Before I get to this week’s tale of jaw-dropping chicanery, I need to clarify something.
In a previous column about how my wife talks at night while I’m trying to read, I wrote that she likes to judge her friends.
Woe is me.
In fact, O Best Ones, I have been assured in the most profound and constant way that Mrs. Cool Kid does not judge her friends. Nope. Never has. Never would.
More’s the pity for her. Judging one’s friends is a sweet delight of life.
Now, on to the column proper.
I recently read Lawrence Block’s “A Long Line of Dead Men,” part of his Matthew Scudder series.
In it, a group of men meet once a year to see how their lives are faring. Just a few decades after the group is founded, almost half of the members are dead. Because the men are in their early 50s, that many deaths is statistically suspect.
So, a member of the club hires Matt to look into it. And Matt is told that only the club members know who is in the club.
“Boom chuga luga luga boom,” as Bill Murray once said.
The Cool Kid has figured out who the killer is.
How? Because I realized I had read the book before.
Only it was called “And Then There Were None.” And it was written by Agatha Christie.
They remake movies all the time. Music remakes are so common, they have a name for them. They’re called “covers.” Even TV shows get remade. Jim and Pam were once Tim and Dawn.
But a remake of a novel?
End times, O Best Ones. End times are near.