Bell, Book, and Scandal

the long line for food and glanced around and discovered at least three Arthur Conan Doyles, two of them accompanied by his creation, Sherlock Holmes. The third one was with a group of women who were dressed as grubby little boys—Doyle’s Baker Street Irregulars.
    There were also at least half a dozen Miss Marples with their knitting, prissy dresses, purses, and frumpy hats. Several men and a few women had attended as Hercule Poirot.
    There was a whole flock of 1930s butlers in their black uniforms who were gathered together laughing. A few maids of the same era, some quite glamorous, were on the fringes of this boisterous group, with drinks on plastic trays.
    Many of the costumes eluded them. Several ladies were dressed in floral clothing from the Golden Era of Mystery, with big floppy hats and strings of cheap fake pearls. These must have been minor characters from books featuring deadly garden parties. One gentleman wore golf trousers that Jane remembered were called bags and looked a bit like the huge flapping jeans that teenage boys wore nowadays. Except that they were gaitered up at the knees.
    Shelley muttered, “You’d have to put a cattle prod to my temple to force me to dress up like that.“
    “I think it’s sort of cute. But for myself, I agree. Hey, Shelley, let’s have our pictures taken with the butlers and maids.“
    “Heaven forbid!“
    “Don’t be a spoilsport,“ Jane said as they finally approached the food tables.
    They loaded up on tiny ham sandwiches, chips, dips, salads, and desserts as if they hadn’t eaten for weeks, then looked for a place to sit. Tables for eight were scattered through the room. Some were fully occupied. Most had a few empty spots. They spotted Felicity, surrounded by fans, and Jane put down her drink in order to slip Felicity’s lunch bill into her hand. She was blessed with a grateful smile and a wink.
    “We want a table with two places together, don’t we?“ Jane asked Shelley as they balanced their full plates and wove their way with caution through the banquet room.
    Neither of them was still wearing her tag and most of the others weren’t either, so when they found a spot and asked if they could join the strangers, they were welcomed with introductions. Shelley said she was Enid Potts and Jane said she was Olga Strange.
    There were two published authors at the table who cheered them and asked them to sign their copies of Miss Mystery’s picture for posterity. Obviously they’d checked Miss Mystery’s web site this morning.
    Shelley said, “We are not lesbians, we’re neighbors; Enid and Olga aren’t our real names; and neither of us has ever been to Alaska.“
    The authors laughed heartily about how well they’d misled Miss Mystery.
    Jane whispered to Shelley, “Aren’t you glad we didn’t go home earlier? It’s fun to pretend to be celebrities. We should grab a few of these pictures if they’re still around and sign them to ourselves.“
    A man lurched by their table. A very tall man, wearing heavy shoes that looked as if they’d been built up somehow to make him taller. Jane glimpsed him in profile as he passed, and saw that he was wearing a Frankenstein mask.
    “Who’s that?“ Jane asked the man sitting next to her.
    “Sophie Smith’s assistant. Corey or some name like that,“ he said.
    “Corwin,“ Jane muttered. He was the last person, aside from Sophie Smith, she would have expected to be in costume. He reminded her of the horrifying glass man in her awful dream. Something about the way he moved. She involuntarily shuddered and tried to put away the memory.
    “Are you cold?“ Shelley asked.
    “No. Someone just walked over my grave.“
    “I wonder where that old phrase comes from?“ Shelley said, setting off quite a discussion among the others at the table.
    The talk then veered to whether Frankenstein was really classed as a mystery. Most thought it was, but one woman claimed it was a twisted love story. The man sitting next to Jane declared it pure horror.
    Soon waiters hovered nervously from table to table, asking people if they were finished and clearing plates. Another crew of wait staff was taking away the food that was left on the serving tables, and leaving only the drinks.
    At the head table, which had been empty during the meal, half a dozen people started assembling. The room became quiet and a short woman took the podium and fiddled with the microphone, finally forcing it down far enough to be heard.
    “I