Y'all to dot. With 85 minutes, we'll demonstrate. For everyone who's simply dotting about Alexa. Hey guys, Robin here.
Today we are looking at the next one in our Whodunit series. This is called Mr. Alan is Dead. That's what it is in the skill store.
It's opened with Mr. Alan's investigations. Let's get a go. Alexa, open Mr.
Alan's investigations. Let me bring you up to speed on the details. Mr. Alan is dead.
His last living moments were spent at a lavish party in his sumptuous hamstered estate. Look, it's right on the water. This guy must have been loaded. I guess everyone scrambled after he died.
There are only three people there now. That's who you'll be questioning. There's Angela Alan. She's his daughter.
Looks like she just graduated from finishing school. That's still a thing. There's also Bianca Harlow. No real details on what she's doing there, but she lives with him and looks like she's a form of spin suit model.
Oh. I'll bet I know what she's doing there. And then finally there's Candice DeHavilland. She's Mr.
Alan's life coach, self-help guru, energy therapist, chief chakra officer, head. You know what? There's seven more pages of this. You can read that later.
Oh, we're here. Wow. That's a big door. Okay.
Who do you want to talk to first? Bianca. Oh. One last thing.
There's a new ruling from the district attorney's office. Evidently someone managed to get their case thrown out of court because they claim they didn't understanding of the police officer's questions. So now we're supposed to just ask about things that the suspects bring up, at least until we get them to the station and get to the present. It seems dumb, but hey, that's what orders are for.
Just stick to the script, okay? All right. Here's Bianca. Go to your thing, detective.
So you're the detective. I suppose introductions are in order. I'm Bianca, Bianca Harlow. Be careful at the carpet.
It's vintage. I imagine you want to ask me a lot of invasive prying questions. Well, as you wish. Let's get this over with.
What have you got? Where was I when he was killed? Did I kill him? Where were you when he was killed?
I was in the kitchen when he died. We were nearing the end of a little party with our dearest friends, and I had snuck away to pour myself a fifth glass of scotch. The stamina. I was drinking my sixth glass when wham, his body hit the floor and they were screaming, and all our little friends scampered like rabbits.
It all happened so fast. He was probably dead by the time I finished my seventh glass. So what'll it be? Why might I have wanted to kill him?
Did I kill him? Why am I here living in his house? Did you kill him? Well, well, what an interesting question.
I'm not going to pretend I didn't consider it, but actually do it. Honey, look around. That Armani nightgown is sitting on a Louis the 17th chair, which is standing on an 18th century Turkish frere we bought on vacation in Istanbul. His face may have looked like it was made out of mashed potatoes, but he was the goose that laid the dolce and gabbana, and all I had to do in return was lay him every once in a while.
I'm not going to throw away a gig like that. Any more questions? Maybe why am I here living in his house? Why might I have wanted to kill him?
Why are you here? All righty. Well, let's just head to the quick. Why aren't I upset?
Why aren't I sad? Why aren't I sobbing my eyes out? Well, because why would I be sad? Oh, brother, what is there to be sad about?
He was a selfish whiny and aggressively mediocre man. Boo hoo. The only thing he had going for him was that he was rich. And honey, I can find another rich guy to hang my hat on.
It might take a little longer now than it did five years ago, but believe me, sad. His death is just inconvenient. I can tell you one thing, though. There is someone who's very, very upset about his death.
Although I wouldn't necessarily say she's sad. Why so angry, Candice? Why are you so upset? Might want to go ask her that if we're all bearing tails now.
So what'll it be? Why am I here living in his house? Candice. Greetings.
I am Candice Joanna de Havilland, MD, PhD, and Grand Swami of the Upper Bedlands Little Rapids area. I was Mr. Allen's life coach, nutritionist, personal trainer, aromatherapist, diet of your dear, chasper-lamour specialist, personal hedge fund manager, guru, wellness guru, yoga guru, relationship guru, homemaking guru, territorial expansion guru, wholeness guru, and guru-guru. That means I select his other gurus.
So far, none proved appropriate. His death is very tragic, and also personally affecting to me, his closest confidant. And mindfulness coordinator, what would you like to know? Where I was, at the time of the murder, if I know what caused Mr.
Allen's unfortunate death? If anyone was sending negative energy into Mr. Allen's life? Stop.
All right. I guess I'll take it from here. See ya. Hmm.
Weird. Well, well written, I think. Um, so she, Bianca, went off to get her fifth scotch, and he died when she was drinking a sixth, and hit the floor when she was drinking a seventh. Something like that.
Is there something to be read into that? Because... I don't know. Didn't seem 100% clear.
And then old Candice here had all this chakra-aligning stuff in her JD. In her resume, what did you call it? But then she had hedge fund manager slipped into the middle there. That's an important one.
Is that a clue? Mm-hmm. I don't know. Anyway, there you go, guys.
Mr. Allen's investigations. Good to go. Mr.
Allen is dead. That's what it's in the skill store. This is Robin, signing off. And we'll see you in three.
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