Reactions among the guests varied. Some were eager — extremely eager — to play detective. “That’s too obvious!” a woman in black lace shouted while dismissing one theory. Others, like a table of young women who were all separately on their phones, were less absorbed. An amateur Poirot, with an assist from his wife, briskly identified the killer. Then the actors changed out of their costumes to mingle and pose for selfies, murder forgotten.
The mystery itself had been a little ridiculous, the acting deliberately showy, which made it a match for the quilt-forward, silk-tasseled space. What was remarkable was the effect on the guests. After the show, most of them stayed in the bar for hours, some of them in their pajamas, chatting like old friends. I know so much about these people now! Their marriages, their dating lives, their children, their careers. Phone numbers and emails were exchanged. As I went up to bed, one woman was trying to convince another to go out on a date with a friend of hers, whom she swore was not too short.
At $400 per meal, irrespective of lodging, I wouldn’t describe the dinner and show as good value for the money. But few of the guests seemed especially budget-minded and the evening provided an amenity that few hotels can: a feeling of community. All it took was a little after-dinner poisoning.