Everyone groaned when I ran back to the dinner table with the dusty flat game box labelled CLUE. It had been a food-filled Christmas day and few among the five of us were able to talk, let alone play a game that requires effort and concentration. But I began reading the rules of the game anyway, counting on two things: that they would enjoy it once we got started, and that with my enthusiasm I’d be a shoo-in as winner. I was right on the first part. By now, the tiny game pieces for weapons—lead pipe, wrench, knife—were long gone, replaced by a bottle cap, penny and whistle respectively, but apart from a bit of confusion, the less graphic tokens did not diminish our enjoyment of the game. By the time my mom’s boyfriend guessed “Mr. Green, with the candlestick, in the hall,” and no one offered him any cards to refute his claim, everyone knew who, what and where. Everyone, that is, except Mom. Because she actually was Mr. Green, she assumed that she couldn’t be the murderer—after all, she would never kill anyone. For the rest of us it was a race back to the hall to make the accusation and an exciting fight to the finish. My friend won (I was trapped in the kitchen on the other side of the board). It had been years since any of us had played—in fact, I found a Woodward’s receipt in the box, dated January 3, 1980, for a carton of milk— and we had all forgotten what a perfect murder mystery game it is, and how much fun it is to play.