Are you working on a 2-Minute Mystery or some sort of "Mini" Mystery
story that you need a snappy ending for? Do you sit up at nights saying "I
know, I just know, that I can write a mystery story as good as any of those
multi-millionaire writers."? Do you want to make some extra income? Was
a career as a Dental Assistant something that just didn't appeal? Well, I
am Your Catalyst!
I have a small stockpile of "Mini" mystery endings that can be extended
to novel-length endings if the client requires. Sometimes you have all the
characters assembled, everyone is ready to learn who the murderer is,
and you just bomb out-- No ending. How will you resolve things?
Here are a sample of five solutions that could get you out of that
Detective **** knew that the Madame was lying because of the clock. She
could not have seen the clock the moment she entered because the
Cleaning Lady had moved the breakfront. But, she could have seen the clock in
the mirror, which means it was 1, not 11. Her alibi crumbles to dust.
Inspector **** brought the feather to tickle Uncle Mumfin's underarms.
There was no way that a man as ticklish as Mumfin had proven himself to be
would be able to keep the Colonel's frozen hands under his arms. So, if the
dead man's fingerprints weren't from an abortive attempt at thawing, then
when else could they be from? The Inspector says it was Murder!
Two things become apparent when you examine the carriage marks: 1) they
were made with a Standard issue wooden wheel Model RT19, which were made by
the Bradenton Brothers from 1887-1892. It was a replacement for the RT18
and was replaced itself by the RY12728'. 2) The marks could not have been by a
horse-drawn carriage as the gradient of 15% would not allow for a
comparable exchange of momentum with the shoes that the animals would have been
wearing. So, Mrs. Henderson pulled the carriage herself. It was her
carriage, which she pretended was out of commission in the old barn.
And, she ran over Henrietta Wainscot on the night of March the 8th! J'Accuse!
One word: Applesauce. Not on his back, but on his shoes. Uncle Burdock
would never look at a porkchop again.
Paisley Wilmington knew that the German ate bratwurst every morning for
his heart. But, as there was none in his stomach at the time of death, she
knew that he hadn't eaten any that day. So, she deduced that any man without
his daily bratwurst was in danger of doing something he didn't want to do.
The lack of pants on the Scandinavian jockey meant that he was doing wash
and had no spare pants. Putting two and two together, they arrested the
There it is, folks! Your ticket to a better life. What are mysteries?
Works of art? Beautiful constructions where form and function latch together
for all eternity. Or are they something that any old hack can churn out
quicker than corn through my digestive system?
The latter, ladies and gentleman!
So, contact me through Del Berman and this blog. I'll hook you up. (As
I said, I have hundreds of these. We're a horse suit and I'm the man in
Your dreams await!