The Murder at the Murder at the Mimosa Inn

by JOAN HESSS

  Nickie looked at me and grinned. “Your personal safety is assured, Mrs. Robison-Dewitt. Trust me. Now, if your questions have been answered, I’d like to begin the lecture. Since we know why we’re here, I thought you might enjoy hearing how Scotland Yard utilizes various technological advances to solve its very real crimes.”

  He gestured at Eric, who was back at his post beside the projector. The lights went out and the screen behind Nickie lit up with a view of New Scotland Yard. Mrs. Robison-Dewitt stiffened, but gradually relaxed as nothing dreadful happened to impinge on her personal safety, meaning that I didn’t leap on her. I crossed my legs, settled back, and listened intently.

  Nickie was good, I decided, as he talked knowledgeably about his subject. I was aware of a certain amount of restiveness behind me, but I found the lecture informative and enjoyable. As he talked, he fielded questions and allowed a certain amount of diversion from his topic. We were all eager for help, although we lacked polygraphs, saliva kits, and other such paraphernalia.

  He had just introduced the use of psychology to analyse sociopathic personalities, when a voice from the back of the room interrupted. My composure went the way of the tulip glass.

  “Does a psychologist have a chance with a truly insane mind?” The tone was properly sincere, but the hint of mockery was unavoidable. The voice belonged to the one person who was not supposed to be within twenty miles of the Mimosa Inn. The one person who had scoffed at my weekend plans and expressed amusement at the whole concept.

  “Damn!” I hissed like a pressure cooker on the verge of explosion, which was a pertinent analogy.

  “Do you mind … ?” Mrs. Robinson-Dewitt hissed in response.

  I minded, but there wasn’t any point in including the woman in my decidedly black thoughts, What was he doing there? Peter Rosen had scoffed—and laughed—at the idea; why had he come? I swiveled my head to find him in the back of the room, wishing grimly that I would discover that I was mistaken, that he hadn’t really asked the skeptical question. I saw silhouettes, but I couldn’t spot him in the rows of people.

  While all this was going on, Nickie Merrick was answering the question in a serious manner. The damned voice goaded him on, then suddenly switched positions and began a barrage of medical questions about schizophrenic chemical deficiencies. It was much too complex to bother with; I focused all my energy on holding in a series of semihysterical comments about unwanted people popping up at inopportune moments to destroy otherwise perfectly pleasant plans.

  Nickie finally admitted defeat and turned on the lights. “Our speaker in the back of the room seems better acquainted with this material than I, so perhaps you might continue this with him if you’re interested.” He was not as pleased as he tried to sound, but it was a graceful escape.

  We all blinked in the sudden flush of light. Chairs creaked and possessions were shuffled as the group began to rise. Eric stepped to the podium and said, “As you have heard, there will be a croquet tournament tomorrow afternoon. The winners will receive silver trays with a suitable engraved motif. If you’re unfamiliar with the game, I’ll be delighted to offer instruction this afternoon. In the meantime, enjoy the facilities at the Inn. Swim, nap in the sun, or allow Mimi to arrange a bridge game on the porch. However, those who search may find a clue to the identity of the murderer.”

  Mrs. Robison-Dewitt rose, looked down her nose at me, and forced her way through the crowd with the tact of a metallic gray battleship. I sat. Eric Vanderhan was engulfed in a circle of would-be sleuths, who demanded further explanations of his casual comment about clues. Nickie Merrick gave me a quick salute and left the room. I methodically crossed every toe and finger and made a wish that wasn’t the least bit polite. It didn’t work.

  “Claire,” Peter said as he sat down in the chair beside me, “are you enjoying the weekend thus far?”

  “Up until just a few minutes ago, I was having a lovely time,” I said sweetly. “But I’m surprised to see you. Surprised is, in truth, an understatement. What are you doing here?” I received a view of his teeth and a shrug. “What are you doing here?” I repeated in a voice edged with frost. Mrs. Robison-Dewitt could not have done better, although she had had more practice as an iceberg.

  “Well,” he said, “it sounded like great fun, so I decided to come at the last minute. I was fortunate to find a room, don’t you think?”

  “Astoundingly fortunate,” I agreed drily.

  “And I was pining away for a glimpse of your angelic face and emerald green eyes. When I could no longer bear the misery, I threw a suitcase in the trunk and raced down the highway.”

  I toyed with a maidenly blush, but opted for a raised eyebrow and a little-bitty frown of irritation. Angelic face and emerald eyes, indeed! “If you’re quite finished spouting nonsense, I’d like to know the real reason why you came to the Mimosa Inn, Peter. You made your position clear at the restaurant—”

  “Did I? I wasn’t at all sure that I did.”

  The enigmatic response caught me unprepared. I stopped for a minute to ponder his obscure reference, then dismissed it as drivel, which it was. Nothing had happened at the restaurant, or afterward. I gritted my teeth and once again said, “Why are you here? If you don’t explain, I’m going to fetch the knitting needle from my room and we’ll test your nasty little scenario about murder in the hall. We need a victim, and you’d be so good at lying in state.” He certainly was adept at lying in his teeth.

  “I appreciate your confidence in me, but you’ll have to accept my explanation, Claire. Would you like to join me on the porch for a cup of tea?”

  “No, I would not.” My little-bitty frown grew a little-bitty bit darker. “Why don’t you admit that you came because you couldn’t bear the idea of my winning the game and proving myself a better detective? I fear your ego is showing.”

  “I believe you’re worried about the competition,” he said, feigning astonishment and then concern. “If that is the case, I’ll be happy to stand aside and allow you to win.”

  “Thank you so very much. In the meantime, you can take your magnifying glass and fingerprint kit and—and stuff it in your teacup!”

  I snatched up my notebook and stalked out of the room. Once on the porch, I looked around wildly for a destination that would take me a long way from Peter. Walking across the lake was out, even in my martyred state of mind. I had already explored the path beside the boathouse and the garden beyond. I started down the steps, changed my mind, and went back to a wicker chair, where I flopped down. The chair creaked in protest of the brutal treatment.

  “Why, lookee here, Suzetta, a real live detective,” said a voice behind me. “Found any bodies, honey?”

  I clamped down on my lip until my initial response faded, then turned around to study the two people sitting at a small round table. A bottle of scotch (my brand) sat in the middle of the table; a good half of it was gone. From the slightly unfocused eyes beaming at me, I could deduce where it was.

  The man appeared to be past middle-aged prime, and his life-style had contributed to the decline. A polyester jacket failed to span a protruding belly. Sparse white hair was combed in an improbable path across his pink scalp, which paled in comparison to the noticeably red nose below. Shaggy white eyebrows, a roadmap of wrinkles on mottled skin, and two wet lips, continually and unnecessarily moistened by a flickering tongue, completed the distasteful picture.

  His companion was a contrast in every sense. She—very definitely she—had ash blond hair that artlessly cascaded down her shoulders. Comflower blue eyes ringed by heavy lashes, a generous mouth outlined in scarlet, a body that could have paraded down the Atlantic City runway without a moment of hesitation. She wore a scarlet halter that covered everything absolutely illegal to display in public, but not an inch more than that. Long, tanned legs originated from brief white shorts; her toenails matched her lipstick.

  All in all, neither was my type. The scotch, however, was. Feigning a smile, I said, “Then you’re
not here for the murder weekend?”

  “Hell, no, sweetie pie! Suzetta and I came down here for a nice quiet time together.” A leer to emphasize the fact that he wasn’t talking about croquet or bass fishing. “Didn’t we, Suzetta baby?”

  Suzetta batted her spider-leg lashes at him. “No, we sure were surprised, weren’t we, Harmon? But I think it’s kinda cute, in a spooky way. I’ll bet my honey bear could find out who the mean old murderer was before any of these people.”

  “I sure could, honey bunch.” He patted her hand, then gave me a big wink. “But then I wouldn’t have time to take care of my doll and make sure she has a good time here in the wild. Wild—get it?”

  The man was on the verge of an oink, I told myself in a cold voice. I abhor the type, and had trustingly presumed they had gone the way of the dinosaurs. No such luck. I gave the bottle of scotch an envious look and stood up.

  “Lovely chatting with you,” I said.

  “Don’t you want to stay and have a little snort with us?” Harmon said, patting the chair beside him. I could almost feel his pudgy fingers on my anatomy. Pride battled with Johnny Walker.

  I sat down in the indicated chair and bobbled my head politely. “Well, perhaps a small drink. I’m not particularly fond of sherry, and neither are you, from what I heard earlier.”

  “Horse piss,” Harmon agreed generously. He bellowed at the hovering busboy to bring another glass, then ran his eyes over my body. I had never felt it to be inferior, but Harmon seemed to prefer Suzetta’s voluptuous lines. I am sleek—less wind resistance.

  Suzetta pursed her lips. “You must be real brave to want to creep around this old house with a murderer. Why, I don’t know what I’d do if someone was after me. I’m such a ‘fraidy cat that I’d probably just faint if someone touched me.” She produced a girlish shiver, which elicited a paternal moan from Harmon. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, that is.

  “I’ll try to resist the temptation,” I said.

  “Besides that,” Harmon said, “I’m really here for business. Right, Suzetta honey? Suzetta is my personal secretary,” he told me in a stage aside.

  If the woman could type three words a minute, I’d eat the typewriter ribbon. I took a long drink of scotch and said, “Oh, really? That must be fascinating—for both of you. You’re here on business?”

  Harmon’s laugh was much closer to an oink that I had anticipated. “That’s right, sweetie—business. You look smart for a woman; tell me what you think about this old house and that prime acreage over that way. You think someone with a little smarts might be able to make a go of it?”

  “Eric and Mimi seem to be doing well.”

  “Kids! They keep worrying about the so-called ambiance and all that stuff. No, little lady, I’m talking about a right sharp developer who could surround this place with a whole subdivision of houses. Every one of them would have a nice view of the lake and a quarter of an acre of land.”

  “A subdivision out there?” I echoed, surprised. “It’s about fifty feet from the edge of the world. Why would anyone want to live this far from town?”

  “It’s not that far as your crow flies,” Harmon chuckled. He refilled the glasses and slumped back in his chair. Droplets of sweat had popped up on his forehead like blisters, and he pulled out a bandana to wipe them away. A polyester bandana. “As our crow flies, sweetie, it’s not far at all,” he informed me again.

  “I don’t see what migration patterns have to do with it,” I said. One last glass of scotch and I would leave this porcine chauvinist to fondle whatever part of Suzetta he could alight on in his myopic stupor.

  “Your crow won’t have to fly,” Harmon confided, his voice reduced to a sibilant whisper. “There’s going to be a big beautiful highway on the other side of the hill. You’ll have your four lanes and your gravel shoulders. It’ll take about ten minutes to drive into town on the new highway, and we’ll have a quaint little rural community of hundred-thousand-dollar houses on cul-dee-saxes.”

  “Mimi and Eric are going to sell the Mimosa Inn?”

  Suzetta giggled. “They sure are, aren’t they, honey bear?”

  Harmon took out the bandana and noisily blew his nose. “I told you not to talk about that Suzetta. It’s a hush-hush deal.”

  “Hush-hush,” she repeated obediently, nibbling her lip as she tried to print the instructions on her undersized slate. She gave Harmon a puzzled frown. “But you’re telling her, Harmon.”

  “Claire Malloy,” I inserted, tired of the conversation and the insufferable pair. “Thanks for the drink, Harmon, Suzetta. Perhaps I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “Why, you’ll see me right here on this here veranda with this here bottle,” Harmon chortled, back to his normal bray of a voice. “I’m here to celebrate my deal, and you crazy folks can do all the dee-tecking you want. Harmon Crundall is going to drink scotch with his little girl and watch the sun plop into that pond. But watch out, Miss Claire! I may solve the mystery from my chair, just like that little Belgian guy with the swelled head and the mustache. Make fools of all of you, wouldn’t I, Suzetta honey?”

  He and Suzetta were laughing as I escaped into the drawing room. I had an urge to take a scalding shower to rid myself of the invisible layer of slime—but that wouldn’t solve any murders. It was unfortunate that Harmon was a guest rather than the victim; with foresight, I could solve the murder and drink the evidence.

  Before Peter did. I had forgotten about his untimely appearance, but it hadn’t been a bad dream. He was standing by the registration desk, deep in discussion with the raven-headed Mimi. I made a dash for the stairs.

  “Claire! Have you met our lovely innkeeper?” he called sweetly.

  I stopped and smiled, but not at him. “No, not yet. Eric has mentioned you, but we haven’t been introduced. I’m Claire Malloy,” I said, holding out my hand.

  Hers was porcelain, white and smooth, yet surprisingly firm. “I’ve heard all about you from Eric. In fact, you and your husband comprise most of his fond memories of Farber College. I was so sorry to hear of your husband’s accident, but I’m delighted that you could come this weekend.”

  I looked at Peter as I answered her. “I thought it sounded like a charming idea, so interesting. Although I haven’t found any telltale clues yet …”

  “You will,” Mimi said. Her eyes drifted over my shoulder to the doors leading to the porch. “That dreadful man has captured Mrs. Robison-Dewitt. I’d better see if I can do something with him before he sends everyone packing.”

  “The scotch is likely to solve your problem,” I said. “He’s already halfway through the bottle; he’ll pass out before too long.”

  Mimi shook her head. “You mustn’t underestimate Harmon Crundall. He’s a brute and a pig. I wish he’d drink himself to death in the next few hours.”

  “He’s not exactly my Prince Charming, but he’s not that bad,” I protested. I wondered why I was defending the man.

  “You don’t know Harmon,” Mimi said morosely. She lifted her chin to stare at me, the violet eyes transformed to circles of slate. “Or do you?”

  THREE

  “I’ve never seen that man before in my entire life,” I said to Mimi, surprised by her tacit accusation. I was not the only one who was determined to be suspicious; the busboy would probably demand to see my driver’s license if I asked for a drink.

  Mimi grimaced. “He’s a pig. That woman with him is out of a low-budget movie, isn’t she? Strictly artificial turf in her yard.”

  I opened my mouth to agree, then clamped it closed. Mimi had agreed too quickly, had offered the condemnation too easily. Very suspicious. I glanced at Peter to see if he had noticed anything, and met innocent, warm eyes. Just like a painting on velvet—and about as credible.

  “Absolutely,” I managed to say to Mimi, edging away from them. The game, I reminded myself, was afoot, and the champagne would go to the winner. I stumbled into a barricade behind me. It gasped and began to sputter an incoherent apol
ogy.

  “Excuse me, I didn’t think—I didn’t realize that you—oh, dear, I am dreadfully sorry to startle you. I do so—oh!”

  The woman gave up and gazed imploringly at me. Her wispy brown hair formed a halo around pale, nondescript features, and her shabby cloth sprouted threads at the seams. There was a faint aroma of mothballs about her, as if she’d been stored for several years in a trunk. I swallowed an urge to tidy her up.

  “You will forgive me, won’t you?” she pleaded.

  Unaccustomed to terrifying undernourished, dowdy women, I nodded. “I ran into you, I’m afraid. I ought to apologize.”

  The woman shrank back as though I’d bared fangs at her. Her hand was now on her heart, or at least in the general area. Two patches of red appeared on her concave cheeks. “No, I came up behind you, and it was inexcusable of me,” she insisted in a ragged whisper as she continued to retreat.

  Peter caught her arm before she could stumble over a brass planter. Gently, he said, “Would you like to sit down?”

  “No, I couldn’t,” she gasped. She slipped out of his grip and looked at Mimi, who had been observing the scene with a stunned expression. “You’re Mrs. Vanderhan?”

  With a tiny jerk, Mimi came out of the trance. “Yes, I am. Are you registered for the weekend?”

  “I didn’t make a reservation, but I must stay here. It’s—it’s important, you see, that I stay here. Could I dare presume that you might have an extra room for me?”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  “I wouldn’t mind something small or out of the way,” the woman persisted, increasingly agitated. “Perhaps a room over the stable might be available? I could pay whatever you asked, even if it’s just for a closet. It’s so very important, you see.”

  Mimi didn’t see, nor did I. We both stared at the sad little woman who was begging for a closet as if it were the most crucial thing in the world. Several of the guests had gathered nearby, a row of elderly bunnies intent on a patch of forbidden carrots. I could hear the trickle of salivation.