Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The

by Joan Hess

Peter at last broke the silence, saying, “The inn is sponsoring a special event this weekend, Mrs … . ?”

  “A convention?” She peered nervously over her shoulder, in case a salesman should pop out of the brass planter to slap a name tag on her lapel or seduce her with spiked punch.

  “Not exactly,” murmured Mimi. “It’s rather complicated, but the fact is that we are filled this weekend. The quarters over the garage are used by the staff, and all of our closets are full of brooms. I’m terribly sorry that we can’t accommodate you, Mrs … . ?”

  I had an urge to try the same ploy, but I was more interested in the address of her mental hospital—from which she clearly had escaped. She had listened to Mimi with growing dread, and now seemed on the verge of a collapse—which would amuse the rubber-neckers behind us, but was apt to disrupt the ambiance.

  She breathed for a moment in noisy little gulps, then said, “What about the little bungalows beyond the garden? I will pay whatever you tell me, but it’s so dreadfully important.”

  “We only use them when the inn is filled,” Mimi said, “and they’re closed now. I suppose we could air one for you, Mrs … . ?”

  “Smith,” the woman quavered. She gave Mimi a pathetically grateful look, nodded at me, and scurried over to the desk to snatch up a battered cloth suitcase. She was through the back door before Mimi could find the registration book.

  Mimi gave me a wry smile. “There’s not much reason to insist that Mrs. Smith put her name in the book, is there? I’m surprised she didn’t try ‘Jane Doe.’ What a curious creature … Why do you think she is so determined to stay here, Claire?”

  “Perhaps she’s compulsive about croquet,” I said, equally mystified but not especially concerned. I had more important things to worry about, so I shifted to an expression of mild curiosity. “Are you in the process of selling the Mimosa Inn to Harmon Crundall?”

  Flinching, Mimi moved behind the desk and took several minutes to write Mrs. Smith’s name in the registration book. “It’s a possibility,” she said, her voice so low, I could barely hear her.

  “Eric didn’t mention it earlier.”

  “It’s not something we enjoy discussing. Last fall, when we wanted to buy the inn, we were a little short on the down payment. Harmon paid us a substantial sum for an option on some land. It’s been a slow season, what with the bitterly cold winter and all. We had some severe plumbing problems that played havoc with the budget, and we were unable to buy back the option. Now Harmon has insisted that we allow him to exercise the option on the land that adjoins the inn. Should that happen, the Mimosa Inn would be ruined.”

  “Dreadful,” I murmured encouragingly. I noticed that Peter was eavesdropping and moved closer to the desk. “So that’s why he’s here this weekend?”

  “The option expires Monday at midnight. He brought the contract and papers for us to sign. Our lawyer says we haven’t much choice.” She looked around the room with a tight frown. “It’s not fair. We haven’t really had a chance to make a go of the Mimosa Inn. Our bookings are strong for the remainder of the summer and fall, and we ought to show a healthy profit by then.”

  “But Harmon won’t wait?”

  “We’ll be sitting in the middle of an urban war zone by next spring,” Mimi said bitterly. She slammed the book closed. “But you mustn’t worry about it, Claire. I’ll think of something on my own. Harmon Crundall won’t destroy the Mimosa Inn, unless he does it over my dead body—or his!”

  Her eyes welled with tears. Covering her mouth with her hand, she dashed into the office. The sound of sobs came through the door, muffled but unmissable. I waited for a moment, then turned toward the stairs.

  Peter stepped into my path. “Very interesting,” he said with a grin, tilting his head at the closed door.

  I sidestepped around him and continued on. “Wasn’t it? Of course, she and Eric must be heartbroken about the deal. It’s nasty stuff.”

  “Are you going upstairs to make squiggles in your notebook? I thought we might take a stroll around the grounds. We can search for clues, or simply enjoy the sunshine.”

  I shot Mr. Amiable a sugary smile. “You go on, Peter. I do have a few things to jot drown, but I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes. Besides, Caron may be devising some scheme to escape. I need to check on her.”

  I had no intention of strolling with the man—or searching for clues together. This was a solo flight, and I wasn’t going to behave like an ambulatory pigeon. He knew that I knew something; he was hoping to pry it out of me with his broad, warm smiles and sincere gazes. Ha!

  On the way upstairs I congratulated myself on the display of self-control. Now that I had recovered from the shock of finding him at the inn, I would try to discover why he was there. But first things first, I told myself as I went into my room.

  Caron was gone. The bed was rumpled; the bedspread had been used as a cover and the pillow was on the floor. Her suitcases had been emptied onto all available surfaces, the floor being the most convenient. That much was dictated by her character. Her absence was not, however: I was fairly certain she hadn’t come downstairs for the lecture nor slipped away for a swim in the lake. Food was out, due to the diet.

  I picked up the pillow and tossed it on the bed, exposing a folded sheet of paper on the floor. Glumly anticipating a suicide note from Caron, I opened it and read: “Vital clue: Tues. a hobo collapsed nearby.”

  Very curious—and very suspicious. It made no sense whatsoever, but its intent was clear. I had allowed myself to be distracted by Peter’s appearance and the crazy scenes downstairs. This was the first clue; all I had to do was decipher it before any of my fellow sleuths … or Peter. Champagne would surely follow. I read it several times.

  “Vital clue: Tues. a hobo collapsed nearby.”

  I went to the window and looked down at the serene scene below. The grassy beach was again populated by a series of lumpy figures, a miniaturized mountain range of broiled flesh. None of them resembled a hobo, rehabilitated or not. How was I to determine what had happened three days ago?

  Eric was in the middle of the croquet court with one of the elderly couples. They practiced strokes, then took positions around the court. A blue ball rolled through a wicket. A yellow ball attempted to follow, but bounced back and rolled to a stop against the rail. A surprisingly colorful expletive drifted up to my window.

  Farther down the lawn, Peter was in conversation with Mrs. Robison-Dewitt, which I found more than a bit irritating. It hadn’t taken him long to form a new alliance, I thought in a petty voice. The two of them deserved each other: She could be Watson to his Holmes, if she didn’t prim him to death in the process.

  But where was Caron?

  I peered under the bed in case she was attempting some nonsense, say only clean floor, and stood up. Harmon’s name went into my notebook, along with Suzetta’s. Mrs. Smith was noted with a question mark. The clue was refolded and tucked in my pocket. Feeling competent if not befuddled, I left the bedroom.

  As I reached the top of the stairs, I saw a figure crawling down the corridor on its hands and knees. Very suspicious. Entranced, I tiptoed behind the figure, which appeared to be a middle-aged man with a dauntingly broad posterior. Which wiggled as we progressed down the hall. If he had possessed a tail, it would have waggled.

  When he reached the wall, he turned and bumped into my shins. He looked up in alarm. I gave him a polite smile and said, “Hello. Did you find any blood-stained dustballs?”

  He scrambled to his feet and edged around me, his eyes cold and accusing. “I thought I might have dropped something,” he muttered as he pushed past me. He ducked into one of the bedrooms and slammed the door.

  I was not fooled by the lame explanation, but I doubted that I would find anything of interest along the floorboard. Leaving the crawler to his dirty-kneed modus operandi, I continued downstairs to find Caron. Or a clue. The latter was more important.

  The drawing room was unpopulated, but I heard voices in th
e dining room. There, to my delight, I found that a portable bar had been rolled in. Several of the guests clutched cocktails. A bartender had been put to work and was fending off the good-natured rush with laughter—and liquor.

  “Hi,” he said as I approached with a hungry look. “You don’t look like a sherry sort of person. What can I get for you?”

  He was well under thirty. His tanned face and sun-bleached blond hair gave him the appearance of a California beach boy, which was somewhat improbable a thousand miles inland. He did have the muscles and white teeth; all he lacked was a surfboard. Did I care?

  “A small scotch and water,” I said. “What happened to the sherry-only dictum?”

  “Mimi sensed a potential rebellion in the ranks and decided to open the bar. Shall I put this on your tab?” he said, pushing a glass across the bar.

  I decided that Mimi was probably hoping to make a fortune before Monday in order to thwart the Crundall scheme. On the other hand, it was an admirable idea. “I didn’t see you earlier,” I said idly.

  “I went into town after lunch. I do most of the shopping and run errands as needed. How’s the murder going?”

  “We’re all still breathing. I did find a clue in my room, but I can’t figure it out—yet. Do you serve hints?”

  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.”