Mystery-Maker

I make mysteries.

Oh that sounds eerie, just like that. It’s best to say: I assemble a plotline and compile different routes and clues by which a crime-enthusiast then meanders, in hopes of winning the satisfaction of unveiling a mystery and therefore the honour that comes with that level of Sherlock-holmian ability. Funnily enough, that has been the pushing factor for some users to go and enrol in the study of criminology or forensic science, but that’s not why I do it. My own fascination comes with that childish excitement you experience when working through the steps a real assailant or mysterious missing cake would make, without the necessity of dealing with an aftermath. Simply a good feeling and if you’re romantic, a moral.

“How’s that?” Lenna yelled, sliding her phone across the counter to her sister. The other peered at it scrutinizingly,

“No, it’s great, a great introduction page.” Her sister yelled back, preparing yet another drink for a drunk, dancing customer, “But that’s not what I meant with giving it a bit more life.” Lenna took back the phone with a huff. The music was blasting like sirens within her ears, and this was obviously no place to be conducting work – and yet here she was.

“Maybe, you should take over my website for me.” Lenna joked, “You seem to know your way around business better than I do.” Georgie dropped the sponge she was using.

“I’m not talking about business, Lenna.” She said, “I’m talking about livening up the woman behind the product.” Lenna’s brows formed a small dome. Georgie rolled her eyes,

“I’m talking about taking a break.” Georgie said, and to emphasise, pushed Lenna’s red drink closer towards her. The bakery, which was housing this event for the night, flashed its lights from white to red, as though in same opinion. Lenna flicked her brows upwards at that, dismissing the roof, but not completely settling them into their natural arches either. She took a sip, gingerly.

“I like to work.” She said. Now it was Georgie’s turn to sigh; a continuous ping pong match between them.

“Yes but taking a break is just as necessary. You have to refuel the creative juices somehow.” Lenna nodded.

“I know.” She stood up, “But I’ve got to work.” She grabbed her coat from the backside of the chair and flung it around her back, “Plus, technically, I’m not working. I’m literally creating an interactive mystery game.”

“Is it still the martian package?”

“Yep.” Lenna said, popping the ‘p’.

“Weren’t you going to move on from it this month? Make the next one?” Lenna opened her mouth to respond but the trap closed its fingers around her before she had time to realise.

“I’m still brainstorming..” She muttered, but she could feel her cheeks growing a complementary shade to her drink.

“Where are you going?” Georgie called.

“Home.”

“Len, that’s not safe. You’re drunk.”

“Better than being lectured by you.” She deflected. She felt exhausted but couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the word of work.

“See you.” Lenna said, stumbling off.

Upon arrival home, she meandered through the mess of boxes and barcode stickers that was the floor. She made her way towards the kitchen and grabbed the only thing not covered in vibrant colour or stripes which just happened to be another bottle. She sipped from the neck, engulfing the red liquid. Next thing she knew, it was morning and she was lying in a lake of it; the aftermath of fading out whilst holding a wine-bottle.

Being Lenna however, she recollected herself, cleaned up, and ignoring the previous night’s decisions (having already forgotten them anyway) instantly got to work. She continued with the usual packaging routine of sticking barcodes, covering the set in bubble wrap, placing it into the tinny covering. Then she reached for the next one, feeling herself the productive machine and was surprised to find the material not meeting expectation. Her eyes further popped out when she saw the colouring of the set: brown paper around the usual box. She started unpeeling the packaging, trying to remember how on earth she’d managed to convince herself that brown was in any way an appropriate colour for a ‘martian’ package, when she made the first prominent rip and saw that it wasn’t just the outside that was different. Lenna hastily uncovered the rest. She paused, placing down the box.

“Oh my god.” She said out loud. And Lenna never talked out loud to herself. She stood staring at it. Almost afraid to open it further; chewing on the inside of her cheek, her mechanic worry easer. A white box with no labels and no titles. Completely blank. She slowly began opening the lid and then at the last second flung it back - only to reveal her usual kit contents: a rolled-up sheet (the main drawing board for the user), a red highlighter (subordinate to the rolled-up paper), a manual on usage, and a sheet that introduced the mystery. A wave of relief flew through her – why, it was only her package but in a different box. She picked up the introduction paper just to doublecheck and started skim-reading the title, it had just been a packaging error, just a packaging error, just a… and then her eye read over the rest of it. And it was not her print. And the instructions were completely different. And it hadn’t just been a packaging mistake. She unfolded the paper further and began reading.

There has been a misplacing of an object. A purposeful misplacing of an object. That has landed in your lap. You have already fulfilled the first mission which is to open the box in the first place, but now comes the real challenge. You are to find out where this box came from. You are to understand the reason for its appearance. Frankly, you are to embark on a mission to understand why anyone would ever do this.

Lenna read the paragraph, and reread it again to make sure she was not imagining it. A part of her wanted it to be a ruse, a five second disjointment between her eyes and reality, but as she reread and reread the scraggly words for the umpteenth time again, the more the words solidified, and the more there was no denying it. Lenna took out the rolled-up sheet and flattened it out. Printed at the top: ‘list of suspects’ in bold black letters, followed by images and textboxes below each; the absurdity of using her own kit but re-inventing it to fit the mystery-maker’s desire… there was only one option. The problem with creating a mystery for another mystery-maker to solve, was that Lenna was highly experienced in the art of decoding. All she had to do was construct a list of everyone she had seen in the past week (and there were not a lot due to her hectic working schedule) and one of them would happen to have made it. Someone with enough desire, someone with sufficient access to her home and someone with the audacity to get her into such a fix. Lenna popped the lid off the red highlighter and got to work, working just as she did when she was drafting the mysteries for her own packages. She dragged the red highlighter along the page and formed a timeline of all the events and people she’d gone to and been at during the past week. She started with the bakery she’d been the previous night, and Georgie coming over to her house to drop off a box of cakes and… that was it. That was all she’d done this week. Maybe there should have been a moment of desperation, of life-rethinking but Lenna wouldn’t give herself time to think. She raced off, back to the bakery.

The bakery hung in its familiar scent of sweet cinnamon, though unlike the night before, tinted in more mellow colours than eye-piercing. The sign of ‘closed’ caught her eye, but it wouldn’t stop her. The little bell atop the door announced her arrival as cheerfully as she was about to be greeted,

“Hello Cherub!” Her sister’s voice called from behind the counter.

“Hey.” Lenna said, trying to keep her cool. All she had to do was ask the right questions. Then she could get the answer she needed and go back home.

“How’s the clean-up?” She said.

“Good.” Lenna noticed a pile of white pastry boxes shining glossily in the corner. Exactly like hers. Why, this was going to be easier than she thought. Georgie caught her staring.

“What do you want with those?” She said.

“What do you want with those?” Lenna echoed. Georgie looked at her, confused, and a flicker of something, perhaps annoyance, passed over her face. Then,

“Come here.” She said.

“What?”

“Come here.” She repeated. Lenna did as she was told, crossing to the other side of the counter. Her sister stared at her as though seeking for something, then suddenly,

“You want to learn how to make pastries?” And the trouble with being given such an out-of-the-blue question, with such an endearing look to accompany, and wanting to accuse your favourite person of setting you up but not being sure how to approach it without sounding mad or being wrong… was exactly why the rest of the morning flew by on one waft of freshly-baked, pastrified air. The kneading of dough, a soft paradise for her fingers, turning into the indescribable taste of crunchy bread and a soft, oozing chocolate belly. They cooked and they baked and they pastried; Georgie reanimated her patience levels and taught her how to watch a golden covering emerge in a thin layer, as simple dough become a croissant. They even played around, fighting each other with the loose cups and strewn toilet paper, and after a successful and chaotic round of that, changed to scrunching the paper and seeing who could land the most into the cups. The day passed outside like a life they were not part of, as though for one morning, time had disappeared and blurred into a haziness that could only be best described as a dream.

By the time Lenna got home, she was swamped once again in barcodes and business but her mind, for the first time ever, was light. She had space to think of something else, not bogged down by lethargy, and so sat in meditation, finishing off the last of the morning’s-cooked pastries. As the clock showed its face of three thirty, it was only then that she remembered the rest of the world; restarted along with time. She decided to clean up a bit, to do something productive today and taking her rolled up sheet with alibis and one suspect, remembered why she’d gone to the bakery in the first place. She assembled the equipment and vowed to solve it later, when upon placing the sheet back into its position, her finger brushed against something on the bottom. She flinched, then grabbed it, and turning it over revealed another piece of paper: red-fingerprinted, and as sloppily drawn as the mystery introduction –

To Future Me - Hope you had a fun day xx

It was a giant slap to the face. Enough so that she sat there for what felt like ages, simply staring at it. Amused and not amused; work hard play hard. Then suddenly, as though she hadn’t had enough surprises for the day, the final one came crashing through her like a mighty wave. She grabbed a small piece of paper and started drafting the new introduction for the next package.

You’re going to make a mystery.