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Authors: Joan Hess

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BOOK: Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The
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His white teeth contrasted with his tan. Winking at me, he scooped up a few olives from a dish and began to juggle them with amazing competence. “Olives, onions, or oranges,” he said, “but no hints. I’m under orders—and I don’t really know anything, anyway. I’m only hired help.”
Mesmerized by the flying olives, I nodded dumbly and then forced myself to leave the dining room. Strange guests, juggling bartenders, insidious business schemes, incomprehensible clues on the bedroom floor. A murder was definitely in the making. I loved it.
Harmon and Suzetta were still on the porch. The bottle was more than half full, which meant it had been exchanged with a depleted one. Suzetta was concentrating on her toenails. Harmon gave me a blurry grin, but I hurried down the steps before he could offer an equally blurry invitation to join them.
Peter and Eric stood in the middle of the croquet court, while Caron watched from a shady seat against the lattice wall that surrounded the underside of the porch. She resembled a teenaged, freckled Buddha. I gave her a vague wave and tried to veer around the court before I was snagged.
“Claire!” Eric called. “Come play croquet with us.”
“Later,” I answered over my shoulder. I would go to the garden, I decided, and reread the clue until it made sense. If necessary, I would search the woods for pieces of a hobo. Then—
“One little game, Claire,” Eric pleaded. “We need another person to have a foursome. This gentleman is a beginner, so you needn’t be intimidated.”
Gentleman, my fanny. I went back to the court and yanked a mallet from the cart. “One quick game, Eric.” I flashed a pseudo-grin at Peter Rosen. “I won’t be intimidated.
The gentleman talks a good game, but he’s liable to knock his balls in the lake. Now, what do I do?”
Eric came over and showed me how to hold the mallet. I put one ball neatly through a wicket, straightened up and said, “Well, are we ready to play?”
Peter took careful aim and sent his ball into mine. They clinked woodenly. “I’m ready, Eric. What happened to our fourth?”
“Here she comes,” Eric replied absently, gathering up the balls to set them near a brightly striped wooden post.
Mrs. Robison-Dewitt came down the steps, spotted me, and drew herself to a halt. We stared at each other. Her mouth tightened until it disappeared into a web of wrinkles, and her nostrils quivered with displeasure. The gesture was familiar, and not popular.
“She
is going to play?” Mrs. Robison-Dewitt snorted.
Eric looked bewildered; Peter looked quietly convulsed with laughter, although he managed to restrain himself from audible disgrace. I suspect I looked as pleased as the dear old battleship, but I managed a cool expression.
“I was collared into it,” I said, “but I’ll be glad to withdraw, if you’re concerned about your personal safety. One never quite knows where one’s shots will go.”
Eric grabbed a mallet and sent his ball through the first two wickets. “Your turn,” he told Peter brightly.
Mrs. Robison-Dewitt turned out to be a mean croquet player. My ball was knocked about the court at every opportunity, and once rolled within inches of the lake. We played in silence, each intent on damaging each other’s positions as maliciously as possible. I was not a natural, but I managed to do adequately. On the sidelines, Caron observed our progress with a glum expression.
After an hour, Eric finally won. Mrs. Robison-Dewitt nodded at him, replaced her mallet, and stalked into the inn. Peter was discussing strategy with Eric as I went over to talk to Caron.
“Haven’t you found anything to do yet?” I asked her.
“No, I haven’t. The people running this farce aren’t going to have to murder anyone; I’m going to expire from boredom any second now. The youngest guest is about seventy years old, Mother. I feel as though I’m at a retirement home.”
I was thirty-nine years old. That gave me over thirty years to meet Caron’s criterion for the retirement home, but I decided to overlook it. Dropping to the grass beside her, I pulled the clue out of my pocket. “In the midst of the tragic ennui, see if you can figure this out,” I suggested.
In spite of herself, Caron glanced at it. “Was there a hobo in the area? Wait a minute—that sounds like a cryptic clue.”
“I found it cryptic, to say the least.”
“No, Mother, I mean a cryptic crossword clue.” She took the paper to study it more closely. “The word ‘collapsed’ is the tip-off that the beginning of the sentence is an anagram. We have to rearrange the letters in the ‘Tues. a hobo’ to get … boathouse!”
I grabbed the paper back. “You’re right, Caron. There must be something in the boathouse. Do you want to go poke around with me? You’re much better at crossword clues than I.”
Caron stretched and stood up. “I think I’ll take a nap. See you later, Miss Marple.” She went up the steps and disappeared into the house.
The boathouse, I told myself as I hurriedly scrambled to my feet. I glanced at Peter, who was still talking to Eric. I did not want any uninvited guests tagging along, although I would have welcomed Caron’s cryptic expertise. The child does amaze at times.
I had reached the far side of the court when a bellow stopped me. The bellower was Harmon Crundall—and the bellowee the mysterious Mrs. Smith. She stood in the middle of the porch, the pitiful suitcase in one hand and an
equally pitiful purse in the other. Her face was as white as the gingerbread trim, but it was rapidly changing to match the gray of the siding. Harmon, on the other hand, had opted for a patchy cerise.
“Bella! How dare you come here, you mousy pile of rags! If I had wanted to see you—and I don’t—I would have brought you here!” he roared. If she had been a house made of straw, she would have been blown over the rail.
“I had to come, Harmon.”
“You—had—to—come? You didn’t have to come, Bella! I told you to stay home and do some housework; I want you to get out of here this minute and wait at the house! I’ll see you Monday—if you’re lucky!” Harmon slammed the bottle down to emphasize his rage. Golden liquid gurgled over the top and drenched his hand.
“Oh my God,” Eric said in an underbreath. He started for the porch, although I couldn’t see what he could do. Mimi came out of the drawing room door with Nickie Merrick on her heels.
“Leave!” Harmon roared. He pointed at the lake as if expecting the waters to part and produce your four-lane highway with your gravel shoulders.
Although the recipient of his rage was trembling, her jaw crept out to a mulish position, and she seemed to take on a few inches of stature. “I will not leave, Harmon. I have as much right to be here as you. More, since I didn’t bring a floozy with me!”
Suzetta jerked herself up. “Harmon, are you going to let her talk to me like that? I think it’s disgraceful that your wife would follow you on a business trip, and I also think it’s disgraceful that you let her call me nasty names.”
A lot of cerebration for the blonde, I told myself as I moved closer to the porch. It was infinitely more intriguing than croquet—and very suspicious. Our Mrs. Smith was obviously Mrs. Bella Crundall. An unfortunate state of affairs.
Harmon had difficulty dealing with the situation, having
spent several hours pickling his brain. “Suzetta baby, give me a minute to think of something. I’m sure Bela didn’t mean to call you a floozy, honey bunch. She knows that you’re my secretary.” He tried to focus his eyes on Bella without much success. “This is business, Bela. Suzetta has to type some papers for me.”
“Oh, Harmon,” Bella groaned. She ran down the steps to the path that would ultimately take her to the bungalows. We all stared at her flapping coat until she was gone. All of us except Suzetta, who I noticed was busy repairing her lipstick with an unconcerned air.
Mimi stepped forward. “Mr. Crundall, we cannot allow this kind of scene at the Mimosa Inn. Our guests are disturbed, and frankly so am I. Perhaps it would be better if you and Miss Price were to leave.”
“I’m not leaving anywhere,” Harmon rumbled in a thunderous voice. “I’m going to be here Monday morning to finish our deal. If you don’t like it, Mrs. Vanderhan honey, you can go suck a mimosa leaf!”
He stumbled to his feet and staggered toward the drawing room door. “Come on, Suzetta, we’re going to sit in the bar. I’m tired of waiting for ice; maybe that bartender can juggle it into my glass faster if we sit inside.”
Suzetta followed at a leisurely pace, preening in the attention of the spectators. When the door closed, I heard the sound of twenty-odd breaths being released. Quite a drama, I concluded thoughtfully. The imprudent husband, the wife, the bubble-headed blonde. A trite but nevertheless intriguing triangle.
Peter came over to me. “Intrigued?”
“Not in the least,” I said with a cool, if mendacious, smile. “It’s simply a pathetic little situation that should not have been aired in public. The poor woman was ill-advised to follow her husband, and he was ill-advised to raise such hell about it. Suzetta was ill-advised at birth. But it is none of our business and, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a walk.”
Smiling to myself, I drifted away from him. Smiling to himself, he caught up with me. Damn. We walked in silence for several minutes, arriving at last at the marble cherub in the garden. I had forced myself not to look at the boathouse when we passed it, but I was eager to examine it—alone. I wasn’t eager to share Caron’s brilliant deductions with anyone, especially Supercop.
“I believe that’s Cupid, the Roman love imp,” he said, pointing at the statue. “Do you think it’s an omen?”
“No, I think it’s a mildly vulgar statue of a little boy who should have put on clothes before climbing on a pedestal. Why don’t you take a hike—with Mrs. Robison-Dewitt?”
“One of your admirers?”
“Not precisely, but clearly one of yours. You shouldn’t let such a golden opportunity to be worshiped slip away. She may not have Suzetta’s curves, but I’m sure she has admirable qualities. If nothing else, she might feature you in the
Ozark Chronicle.
You should be the cover boy for the autumn edition. I’d even buy a copy, just to keep under my pillow.”
“Claire, I wish you’d relax,” he said. He caught my hand and led me to a stone bench. I permitted the presumptuous familarity out of curiosity. Or so I told myself.
“Then explain why you came,” I demanded, perching on one end of the bench, the better to escape should the necessity arise.
“I can’t, Claire. It has to do with a long-term investigation, but I’m not at liberty to discuss it. There are some unsavory people involved; it might be dangerous for you to have any information about the case.”
“Here? At the Mimosa Inn? I don’t believe you, Peter. I think you came simply to …”
“To show you up?”
“Which is futile. I am going to solve the murder and win
the champagne. I may also decide to go after the croquet championship.”
“Oh, really?” Eyebrows rose like fermatas.
I knew he was baiting me, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Yes, really, Peter Rosen. Would you like to make a side bet about the murder solution?”
“That would certainly spice up the drama, wouldn’t it? What do you suggest we bet?”
“Whatever you can afford to lose,” I suggested sweetly.
“All I possess is my virtue—but I’m willing to risk it.”
“I didn’t realize you had any vestiges of virtue. A dinner might be more appropriate, or straightforward currency,” I said. Or dithered.
“Dinner it is,” Peter said. “The loser will prepare an extravagant meal for the winner, seven courses with wine for each. We’ll leave the question of virtue for a later discussion.”
“Fine. Now why don’t you run along and pretend you’re on the trail of a real criminal. I’d like to sit here by myself. I need to ponder my plan of action.” And get to the boathouse … alone.
His expression abruptly sober, he stood up and said, “There is no pretense, Claire. But I want you to promise me to focus all your energy on solving the mock murder, and forget what I said about the investigation. Okay?”
I drew a big X on my chest as I crossed my fingers behind my back. “Absolutely.”
A
fter Peter left, I went back to the boathouse. It was a small white building, freshly whitewashed but still in need of general repairs—as we all are at times. I slipped inside and closed the door. Light fell through cracks in the walls, casting yellow stripes on squatty cardboard boxes, piles of paddles, and musty tarps. Water lapped quietly in two slips, one empty and the other protecting a dilapidated rowboat with a puddle of foul water in its bottom.
My nose began to tingle with an incipient sneeze. I warned it to behave as I investigated the piles of clutter, praying there would be no fuzzy little things with four (or more) legs to be encountered. Nothing. As I turned to leave, the sneeze came. I stopped to wipe my eyes and saw on the back of the door a few words scrawled with a pencil.
“Aha!” I said in quiet triumph. The next clue was uncovered. It took me a few minutes to read the words in the dim light, but at last I made them out and faithfully recorded them in my notebook: “The rickety building holds the answer.”
Wonderful. I was in the only rickety building in sight,
and I was fairly sure I hadn’t overlooked anything of importance. The word “rickety” could be arranged to read “tickery” or “cry kite,” but that seemed farfetched. I gave up on anagrams. One could, I supposed, be smothered with a canvas tarp or bludgeoned with a canoe paddle. No one had, as far as I knew.
I forced myself to my hands and knees. Trying not to notice the pain to said parts of my anatomy, I crawled over every last inch of floor and squeamishly poked a finger in every last inky corner. I found countless cobwebs, a toothless comb, a beerless beer can, and a limitless amount of dust. The last was my downfall.
I was kneeling on the floor, sneezing hysterically, when the door opened. The rectangle of sunlight caught me in the undignified pose, but it was not enough to interrupt the sneezes. My eyes were blinded with tears; my nose produced a spasm of outrage about every three seconds. It was a charming picture, I concluded as I helplessly waited out the staccato barrage.
At last things quieted down. I wiped my eyes and stood up. A bewildered Nickie Merrick was frozen in the doorway.
“Claire, are you okay?”
I hesitated in order to confirm that the fireworks were totally over, then said, “Hello, Nickie. It seems that I’m allergic to whatever is growing in dark corners. There aren’t any clues in here, but there is something worth further study in terms of chemical warfare. That much I have deduced. It’s safe to come in now.” I punctuated the promise with a sneeze.
“No, don’t let me interrupt you; I was just wandering about to see how the sleuths were doing. Have you made any progress with the clues?”
“Some, but I’m ready to leave,” I admitted. We walked to the house together. When we reached the porch, I said, “Are you playing Scotland Yard at the high tea? George
Gideon, or a milder sort such as Roderick Allyn or Henry Tibbet?”
“Only if I can find my knickers and my plimsolls. For whom shall I scan the crowd? A sleek Cordelia Grey or a determined Harriet Vane?”
“An uninspired but sincere Miss Marple. If you’ll excuse me, it’s time to don the orthopedic shoes with the crepe soles and fetch my knitting—after a quick shower.”
All of which I did. Afterwards, I sat in front of the dressing table and went so far as to powder my hair into a temporary gray. Caron napped through the preparations. Although I was tempted to awaken her in order to discuss the ominous words on the boathouse door (a nice ring), I let her sleep. I did, however, put my notebook on the dressing table in case she rallied while I was downstairs. “The rickety building holds the answer.” Unless and somehow smug, I told myself glumly as I left the room for the ritual of high tea. A charming excuse for a fourth meal; no wonder our English cousins have well-rounded, rosy cheeks.
I met several of my cohorts in the hallway, specifically two caped Sherlock Holmeses, an unshaven man in a trenchcoat who had glued a cigarette to his lower lip—and a gaggle of gray-headed women with knitting bags. We trooped out to the porch. More gray-headed women with knitting bags were tearing into cucumber sandwiches and scones. Pinkies were curled like stout commas.
We were not amused. Feeling like an instant replay, I took a cup and saucer from Mimi, who was presiding over a silver tea service, loaded up a plate with goodies, and eased through the crowd to the end of the porch and a broad, inviting swing.
An Oriental gentleman in a white coat and string bow tie twinkled at me over a sliver of walnut cake. “Miss Marple?”
“Good guess,” I sighed. “Are you Charlie Chan?”
The cup clattered on his saucer. “I am Hercule Poirot,” he snorted. In farewell.
As a wave of heat rushed up my neck, a black man came out of the crowd and joined me. He ran his eyes over my longish black dress, lace collar, and cardigan sweater. “Miss Marple?” he hazarded.
“Good guess. Hercule Poirot?”
His cup clattered, too. “Sam Spade,” he corrected me haughtily as he retreated.
I was doing wonderfully. Zero out of two, and hostility to boot. Clearly, I should cease the game and spend my idle moments thinking about the rickety-building clue. As much as I adored tea, I could more profitably pass the time sneezing in the boathouse—or rattling Caron into a more helpful frame of mind.
Before I could finish my tea and escape, Peter wormed his way through the crowd. He smiled at my costume, but made no comment. He wore the same clothes he had been in earlier, a knit shirt and chino pants. Designer sneakers, of course.
“Who are you supposed to be?” I asked politely.
“Peter Wimsey.”
“Lord Peter Wimsey does not skulk about in shirts with alligators on the front. His valet would never permit it.”
“I’m undercover,” he explained with facetious sincerity.
I was trying to decide whether or not he deserved a laugh, when Nickie Merrick came through the crowd. “Did I hear you say that you were undercover, Lieutenant Rosen?” he said, an unpleasant smile on his face.
“That’s right, Merrick.”
The two men studied each other, as if they were mongrels in front of a succulent bone. For a brief moment, I flattered myself that I was the bone under contention, but let the image evaporate as the seconds stretched into decidedly uneasy minutes. Murder seemed in the making, and it would occur before my eyes if I didn’t do something to ease the tension.
“He’s Peter Wimsey,” I tried with a gay laugh.
“Is he?” said Nickie. No gay laugh followed.
“His valet was held up at the deer crossing,” I continued in the same bright voice. Clever, clever Claire. “When the poor man arrives, he’ll be scandalized, won’t he, Lord Peter?”
Peter gave Nickie one final glance, then smiled at me. “I like the ‘Lord Peter’ title, Claire. I may have it put on my credit cards when I get back home.”
“To Farberville, Lieutenant?” said Nickie.
Peter nodded. Nickie spun on his heel and pushed his way through the wall of bodies to the door. It slammed behind him, causing several unwary Marples to jiggle their teacups in alarm.
“What was that about?” I asked.
“Scotland Yard doesn’t seem to appreciate the competition from the Farberville CID. He doesn’t realize that with you here, my chances of solving anything are noticeably diminished.”
“Oh?” I said. I was about to add a further comment when Mrs. Robison-Dewitt appeared. She was wearing a longish black dress with a lace collar, a cardigan sweater, and orthopedic shoes with crepe soles. She held a knitting bag in one hand. She hadn’t powdered her hair, but she hadn’t needed any theatrical assistance there.
Two mirror images, right down to the strained attempts to produce socially acceptable nods. The Bobbsey twins in drag. Tweedledee and Tweedledum, just as the black bird filled the sky.
She took in my costume in a single look that felt like a toothpick in my carotid artery. “How interesting you look, Mrs. Malloy,” she whinnied through her nose. “Whom did you intend to represent?”
“Nero Wolfe,” I told her levelly. “This is Archie Goodwin, but I believe you two have already met.”
“Mr. Goodwin, so pleased to see you again.” She wasn’t.
The porch was glazing over with ice. Peter grabbed me and tugged me through the crowd. Muffled noises came from his throat, but he managed to hold in the laughter until we reached the drawing room.
“Nero Wolfe?” he sputtered.
I disengaged my arm and sat on a brocade settee. “That woman ought to be put out to pasture. She’s been snorting at me since I arrived. How dare she show up in my costume.”
“She’s undoubtedly echoing that sentiment to whoever will listen. After the lecture, she asked me with great seriousness if you might have the symptoms of a sociopath. A homicidal sociopath, if I recall. I told her that your psychiatrist was fairly certain that you were unlikely to attack anyone except for family members and close friends. I don’t think she found comfort in the diagnosis.”
It was my turn to sputter, and I did. “You said what?”
“I had to say something.”
“You did not have to say all that nonsense about psychiatrists or imply that I am prone to murder my relatives,” I said. “If the inclination should occur, it will center on detectives who go around slandering innocent people!”
“Innocent?”
“This is a drawing room, not an echo chamber. I am going upstairs to change clothes and study all the clues I’ve thus far deciphered. You might utilize the time with a cookbook, since you’re going to need some recipes in the immediate future!”
I stomped up the stairs, my shoulders squared and my head erect. Dangerous in that I couldn’t see my feet over my nose, but well worth the minor peril. I bumped into Harmon and Suzetta halfway up the stairs. Harmon had his pudgy fingers clamped tightly around the bannister, which was wise. He appeared to be on another planet, where he was apt to encounter little green men along with the notorious pink elephants.
Suzetta was wearing a black bikini, with black and white scarves artistically draped over her basically bare body. Eye makeup had been applied with a leaden hand. A paste emerald glittered from her navel.
“I just adore costume parties!” she confided with a giggle. “Do you recognize me? I’m a harem girl—or a Harmon girl! Isn’t that the cutest joke?”
“The cutest,” I agreed gravely. “Do find Mrs. Robison-Dewitt and see if she can guess what you are; she’ll be so gratified, and she just adores puns.”
Suzetta produced a blank look, Long past the blank stage, Harmon grabbed her waist. “Lez go, honey bunch. Honey bear wants a little drink.”
Waving her eyelashes in farewell, Suzetta obediently tripped down the stairs. If there were a troll under the staircase, he would have been thrilled with the tender flesh, ninety-five percent of it conveniently exposed. Honey bear was already marinated.
My thoughts returned to Peter Rosen’s jibe. “Innocent?” he had drawled in mocking disbelief. And telling the battleship that my psychiatrist was almost sure I wouldn’t attack a stranger! She was now undoubtedly convinced I was Farberville’s version of Lizzie Borden. Peter deserved all eighty of the whacks.
I stormed into the room and slammed the door. Caron lay in bed, a book balanced on her knee.
“Did you look at this?” I demanded belligerently as I snatched up my notebook to flap it at her. “Are you going to help me with the murder or not?”
Caron’s lip floated downward as she took in my costume and prematurely gray hair. If it was gray because of the powder. After the episode on the porch, I wouldn’t have been too surprised if the gray failed to brush out. Ever.
“Mother?” she whispered.
“No, Jane Fonda! Listen, Caron, I wish you’d pull yourself out of this self-imposed lethargy and help me with
the clues. You’re liable to ruin the mattress if you stay there indefinitely. Furthermore, I—”
“What on earth is wrong with you?” Caron interrupted calmly. “You sound like a harpy.”
She had a point. I made a face in apology and sat down to brush the powder out of my hair. Despite my fears, my reddish hair soon reappeared as my shoulders disappeared under a talcum snowfall. It helped to calm me down, and when I finally turned around, my voice was back to normal.
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