping to make it a regular event, so we thought we'd get in a few rounds tonight. We're accepting teams of three to five people, and I think you'd be great together. There's a very special surprise for the winning team."

"What is it?" Seth asked.

"If I told you, Doc, it wouldn't be a surprise."

"If we're allowed five members, there's room for one more," I said. "I don't suppose as co-owner you're allowed to join?"

"Sorry, Jess. As a matter of fact, I'm the quiz master!" He straightened his tie and laughed. "Sign-up is at the bar, and we start in about twenty minutes. Hope you'll stick around. I'll make sure someone brings out your coffee."

"What do you think?" Mort said. "Should I go sign us up?"

I peeked at my watch. In the morning I'd likely regret this decision. "Why not? Sounds like fun."


By the time trivia was due to begin, the live music had ended, the dinner swell had left, and the noise had dimmed a tad. Dan took up residence behind the microphone on the small stage the musicians had vacated. Competing teams were directed to the tables set up in front of the stage, and we pushed out of our comfy booth and carried our coffee cups over, then settled at a table.

"You do the writing, Mrs. F." Mort handed me the paper and pens that had been placed in the center of the table.

"Shouldn't that be something we all decide?" Seth asked, setting his hand on the pages.

Mort rolled his eyes. "I've seen samples of all of our handwriting, especially yours, Doc. I hoped it would be unanimous."

Seth grimaced but lifted his hand. "I'll admit, Jess does have the best handwriting."

"It's all those years of teaching school," I said, arranging the materials in front of me and pulling my reading glasses from my handbag.

"And all those years of you writing those illegible prescriptions, Doc," Mort teased.

I surveyed the competition. A team of college students wore matching sweatshirts, bearing the Greek letters of some fraternity. A group of young professionals, dressed as if they'd come directly from the office, were seated next to a team still wearing their scrubs, who had apparently just finished a shift at the hospital. Several tables were occupied by locals, including a group I recognized as high school teachers, and I suspected they'd be formidable opponents. A couple of tables were occupied by teams with unfamiliar faces, and I imagined they were tourists. Although Cabot Cove had grown over the years, I could still pick out most of the residents.

I barely had time to put on my glasses before Dan began going over the rules.

"First things first," he said, "and I hate to do this, but we're going to come around and collect cell phones. We live in a digital world, and it's too tempting for some to look up answers."

Mort raised his hand.

"Yes, Sheriff," Dan said, "you're excluded. Just keep it on the table, upside down, and on vibrate."

Seth raised his hand.

"Okay, you too, Doc." He scanned the room. "Any other first responders or health providers on call?"

Dan continued while Riley collected the cell phones into special numbered bins: "Since this is our first night, we're doing just three rounds of ten questions each. Instead of breaking after each round, I'll read off all the clues, then give you time to hash it out, so if you don't know the answer at first, you might want to jot down a few notes. Maybe discussing it with your teammates will help jog some memories. Then the scribes-for those new to trivia, that's what we call the person who records your responses-will fill in your official answer sheet. After you all have a chance to deliberate and duke it out-hopefully not literally-I'll read off the correct responses. The winning team will receive two great prizes tonight. The first is a fifty-dollar gift certificate to Riley's. And the second"-he pulled a small white envelope from his breast pocket and held it up to his forehead, in the style of the comedian Johnny Carson doing his old Carnac the Magnificent routine-"is an unforgettable surprise."

Since there wouldn't be time for discussion until all the questions were read, I quickly distributed my hoard of paper and pencils around the table.

One of the college boys raised his hand. "How will you know if a team tries to change their answers when you're reading off the right ones?"

I wasn't sure if he was asking because he feared others might cheat, or if he was exploring loopholes to use himself.

"That's where technology helps," Dan replied. "Just before I reveal the answers, we'll come take a cell-phone photo of your answer sheets. Fair enough?"

Dan plucked an envelope at random from a pile of about a dozen in front of him and said, "The first category is Books and Authors." He looked at me and shook his head, then pulled a card from the envelope. "Question one: Which fictional Belgian detective is known for using his 'little gray cells' to solve complicated mysteries?"

I'd started writing Poirot as soon as he'd uttered the words "Belgian detective." This was an easy category-I'd actually met two of the authors in my travels to various publishing and reader events-and the majority of the rest were names I'd either read or taught in one of my high school English classes.

I wish I could say I did as well in the other two categories-Name that Century and Award Winners, but as I watched my teammates scribbling down their answers, I was optimistic. Both Mort and Seth were ardent armchair historians. I knew that Mort also diligently kept up with sports and current events, and Seth, as a physician, knew his science. I caught Maureen smiling while writing the answer to what I thought was a particularly challenging pop culture question-at least for our demographic-and realized what a well-rounded team we were. Maybe we had a chance at a decent showing.

When it came time for discussions, our team had little, except for some conversation on the history questions. Even then, Mort and Seth weren't exactly disagreeing as much as they seemed to enjoy expounding on their answers. A little friendly one-upmanship in action. Only one question was in danger of coming to blows: a tricky one with Mort insisting the clue referred to the nineteenth-century Danish philosopher Kierkegaard, while Seth countered that it better described an early twentieth-century German philosopher named Heidegger, who was influenced by Kierkegaard.