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Authors: Joan Hess

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BOOK: Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The
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From the darkness, a figure stepped into my path. My nose bounced off a pajama-clad chest.
“Claire?” Peter hissed incredulously.
I gingerly explored the bridge of my nose. “Well, it’s not Ellery Queen. Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to creep around in your bare feet and frighten people?”
“What do you think you’re doing?” More hiss.
“Oh, go to bed!” I hissed in reply. I stomped upstairs and did exactly as I suggested to him.
T
he next morning the main event at last occurred. Eric came into the dining room with a pale, worried face and said, “I’m sorry to disrupt your breakfast, but a terrible thing has happened. At about seven o’clock this morning, the gardener found Harmon Crundall on the floor of the boathouse. Mr. Crundall—he was—I’m afraid—well, he’s dead.”
A happy little shiver rounded the room. I slipped out my notebook and held it in my lap. I presumed I was slightly ahead of the others in sorting out the suspects, due to both my keen powers of observation and my fortuitous midnight prowl the previous night, even though it had led to no startling insights. I could almost taste the champagne. Perhaps I wouldn’t make poor Peter do the cooking. After all, a woman’s place may be in the kitchen—as long as she’s fixing crow á la king, with humble pie for dessert. He’d get to eat every bite of it, while I basked in the glow of the candlelight. I am such an incurable romantic.
Eric gave us a moment to react with facetious surprise, then continued. “Since we were fortunate enough to have a
detective in residence during the preceding events, we have asked Sergeant Merrick of Scotland Yard to conduct the investigation. I hope all of you will do your utmost to cooperate with him.”
Nickie came to the front of the room and stared coldly at us. We shivered once more, less happily. “This is a serious situation,” he began ponderously. “I have determined that security is adequate at the Mimosa Inn; the gate is locked during the night and trespassers are rare, if not nonexistent, due to the distance from the highway. That leads me to conclude that the murderer is here—at the Mimosa Inn and possibly in this very room, sipping coffee or innocently buttering his or her toast!”
Several cups hit their respective saucers; triangles of toast flew across the tablecloth. We all gazed impassively at each other. The Oriental Hercule broke the silence. “Where is the deceased’s wife, Sergeant Merrick? Has she been informed?”
“I’ve sent someone to break the news and bring her here. It is a felony to withhold information, sir. Do you have some reason to believe she’s involved in this ghastly crime?”
“No, Sergeant, not at all. It’s just—just that, well, she was upset at dinner, and I—I wondered—”
“I would prefer that you leave the speculation to me. That, sir, is my duty. As for the details of the crime … The medical examiner was called to the scene at seven-fifteen this morning, when he determined that the victim had been dead for more than six hours but less than twelve. When pressed for a more precise figure, he offered an estimate of roughly seven to nine hours.”
Mrs. Robison-Dewitt had no intention of being daunted by Nickie’s brusque demeanor. “The case of death, Sergeant Merrick?” she called, waving a finger in the air.
“The medical examiner has suggested the classic blunt
instrument. My men have examined all the oars and canoe paddles in the boathouse, and none of them have traces of blood or hair. I’m afraid we must search further afield for the weapon. In the meantime, I must question those of you who can assist in our inquiry.”
It was as if the class had been accused of the murder. Throats were cleared; napkins were folded into precise rectangles; expressions mimicked those of a children’s choir. I felt guilty, even though I knew perfectly well I hadn’t bashed Harmon with anything more lethal than a frown of disapproval.
Nickie pointed toward a corner table, where Suzetta was slumped in a chair. “Miss Price, you may have been the last person to see Crundall alive. Would you please tell me what happened yesterday, from the moment of your arrival at the Mimosa Inn?”
Suzetta’s face was ashen, the customary makeup absent. Her blond hair, on the other hand, had spent a considerable amount of time with a brush. She flinched as though Nickie’s index finger might explode at her, then pulled herself up and said, “Harmon and I got here right after lunch yesterday. We checked in—and no matter what you think, we had separate rooms! Then he started drinking, and sort of had a teensy bit more than he could handle. I put him to bed during dinner, and didn’t see him after that. I sure as hell didn’t kill him!” Her voice ended on an indignant squeak.
Mimi stood in the doorway that led to the kitchen. She looked as pale and worried as her husband, but her shoulders were squared. Beneath the curtain of bangs, her eyes were flat. She would be my first choice in a crisis, I decided, despite her tendency to lapse into the ingenue role. Eric was the dreamer; she wore the pragmatic pants in the family.
“That’s correct, Sergeant,” she volunteered. “They did
have separate rooms, and I was the one who helped Miss Price carry Harmon Crundall to his room. He was almost unconscious by then—how did he get to the boathouse?”
“An area that requires exploration, Mrs. Vanderhan,” Nickie said. “The victim was ‘escorted’ to his room at approximately nine o’clock last night and left to sleep off his excesses. What did you and Miss Price do, once he was safely tucked in bed?”
“I came downstairs to continue supervision of the kitchen staff, then watched the movie with our guests, Sergeant. Afterwards, Eric and I made sure that everything was locked and went to bed.”
“Then you did not see Harmon Crundall once you left the room?”
“No, I did not, Sergeant Merrick.”
“Miss Price?” barked Nickie, spinning around to stare at her.
“I watched the movie, too, and then went to bed.”
“Did you later go by Crundall’s room to see if he might need further assistance?”
Suzetta shook her head in an ash-blond flurry. “He was out like a cement block. Why would he need further assistance?”
Tugging at the end of his mustache, Nickie glared around the room. “Did any of you see or hear Crundall after he left the dining room?”
We shook our heads dumbly. At this point the door to the drawing room opened, and Bella Crundall stepped into the room. She wore a well-cut navy-blue skirt and jacket with a pastel blouse, white gloves, and a small hat, as if she had dropped by on the way to a garden club meeting. Her hair was no longer wispy, nor was her expression.
“Yes, Sergeant?” she said. “You wanted to see me?”
Nickie was startled, as were we all. After a pause, he regained his composure and said, “Did the officer inform you of the recent tragedy, Mrs. Crundall?”
“The tragedy was by no means recent; it took place thirty-one years ago when I married Harmon,” she countered in a defiant tone. “I should have known that he would never change, would never repent his ways nor cease his childish cravings for liquor and women. Last night was not the first time I’d discovered him flagrantly mocking our marriage vows, but it was the last time. I told him then that I would divorce him.”
“His response, Mrs. Crundall?”
“All of you heard his response. He assured me that he would try to divorce me first, and transfer his assets to his secretary’s name, in order to keep me from getting my fair share.” Bella found Suzetta and gave her an inscrutable look. “However, even in his drunken stupor, Harmon knew that a lawyer would be able to thwart the petty scheme. I had no reason to kill my husband, Sergeant; I had already washed my hands of him.”
“Yet yesterday morning you followed him to the Mimosa Inn and attempted to register under a false name!”
“A crime, Sergeant? I think not. Yes, I followed Harmon here to confirm my suspicions. Earlier in the morning I found a notation on his desk about his reservation for the weekend, although he had told me earlier that he would be on a hunting trip with some colleagues from a distant city. He was hardly hunting squirrels.”
“Mrs. Crundall, you must be frank with us.”
Bella adjusted her hat, seemingly unconcerned by Nickie’s increasingly dark expression. “If you’re finished, I would prefer to return to my bungalow, Sergeant Merrick.”
Without waiting for a reply, she left the room. Nickie gave his mustache a vicious tweak, then hurried across the room to confer with his nervous henchman. The rest of us took the opportunity to commence breathing once again. I noted the parameters of the time of death in my notebook, did a bit of subtraction on my fingers and arrived at the
estimated hours: ten o’clock to midnight, when we had all been watching the movie in the drawning room.
Or had we? There had been noises in the back of the room, as if people had washed in and out on a random tide. I could vouch for my own presence the entire time, but I couldn’t be sure about anyone else’s, including Peter’s. I looked around the room for him, and spotted him at a far table, grinning at me with an inquisitive tilt to his head. It was not worthy of response.
Nickie returned to the front of the room. “Mrs. Vanderhan, it seems that Crundall and his”—discreet cough—“secretary, Miss Price, were unaware of the special nature of the weekend. According to several witnesses, they were surprised by the whimsical plans and a bit disgruntled. If they had no reservations, why did you permit them to register?”
Mimi fluttered her hands helplessly. “Eric and I had a meeting scheduled for Monday with Mr. Crundall. He arrived Friday after lunch and announced that he had driven down early to spend a restful weekend with his secretary. Due to the nature of the meeting Monday, I could hardly refuse his demand for adjoining rooms.”
“This meeting was about … ?”
“He had an option on some of the land surrounding the Mimosa Inn. He was a sort of—silent partner, and he wanted to discuss refinancing schemes on Monday. I had no choice.”
Eric joined her in the doorway, placing one hand on her shoulder to steady her. His pipe was clenched tightly between his teeth. “That is correct, Sergeant. Harmon Crundall was a business associate, nothing more.”
“Ah, Mr. Vanderhan, I have a question or two for you. If Crundall was indeed murdered during the movie last night, someone must have left the room. You were in the back of
the room with the projector; can you offer any enlightenment about the group’s movements?”
“It was dark,” Eric said uneasily. His pipe wobbled for a second, and he quickly stuffed it in his pocket.
“Necessarily so, in order for the movie to be visible,” Nickie said. “Then let us return to the moment before the lights went out. Was anyone missing from the room at that time?”
“Mrs. Crundall did not appear, but she was in her bungalow. I later sent Bruce down there to see if she might want a tray from the dining room or a pot of tea.”
“Bruce?”
“Bruce Wheeler, our temporary bartender. He came back and said that Mrs. Crundall refused to answer his repeated knocks.”
Nickie scanned the room until he found the blond beach boy, who was sitting at the table with Suzetta. “How did you know that Mrs. Crundall was really inside the bungalow?” he barked.
Bruce carefully placed his fork on one fingertip and balanced it with negligent confidence. “I heard her inside. Crying. I decided not to disturb her and left.”
“Did you then return to the house to watch the movie?” The fork clattered onto the table. “I’d already seen it, so I continued past the bungalows to walk around the lake.”
Nickie digested that with a wry frown, then waved a hand at the man poised in the doorway to the drawing room. The man came forward with a collection of plastic bags and arranged them on a table.
“These,” Nickie said, “are the pieces of evidence found at the scene of the crime or in Crundall’s room. I will allow you to examine them, if you wish, but they must not be tampered with before the investigation is finished. Those of significance will be needed at the trial.”
He spun on his heel and marched out of the room. Suzetta
and Bruce followed more slowly, whispering to each other. Pale but composed, Mimi invited us to resume our meal and went into the kitchen with her husband. We sat for a decorous minute, then all shoved back our chairs and scrambled for the table with the clues. Mrs. Robison-Dewitt arrived first. Elbows primed for violence, she began sifting through the plastic bags as the rest of us advanced with caution.
Once I had worked my way through the crowd, I snatched a Baggie from under her substantial nose and studied the contents. Three long yellow threads, similiar to human hairs but with an unmistakable synthetic sheen. I dutifully recorded the information in my notebook and picked up another Baggie, labeled “victim’s bedroom.” Inside was a ragged corner of paper, the edges charred. I could make out a few letters: “Whereas th—” Mrs. Robison-Dewitt plucked it out of my hands, but I doubted there was anything else to be deduced from it.
BOOK: Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The
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