The Red-Herring Romance
Let’s call it the “Perilous Partner” trope. Each season, as reliably as Charles-Haden Savage laments his love life, a new romantic interest enters the orbit of one of our three heroes, and just as quickly, becomes tangled in the central mystery. They
are either a prime suspect, a key witness with a secret, a con artist, or, in the most dramatic case, the actual killer. This isn’t just a coincidence; it’s a core component of the show’s narrative engine. From the very first season, the series has taught viewers to cast a suspicious eye on anyone who gets too close to Charles, Oliver, or especially Mabel. The trope serves as a brilliant device for raising the personal stakes beyond the intellectual puzzle of solving a whodunit. It forces the characters, and by extension the audience, to constantly question their judgment of character.
A Pattern of Perilous Partners
The evidence is as clear as a confession on a podcast. In Season 1, Charles’s whirlwind romance with fellow Arconia resident Jan the bassoonist ended with the shocking reveal that she was Tim Kono’s poison-wielding murderer. Season 2 saw Mabel fall for Alice, a chic artist who just happened to show up as the new murder investigation began. Alice’s suspicious behavior and lies about her background made her a primary red herring for much of the season. Season 3 gave us two for the price of one: Oliver fell head-over-heels for Loretta, his Broadway leading lady (played by Meryl Streep), who promptly confessed to the murder to protect her long-lost son. Meanwhile, Mabel developed a connection with Tobert, a documentary filmmaker whose motives were consistently murky. The pattern is undeniable: if you start dating one of the Arconia Three, you’re either hiding something or you’re in danger.
A Narrative Shortcut or a Crutch?
So why do the writers keep returning to this well? On one hand, it’s an incredibly efficient storytelling tool. Introducing a suspicious lover immediately injects emotional conflict into the investigation. It’s no longer just about clues and timelines; it’s about betrayal, trust, and the painful possibility that someone you care for is a killer or a fraud. This makes the mystery deeply personal for the protagonists. However, there’s a risk of the trope becoming a narrative crutch. After the third or fourth time, you have to wonder why these otherwise intelligent characters are so consistently bad at vetting their romantic partners. Does it make them seem gullible? Does it make the plot twists predictable? Critics of the show’s formula point out that this repetition can feel stale, especially when the characters seem to learn little from their past mistakes.
The Twist Within the Trope
But here is where “Only Murders in the Building” shows its true genius. The show is deeply self-aware. By the later seasons, the characters themselves almost expect the new partner to be involved. This meta-awareness allows the writers to play with our expectations. We, the audience, are now in on the joke. We’re not just asking “whodunit?” but also “how is this new love interest going to be the red herring this time?” The show uses our knowledge of the trope against us, subverting it in clever ways. Sometimes the person is revealed to be a liar but not a killer (Alice). Sometimes their secret is heartbreakingly sympathetic (Loretta). The show has transformed the trope from a simple plot device into a running commentary on the genre itself. It knows we’re looking for the suspicious lover, and it uses that to create a richer, more layered viewing experience. It's a trope the show refuses to retire because it has become a signature part of its cozy, winking charm.
