Page 145 of Without a Clue

Hugh laughs. “Without some incompetence, the competent don’t rise to the occasion.”

I guess that’s true.

I guess . . . everybody’s mind-numbing, absolutely infuriating carefree attitude about everything is precisely what drove me to solving this thing.

“Tell us,” Hugh says, “what was the final clue that led to your breakthrough?”

He swings the microphone on its stand my way, like we’re in a lecture hall now and not exactly where we are. Onstage. In a basement. Of a cruise ship.

I hesitate. This really is the finale of his workshops, and the finale of the cruise, and here I am, the finale guest. “I . . . I don’t know where to begin,” I say. “There were several clues. The knife in Nash’s bag, for one. I remembered the same weapons found in different hands played out in your book Twice Down the River.”

Hugh wags a finger as he grins at me, then the audience. “She’s a smart one, folks. This, my friends, is the brain behind all my research. She can tell you more about my books than I can. Alright, so go on. What else led you to the discovery?”

“Well, in this case, everyone had a bloody knife on their person or property that could be linked to them. Everybody was guilty; ergo, nobody really was. At first I found the knife in Crystal’s room and initially was led to believe she was guilty, but then after I realized Neena had lied about her anxiety medication and it was really mints, I went hunting in Nash’s room. Soon enough, it became clear everyone had the weapon.”

“Good. And . . . ?”

“And then,” I begin tentatively, “there was the strange way everybody reacted during the trip. At first they were devastated, but one by one they all took on surprising characteristics. Almost as though they wanted to be guilty. Neena hinted that she was deeply hurt, possibly to the point of committing murder, after you ditched her years ago from engagement—”

Hugh laughs at that. “I liked that one.”

“And yet I realized she’s in love with Gordon.”

Neena makes an uncomfortable grunting sound, and I swivel my head to her to see she looks openly embarrassed by the public announcement. “Well,” she says, fanning herself, “guess the cat’s out of the bag.”

“Jackie claimed you had discovered she has a ghostwriter—”

“I do not,” Jackie calls out tersely for all to hear.

“And that perhaps you would have used that information against her. Except for the fact Jackie is the most rigidly academic person I know.”

Jackie’s chin tips up. “Thank you.”

“Ricky was terrifying in general—”

“Ricky didn’t have a character role,” Hugh interrupts. “Ricky was just Ricky, except for his task of handing you the fake letter.”

So Ricky is just in general terrifying. That tracks.

“The security was funny. Pogache had a hard time stringing together an investigation and was grossly overinterested in hoverboards while missing actual weapons entirely—”

“Again,” Bob calls out in a give him a break way, “seventeen.”

“There were just several things.”

“Tremendous. The murder mystery that ends in a karaoke party. A riot of an end. Now. As for this book.” Hugh gently takes the computer from my hands. He swivels it around. “Let’s take a look, shall we? Let’s see what our future great American mystery writer has in store for us.”

Hugh brings the laptop over to a barstool and sits down onstage, resting the laptop on his knees.

It’s the oddest of experiences. Everybody, all the fellow book lovers and readers and novice writers, wait with bated breath while we watch Hugh’s expression shift from the laughable, easygoing man I’ve known day in and day out for five years to what I term “professor mode.”

Laser focused on the manuscript.

Tiny ripples of seriousness on his forehead.

Eyes that remain in a permanent squint as he reads line by line.

Professionally speaking, Hugh’s fellow authors, publicists, and editorial team love when he does this.