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Authors: Joan Hess

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BOOK: Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The
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While everyone studied the menu, I raised an eyebrow at Peter. “So you made up a little theory about the murder? Do you think it will stand up under scrutiny, or is it just meant to amuse?”
“I see you’ve been talking to Caron,” he said cheerfully and with unnecessary loudness. “Did she tell you about the blonde walking across the croquet court last night during the movie?”
I tried to shush him, but his words had boomed across the room. Now heads were tilted the better to hear us, my dear, and ears were aquiver. Conversations broke off in midword; no menu fluttered, no fork clattered. Silence. I felt as though I were in a television commercial for a certain stock broker.
“I’ll have the chef’s salad and tea!” I trilled gaily. “And lemon mousse for dessert!”
Gradually and with pained reluctance, the people at the other tables returned to their previous occupations, and I gave Peter a frozen look.
“Why did you blurt that out?” I hissed under my breath.
“It slipped out, Claire.”
“It did not have to slip out at two hundred decibels.” I snatched up a menu and yanked it open. Paper-clipped to one corner was another of the damnable clues. I gaped at it, then noticed Peter watching me and forced myself to scan the rest of the menu with great disinterest.
When he grew tired of smiling and looked away, I pulled the paper free and slid it to my lap to open it. It read, “Necessary to serve batter-dipped portion of minced meat,
sans time limits.” The daily special? A love letter from the chef? Caron could probably decipher it in half a second, but she was already giving her order to the waiter. I put it in my pocket for a later time.
Mrs. Robison-Dewitt gazed past me at Peter. “A blonde by the croquet court, you said? What time was that?”
Peter gulped as my toe connected with his shin. “I’m not sure,” he said in a strained voice that gave me some satisfaction.
“About ten-thirty,” Caron said absently. She turned to me and said, “Did you find a centipede in your menu, Mother? You almost jumped out of your skin.”
Now I had everyone’s attention again. I made a funny little noise that I hoped would pass for a laugh and said, “No, dear, I simply didn’t realize that spinach quiche was on the menu. Had I noticed earlier, I might have ordered that, rather than a salad.”
It went over like a three-day-old casserole. I smiled brightly until everyone at last admitted defeat and returned to their meals. Peter asked if those present were planning to play in the croquet tournament. Mrs. Robison-Dewitt leaned forward, endangering her cantilevered chest to bob her head in response. The drapery of flesh beneath her chin continued to tremble in the aftermath.
“I understand it is to be conducted with partners,” she said in a honeyed voice. “Have you signed up yet, Mr. Rosen?”
“Mrs. Malloy has promised to play with me,” he replied. He avoided my second kick and added, “She enjoys a bit of competition. Don’t you, old girl?”
“Only when I know I’ll win,” I said from clenched teeth. Old girls are known for clenched teeth, real or ceramic.
When lunch was finished, Caron announced that the was going to lie out, which I presumed had nothing to do with passing out and let her go. I returned to the room and tried to fit together the various misshapen pieces of the puzzle,
and arrived at a solution of sorts. Several pieces were swept under the mental carpet to await a later flash of intuitive brilliance.
Shortly before two o’clock I was feeling satisfied with what I had thus far, although I had made no progress with the message from the chef. I changed into a white sundress and a broad-brimmed straw hat (ambiance), put on my sunglasses (wrinkles), and went downstairs to knock Peter’s croquet ball through a wicket, metaphorically speaking.
Eric had posted the pairings on a wide sheet of paper and drawn a complicated and incomprehensible diagram to indicate who played whom at which round. In a white suit and a bow tie, he looked quite elegant as he gave my dress a wolfish grin.
“You’re dressed for the occasion, Claire. Very appropriate.”
I curtsied and went to find my name on the roster. As Peter had promised, we were destined to be partners, while Mrs. Robison-Dewitt would be forced to struggle with Dr. Chong Li, who was asking Eric to kindly explain the game.
The tournament was not yet under way, so I opted to slip inside for a moment to see if Mimi was about. I found her in the kitchen, sitting on a stool and staring despondently at the empty counter. Her complexion had a waxy cast that would have enchanted Madame Tussaud.
“Mimi?” I said softly from the door.
“Oh, Claire, please come in. I was just trying to decide whether to send Bruce into town again. No matter how many lists I make, I always forget something vital. This time it’s light bulbs and cucumbers.”
“It must be difficult to keep up with all the details.”
She sagged, then pulled herself up and smiled. “I never dreamed that running a country inn could be so complex,” she said. “I was prepared for linens, menus, staff problems, and unruly guests, but that’s only the beginning. Yesterday afternoon, for instance, I had a lengthy argument with the
president of our county Audubon club, who makes Mrs. Robison-Dewitt sound like a harmless chickadee.”
Other, less attractive birds came to mind. I was eager to establish rapport with my suspect, however, so I settled for a sympathetic murmur. “What did the woman demand?”
“She informed me that each year at this time they explore an area at the far end of the lake for grebes. I assured the woman that I had never seen a grebe, but she overruled me and announced that they would arrive at six o’clock, with binoculars, sack lunches, and nonalcoholic beverages in recyclable containers.”
“That hasn’t interfered with the weekend, has it? After all, we weren’t able to see them this morning, much less listen to them stalk grebes,” I pointed out.
“No,” Mimi sighed, “it just tends to complicate things. I had to send Bruce down the road at five-forty-five to open the gate, so he wasn’t available to help with the breakfast tables. One of the busboys took that as a personal affront and quit.”
“Perhaps one of your other employees could help? After all, Suzetta is no longer occupied with conning Harmon Crundall.”
Mimi looked at me from under the sweep of black bangs. “Very good, Claire. Yes, I hired Suzetta to see if she could get the option away from Harmon before Monday morning. That would help somewhat, since it would expire at midnight Monday and he would have to prove that we signed it last year. She took the secretarial job, although the perks were distasteful, but she couldn’t manage to steal the paper. Harmon kept it in his briefcase at all times.”
“Until last night,” I said, “when he was too drunk to comprehend what was happening. You went back upstairs, had a drink, and invited him to meet you at the boathouse.”
“I lived in New York for several years. The newspaper is filled with advice on rolling drunks, and I thought I could do
it. I gave him a big sob story about Eric neglecting me and showed him where the back stairs were.”
“Then you were to keep Harmon occupied until Suzetta could find his briefcase and take the document?”
“That was my plan,” she admitted in a low voice, “but I chickened out at the last minute. The idea of that monster even touching me was … nauseating. Instead of going to the boathouse, I went for a virtuous walk.”
She was lying, but I wasn’t sure what part of her story was untrue. Before I could question her further, Eric stuck his head through the doorway and said, “Claire, we’re ready to begin. Have you seen your partner?”
As we went outside, I told him that I hadn’t seen Peter since lunch. Eric looked at his elaborate diagram and groaned. “I had this whole thing worked out, but now I’m short one pair. Dr. Chong Li has decided not to play, so if you’ll be partners with—”
“Forget it, Eric. I know what you’re going to say, and it is out of the question. Under no circumstance will I be partners with that—that person! As Caron would say, I’d rather eat spiders.”
“But, Claire,” he began, his eyes wide and imploring, “my whole diagram will collapse if I’m off two pairs. It’s based on a simple negative geometric progression, and it won’t come out if … if …”
“Tarantulas. Black widows. Brown recluses dipped in chocolate.”
“I’ve already altered the diagram, and you’ll only have to play two or three matches. Please?”
“You play with her.”
“I can’t. I’m the referee, and it wouldn’t seem fair to the others.”
“There’s not one other soul within a mile of the Mimosa Inn who’s willing to play with her?”
He shook his head mutely. I could see that he was
seconds away from falling on his knees in order to save his negative geometric progression.
“Oh, all right!” I snapped ungraciously. “Where’s the damn mallet?”
A few minutes later, I found myself at one corner of the court watching Mrs. Robison-Dewitt wend her way through the wickets. Even though it looked like the silver trays would be ours, I was mentally preparing a vicious lecture for Peter, if he dared show his face. Which he did, halfway through the game.
Ignoring my glower, he took my arm and pulled me away from the court. “Harmon Crundall has been murdered,” he said grimly.
“I am aware of that. How could you leave me to be partnered by Mrs. Robison-Dewitt, Peter? You know that she and I are—”
“He’s dead, Claire.”
I took a breath, and with what I felt to be admirable patience, said, “He is supposed to be dead; it’s in the script. It would be a rather ordinary weekend if he weren’t, and it would be somewhat silly of us to crawl around the boathouse floor looking for bloodstains.”
“He is dead.”
“And I’m Jane Marple—or Jane Fonda. You pick.”
I brushed his hand off my arm and started back to the croquet court. As I did, I noticed a huddle of people at the edge of the lawn, their faces set in chalky white plaster. The binoculars draped around their necks trembled at the ends of the plastic straps. A buxom woman in a khaki safari jacket and pith helmet motioned to Peter, who gave me a helpless glance as he hurried over to join her.
I stared curiously at what I presumed was the bird-watchers’ club. An icy finger danced up my spine as I took in their dazed expressions. A grebe could not be responsible for the strange stillness of the bird-watchers—no matter
how peculiar its plumage, or idiosyncratic and public its mating habits.
After a whispered conversation with the woman, Peter came back to the croquet court to take Eric aside. The blood drained from Eric’s face as he listened, and he began to sway with a queasy motion. The game halted, and mallets were slowly discarded. We formed a circle around Eric and Peter.
Peter took a deep breath. “Apparently, the Audubon people hiked around the lake early this morning to a nesting area they explore on an annual basis. In one of the coves they found a rowboat, and in the rowboat a body—face down in several inches of water. There was a bloody indentation on the back of his head, and no doubt about his condition. I’m sorry to have to tell you that Harmon Crundall is dead. But this time, it’s no game.”
“P
eter disappeared inside to make telephone calls. Unwilling to break the silence or even look at one another, we stared at his back until the door slammed on his heels. The bird-watchers clearly considered us crackpots of the most dangerous variety, for they tightened their huddle and posted guards on the flank. The khaki-clad woman adjusted her helmet to a militant angle.
Blinking unhappily, Eric said, “I’d better find Mimi and let her know what happened. Perhaps some of you could round up the guests for a short announcement in the drawing room. This is—terrible, and I’m so sorry, everybody.”
Mrs. Robison-Dewitt snorted. “If this is part of the staged crime, then I find it quite vulgar.” When Eric shook his head mutely, she slowly rotated to peer at me, as if I were some as yet unidentified swamp thing. “Are you a part of this tasteless charade, Mrs. Malloy? You and that man who purports to be a member of the police force?”
“No, of course not,” I said, perplexed. “Do you believe this is part of the pretense? The bird-watchers don’t seem to be actors; they look genuinely upset. And Peter Rosen is the
head of the Farberville CID. I met him during the investigation last fall.”
“What sort of investigation, Mrs. Malloy?”
“A homicide,” I admitted, distracted by the growing sense of uncertainty the woman had provoked. Could Peter have staged the last little drama? That would mean he had been in on the plotting the entire time, which was hard to believe. I thought back to his earlier admission that he had come to investigate an undisclosed crime. Realizing that all present, including the bird-watchers, were staring at me, I tried to adjust my halo to a winsome angle.
Mrs. Robison-Dewitt wasn’t buying it. “I should have known!”
The words reverberated as she marched away. The others trailed after her, leaving me to repent my evil ways in solitude. I put my hand on my forehead and stared between my fingers at the discarded croquet mallets in the middle of the court, while I sorted through the latest mental dilemma. I ended up counting instead. There were four mallets; the other two were nowhere to be seen. Eric’s toys had not been put away properly.
“You,” the helmeted woman called, “come here. Have you an explanation for this peculiar situation?”
“Not a good one,” I admitted. “We arrived yesterday afternoon for a murder weekend, and—”
“The murder was planned? Are you some sort of survivalist fanatics who thrive on murdering members of your organization?” She thrust her binoculars into the hands of a co-watcher. “Take these, Mr. Ruppert. I shall leave immediately to contact the Federal Bureau of Investigation! This is a sorry state of affairs, young woman, when heartless brutes are allowed to—”
“Not a real murder,” I said hastily. “A make-believe murder, for fun. No one was supposed to get hurt, much less murdered.”
My explanation was received with beady disbelief. “A make-believe murder? I find that hard to accept. The blood was hardly catsup, and Miss Elbertine was quite incapacitated by the discovery of the body. Her cheeks took on the color of a young loggerhead shrike and she became noticeably unsteady. We were forced to hold her head between her knees until she recovered.”
Miss Elbertine nodded. “I could barely bring myself to look at the dreadful thing in the boat.”
Heads began to nod in unison, like turtles bobbling in a swift current. I shrugged and left them to constrain poor Miss Elbertine from a further display of unsteadiness. Nickie Merrick joined me as I started for the house. “Did you hear about poor Crundall?” he said. “I can’t believe it; everything was going so smoothly, and now …”
“Then it’s true—and not some twist in the plot?” I demanded. The expression on his face was answer enough, and I grimly followed him into the drawing room. The guests clung together in a group; the buzz of their voices might have come from a jostled wasp nest. Indecisive, but alarmed enough to swarm.
Peter emerged from the office and went to the front of the room, where Nickie’s podium still stood. He repeated what he had told the croquet group a few minutes earlier, then said, “I’ve contacted the Farberville CID and the county sheriff’s office. The jurisdiction is being discussed now, but I have been asked to keep everyone here until someone arrives to take charge of the case.”
His brisk authority convinced the last few doubters. The buzzes died, leaving an uneasy sibilance. We had come for a murder, but now that it had happened, it was less than delightful. Harmon had played a role; he was apt to have been a pleasant human being in real life. I wished I’d tried to like him better, in spite of his talented portrayal of a chauvinist sot.
Peter joined Mimi and Eric near the office, and I went over to offer whatever help I could. Mimi was on the verge of tears, her eyes magnified as if she were behind an aquarium. She gave me a humorless smile and said, “I don’t think this weekend was a very good idea, do you?”
Eric patted her shoulder. “It was a good idea, honey. How could any of us know that poor old Harmon would actually …” His voice faded and he increased the tempo of his ineffectual pats.
Mimi suggested coffee. We went into the dining room and sat around one of the tables while the busboy put down cups and saucers. No one wanted cream or sugar; black coffee seemed befitting.
“Can you tell us any more about what happened?” I asked Peter.
“The Audubon group stumbled on the rowboat about an hour ago. According to their report, there was a delay to confirm that the corpse was indeed a corpse, and to revive fainthearted witnesses with sips of herb tea and stern admonishments to shape up. As soon as everyone was able, they rushed back to the road. I happened to run into them there, and they told me about the body.”
“Why were you on the road?”
“I was taking a walk, Claire. Don’t start jumping to any wild conclusions; even detectives walk once in a while.”
I decided to let it go for the time being. “What about the body? Did anyone stay there with it?”
“One of the bird-watchers, who is a retired security guard. As soon as the sheriff and his squad arrive, I’ll go with them to see what we can make of the scene. I don’t like the situation at all; everyone has been preoccupied with the staged murder, and may have difficulty separating fantasy from fact.”
“Poor Harmon,” Mimi inserted with a sigh. “He was so excited about the weekend, and was already making plans for a sequel. I don’t suppose he had this in mind, though.”
“Then he was the instigator?” I asked Mimi.
“He is—was the director of the Community Theater and the inspiration for our murder weekend. He and his wife—” She broke off in a horror-stricken gasp. “Bella doesn’t know, Eric! I’d better go find her before the sheriff arrives.”
Peter murmured that he wanted to question the bird-watchers, and he and Mimi left together.
“I turned to Eric. “So the Crundalls were married?”
“Harmon thought it would be easier if we played roles that were as close to reality as possible. He and Bella were married; Bruce and Suzetta are students at the college and members of the theater, and Nick Merrick is also a member. Mimi and I played ourselves, which wasn’t too demanding.” His fist hit the table. “I knew we shouldn’t have gotten into this, but Harmon and Mimi were adamant, and I suppose everyone else went along for the experience.”
“Quite an experience,” Nickie commented drily from the doorway, coming in to join us. “I keep trying to convince myself that Harmon rigged the whole thing just to fool us. Set up the deal with the binocular freaks, slipped some money to the cop to act officious, and then found a cozy place to watch us all dash about in a frenzy.”
“I wish,” Eric groaned. He put his arms on the table and let his head sink onto them.
“Would Harmon do that?” I asked curiously.
“No, it was just a wild dream. The theater is the most important thing in his life, and he would never do anything to disrupt the show. He played Lear with a fever of one hundred and one, and went directly to the hospital when the curtain fell. Turned out to be double pneumonia; the hospital kept him for two weeks.”
While I was trying to imagine Harmon in the role of Lear, Suzetta slipped into the room and closed the door behind her. “What the hell is going on?” she demanded in a tight, frightened voice.
Nickie told her what we knew. Since we knew almost nothing, it took very little time.
She sank into a chair and shoved back her hair with an angry gesture. “Is this the truth? You’re not pulling some horrid practical joke, are you? He’s really dead, and those people outside really found his body on the far side of the lake? That’s absolutely crazy—he was supposed to be at home today! It’s in the script!”
Eric lifted his head. “It’s true. The sheriff and God knows who else are on the way. The reputation of the Mimosa Inn is destroyed; no one will ever stay here after all the smirky headlines. I don’t know why I ever …” His voice dwindled once again, as though his battery had been drained by the outburst.
We sat undisturbed for what felt like a long time. Eric, Nickie, and Suzetta took turns blaming themselves for what had happened, although I failed to see how any of them could have anticipated the eerie coincidence. I finally excused myself and went to find Caron.
The drawing room was empty, the guests having gone to their rooms, I supposed. Caron was in our room, the telephone glued to her ear and her dusty shoes on the bedspread. I told her to hang up, waited out a whispered conversation that included promises of future calls, then told her what had happened.
“Murdered?” she squealed. She scrambled off the bed to drag a suitcase from under it. “I’m ready to go home—right now. This has gotten out of hand, Mother. It’s one thing to creep around trying to be clever, but if people are going to start actually—”
“I am your guardian, among other things, Caron, and I am responsible for your safety. If I thought we were in danger, I would do everything possible to get away from the Mimosa Inn. However,” I said, hoping she couldn’t hear my nerves humming like telephone wires on Mother’s Day, “we are perfectly safe.”
“Sure we are. Why don’t you drive the car up to the back door while I take the suitcases down the back stairs? If anyone tries to stop me, I’ll tell them that I am in the throes of acute appendicitis and that you’re rushing me to the emergency room for—”
“We cannot leave until we have been questioned, dear. You’ll have to accept that. This is a real investigation, and we’re involved—whether we like it or not.”
“Peter will let us leave,” she pleaded, tossing clothes into her suitcase with the force of a bulldozer. “Give me ten minutes, Mother, and then we can just sneak out the back door to the car and drive away. It’ll work.”
“It won’t work. For one thing, Peter is not in charge of the investigation, and if he were, he wouldn’t let us leave the Mimosa Inn if we were on the verge of starvation.”
“He’d let you walk on his face if you’d stop glowering at him all the time.”
I narrowed my eyes and switched on the maternal frown. “You are babbling, which I find unattractive. After you change into something suitable, we will return to the drawing room to wait. And we will not discuss Peter Rosen, under any circumstances. You do not understand the man any more than you understand an existence that excludes chlorinated water.”
Switching on the adolescent scowl, Caron slung the last of her clothes in a suitcase, sat on it to force it closed, and banged the lock with her fist. I sat on the bed and tried to picture Harmon’s body in a rowboat across the lake. How long had he been dead? And who could have rowed the boat to a distant cove?
Almost anyone, I concluded. Very creepy.
A siren grew louder, accompanied by a drone of car engines. The shrill noise peaked, then died in a spiraling whine. Car doors slammed, voices shouted orders and counterorders, and feet thudded across the floor downstairs.
The sheriff, his posse, and possibly a battalion of marines had arrived.
Caron picked up the telephone receiver. “I am going to call Inez. I need to maintain contact with the outside world; otherwise I’ll end up as crazy as the rest of you!”
“The rest of you” referred to, I suspected, that generation of people older than fourteen years of age. Wondering if she had a valid point, I returned to the drawing room to find out what was to happen.
BOOK: Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The
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