Petty thievery is one thing, but when a Sherlock Holmes-style detective approached me during an April 22nd visit to the Lippincott House Bed and Breakfast at 2023-2025 Locust Street about a stolen Van Gogh painting, I did a double take. "Do you have any ideas where the painting might be?" the inspector inquired, his English accent rather thick around the edges. "Oh no," I lied, "I haven’t the foggiest. What could anyone do with a stolen painting anyway except hang it in private?" The painting, Armand Roulin, 1888, oil on canvass that measures about 26 x 21 ¾ inches, hangs in my upstairs bedroom. I cannot say with certainty that Mr. Roulin was stolen because I inherited him from my parents. Growing up, his portrait hung in our living room, his brilliant yellow coat and rakish hat tilted slightly to one side. Mr. Roulin always managed to catch the eye of visitors. Admirers of the painting, who had no knowledge of Van Gogh’s oeuvre, often mistook Mr. Roulin for a portrait of my father; years later they insisted that Mr. Roulin must be me. But Mr. Roulin is not me, as they say, though how he came into my parents’ possession is anybody’s guess. Years ago, in the 1920s, I had aunts who lived in Center City. They were art lovers who were known to hang around the vicinity of 20th and Locust Streets—and, well, it’s quite possible that one of them befriended Christina Lippincott, the scandalous suffragette daughter of publisher J.B., and found a way into the mansion before it became Center City’s most beautiful B &D. So yes, the more I think about it, I can see that one of my great aunts did in fact probably weasel her way into the mansion, and—presto—walk out with Mr. Roulin. Now, that’s scandalous! After all, it was the Lippincott house that people used to refer to as a place where "no good woman was ever seen entering those doors." Now the inspector, who specializes in unsolved cases decades old (Could we get him to solve the 1990s Center City jogger murder case?) didn’t buy my explanation that I knew nothing about the stolen Van Gogh. He seemed to know that I was hiding something when I shrugged him off and asked the pleasant bartender for red wine. The inspector made copious mental notes. "I’ll get back to you later," he said cryptically, as he proceeded to quiz the other guests, some 55 in all, most of whom were happily engaged in cocktail chatter and sampling the gourmet delights of Chef Brendan Smith, owner of b*smiths gourmet catering. It’s hard to take an art theft seriously when you are downing the evening’s signature cocktail, "My Dear Watson," a strawberry, rhubarb and mint margarita, and munching on filet mignon, fresh seafood and seasonal vegetable dishes, but the inspectors wouldn’t give up. In an environment like this, everyone is a suspect, even Chef Brendan Smith’s hard working catering people, and even—God forbid—owners Mary Beth and Jack. Perhaps Mary Beth and Jack faked the theft just to have the police, or the Riddlesbrood Touring Theater Company, come here and raise a ruckus. After all, people will do anything for publicity these days; at least that’s what I heard the inspector say to a bejeweled matron munching on a piece of crispy asparagus. "The owners think they’re safe, but I have their number. I hear they have long lost treasures in the billiard room." If you ask me, because people love art, if there’s a good painting to steal, people will take it, come what may. That’s why nobody seemed concerned when the silly inspector brought in one of his partners who had ten or so barking dogs in tow. The bow wow episode was, I admit, a slight shock to the system. Many good ladies recoiled and let loose a rush of operatic squeals that seemed to rush like wind over the heads of the gentlemen, some of whom were in bow ties. ("The last of Philly’s Social Register class?" I wondered). Others stepped back in ponderous silence, the way Angela Lansbury used to do in Murder She Wrote. As for me, the explosion of dog barks nearly caused me to fall backwards into the collective arms of a writer from Fishtown and his girl. "Pleased to meet you," I said. "But I really should get back to Mr. Roulin." "Mr. Roulin?" they asked. I had no time to explain, as the inspectors were talking about a murder in addition to the theft, and things were getting—well-- hairy. Not that I saw any women with mustaches mind you, although Mr. Roulin does sport a light fizz. Things were on a rambunctious roll. The inspectors then brought in a bee keeper. When the bee keeper was gone they trotted in a 400 pound chef. No, it was not Chef Brendan Smith, but a suspect they fund somewhere in the house. Owners Mary Beth and Jack surveyed the goings on with bemused confidence, but I don’t think they cared much about the stolen painting. After all, the Lippincott House B&B place is filled with historic art, Victorian fireplaces, architecture, murals and an 1887 grand piano. What’s one missing Van Gogh? Mystery Dinner Theater Mystery dinner theater takes the ‘staid’ out of dinning and forces you to jump out of your comfort zone. Although you may arrive with a tight circle of friends, the co-motion will force you to interact with strangers. That’s a good thing. And the actors, or inspectors that night, were worthy of performances I’ve seen on the Suzanne Roberts or Wilma stage. Bravo! The Riddlesbrood Touring Theater Company was founded in 2000 in Collingswood, New Jersey, by a man named Ryan Long. On their website, Riddlesbrood promises to "…creep silently into your heart, pitch our tent, and once there—practice our grinning arts." Mary Beth filled me in on how the concept of a mystery dinner theater came to be. "We had somebody come here and rent the space and they did a corporate murder mystery. It was different. They had people go around the house and look for clues. It was a murder mystery but also a ‘solve the missing line’ to whatever promotion they were launching. But people loved it. Then we thought: there’s nobody who does anything like this in Philadelphia." She says she made a deal with Chef Brendan Smith to split the cost of the event. The Sherlock episode is the first in a series of theater events at Lippincott House. "We will be doing this in the fall with a Halloween theme, in July maybe another Sherlock, and during the holidays we’ll be doing Dickens’ A Christmas carol." As for Mr. Roulin, he’s still tucked away safely in my bedroom.