Benjamin Stevenson. New.
My name’s Ernest Cunningham. I used to be a fan of reading Golden Age murder mysteries, until I found myself with a haphazard career getting stuck in the middle of real-life ones. I’d hoped, this Christmas, that any self-respecting murderer would kick their feet up and take it easy over the holidays. I was wrong.
So here I am, backstage at the show of world-famous magician Rylan Blaze, whose benefactor has just been murdered. My suspects are all professional tricksters: masters of the art of misdirection.
THE MAGICIAN
THE ASSISTANT
THE EXECUTIVE
THE HYPNOTIST
THE IDENTICAL TWIN
THE COUNSELLOR
THE TECH
My clues are even more abstract: A suspect covered in blood, without a memory of how it got there. A murder committed without setting foot inside the room where it happens. And an advent calendar. Because, you know, it’s Christmas.
If I can see through the illusions, I know I can solve it.
After all, a good murder is just like a magic trick, isn’t it?