The Murder at the Murder at the Mimosa Inn

by JOAN HESSS

  Harmon looked at his plate. “Waz that?”

  “Dinner, Harmon. Please try to eat something, honey bear,” Suzetta said, nudging him upright and tucking a napkin in his collar. A bib did seem appropriate.

  “Can’t eat thiz. Might be drugged, ya know. Lez ask that man—he’s a cop and he oughta know about that stuff. Isn’t that right, Mr. Policeman?”

  “I believe it’s safe,” Peter said, puzzled.

  “Eat, Harmon,” Suzetta commanded in a low voice. “It may help you feel a teensy bit better.”

  Harmon managed to find his fork, but its purpose eluded him. He was tapping it on the edge of the table and humming an accompaniment when Mrs. Bella Crundall came into the room, spotted him, and crossed to his chair.

  “Oh, Harmon, how could you?”

  “Waz that?” Harmon blinked at the shadow across his plate. “Iz that some kinda eclipse?”

  “You’re drunk,” said Bella Crundall, her expression surprisingly harsh. She rapped her hasband’s sagging shoulder. “You ought to lie down, Harmon—and you ought to be ashamed of yourself! I have already accepted the fact that our marriage is over, ruined by your self-centered, piggish desire to recapture your youth by taking up with some girl young enough to be your daughter.”

  “Suzetta my sec’ertary,” he protested petulantly.

  “You’re hopeless, and the only thing I can do to avoid being pulled into your whirlpool of degradation is to divorce you.”

  He gave her a crafty, albeit lopsided, smile. “You better not divorce me, Bella. I’m going to divorce you first, and then I’m going tell my policeman—I mean my lawyer—whoever … Anyway, I’m going to put ever’thing in Suzetta’s name. You won’t get a penny of my money. You’ll be a pooper!”

  “I doubt I’ll be a pauper, Harmon Crundall. You, on the other hand, are apt to end up in a hospital with a terminal liver ailment. I hope this girl will be at your bedside when your time comes. I shall not!” Bella shot Suzetta a pitying look and swooped out of the dining room, a schooner under full sail.

  I wanted to applaud, but it seemed inappropriate. I went back to my broiled trout, carefully keeping my face lowered. Gradually, the murmur of conversation started up once more. Harmon was befuddled but quiet, and Suzetta, her cheeks pink, began to eat.

  As soon as I was finished, I nudged Caron and we stood up. We took a few steps toward the doorway, but were stopped by a peculiar, slushy sound from behind us. Mystified, I looked over my shoulder.

  Harmon Crundall had taken a swan dive into his plate. His nose was embedded in the potatoes au gratin; a tidbit of lettuce dangled from one ear. The rhythmic drone of a chainsaw filled the air as he began to snore.

  Suzetta looked at him, then methodically ate the final bite on her plate and folded her napkin. “Poor Harmon’s exhausted from all his work. He just works so hard, and then needs a tiny nap,” she explained in a serene voice, as if he weren’t in immediate danger of suffocating on a lungful of cheese sauce.

  Mimi hurried over, and the two women managed to extricate Harmon from his dinner. Suzetta flicked the lettuce leaf off his ear, dabbed his chin with a napkin, and took his arm. Grimacing under the inert load, they steered him out of the dining room and up the stairs. The rest of us gaped like craniate vertebrates. Caron was visibly appalled; I could hardly wait to hear her condemnation of the episode and of adults as a species.

  Nickie Merrick tapped his fork on a glass and said, “Please don’t worry about Mr. Crundall; he’s on his way to bed, I’m sure. The movie will start promptly at ten o’clock. The busboys will have to move the chairs into the drawing room, so please wait on the porch. Bruce will be serving cordials to those who wish an after-dinner drink.”

  We all went to the porch, where our juggling bartender poured generous belts of brandy. My dinner companions formed a circle on one end of the porch and all agreed that Harmon’s behavior was disgraceful. The absent Bella received a great deal of tongue-clucking and sympathy. When the subject had been thoroughly analyzed, I asked if anyone had solved any cryptic clues. The group disbanded as if I’d mentioned herpes.

  Only Peter remained. “So who do you think is to be the ill-fated victim?”

  “Harmon, possibly,” I said. “If anyone deserves to be murdered, it’s that horrible man. But I’m not sure whether he’s who he says he is, or is an actor in the mock murder. I’m nurturing a wild hope that Mrs. Robison-Dewitt will be discovered in the classic death pose. She purports to be from some magazine, but I’ve never heard of it. Do you think she’s legitimate?” I mentally gave myself a pat on the back for the timely red herring.

  “Can’t tell the players without a scorecard,” Peter said. He started to add something, but looked over my shoulder and closed his mouth.

  I followed his eyes. Suzetta and Mimi stood in the middle of the staircase, deep in conversation. Suzetta looked almost human; her eyelashes were at rest and her kittenish expression had been replaced with a pensive frown. Mimi shook her head in response to something Suzetta said. Suzetta put her hands on the other woman’s shoulders and repeated something with noticeably urgency. Again, Mimi shook her head, then pulled away and ran back upstairs.

  Suzetta stared after her, now indecisive and quite worried. Then, as if cued by a whisper from off stage, she resumed the brainless pose and pranced down the stairs. “Is it show time?” she asked, loudly enough to be heard on the porch, or across the lake if the bullfrogs were listening.

  Before she reached the door, Nickie Merrick strode into the middle of the room and grabbed her arm. He muttered something in her ear that unsettled her, then shoved her toward the door that led to the porch. I caught a glimpse of her white face before she moved out of view. Seconds later, I heard her announce that the movie would begin in only a teeny little second and that she just adored movies, didn’t everyone?

  I carefully avoided looking at Peter as we went into the drawing room. Caron informed me that she was not about to watch some horrid old movie and went upstairs to call Inez, or so I suspected. Praying the telephone bill would not rival that for the room, I allowed Peter to find chairs for us. Nickie made a few introductory comments about Agatha Christie while Eric took charge of the projector. The lights went out; the movie began.

  I tried to keep my eyes open as the fabled Orient Express roared down the tracks, but I dozed off before Hercule could twirl his mustache over a bona fide corpse. From time to time I was aware of shuffled movement in the rows behind us, and I dreamily imagined parallel scenes of mayhem taking place in the dark room.

  I was in the middle of an improbable scenario in the boathouse, complete with oversized spiders using all eight legs to strangle a red-nosed Harmon, while Bella rapped him on the shoulder with a pooper-scooper and demanded a divorce, when Peter shook my shoulder.

  “Is he dead yet?” I grumbled.

  “Not that I know of. In any case, the movie is over and you’re ready for bed.”

  “This time you may be right—but don’t let it go to your head.”

  Peter pulled me to my feet and kept one arm around my waist until we reached the safety of the second-floor, landing. At my door, he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and pushed me inside. I muzzily noted that Caron was asleep in the middle of the bed. The telephone was on the floor nearby—a bad sign for my checkbook.

  I undressed and collapsed beside her. Caron protested but at last ceded two or three inches. I pulled the pillow under my head, punched it into shape, tugged the blanket under my chin, and blissfully closed my eyes.

  “Night,” I murmured through a yawn.

  Thirty minutes later I was still wide awake. I turned on the bedside lamp and read for a while. That managed to rouse me to a state of total alertness. I turned off the light and lay back to listen to the cacophony of crickets, owls, whippoorwills, tree frogs, and other equally dissonant serenaders. After I had tried every sleep-inducing technique I knew short of suicide, I got out of bed and put on a robe.

  It was, I
discovered, almost one o’clock. I decided the fresh air was responsible for my restlessness and resolved not to breathe any more of it than necessary. In the meantime, I had several hours of free time on my hands—and no late movie to watch.

  My stomach made a frivolous suggestion. Unable to think of anything more diverting, I decided to go to the kitchen and see if there might be a neglected plate of scones on the counter. I closed the door behind me and crept down the hall in my bare feet, guided by a dim light from each end of the corridor. Snores and snaffles now joined the outside music. The bucolic countryside, I realized wryly, was more populous than I had ever suspected—and a good deal less peaceful.

  A mischievous urge to scream came to mind. Bedroom doors would fly open; sluggish faces would peer into the corridor in hopes of a blood-drenched corpse and a hovering suspect. I would make a pretense of having just dashed out of my room, and would offer a garbled story about a man in a black cloak. Then—

  A door closed in the darkness below.

  My foot jerked off the first step as though it had touched a burner on a stove. I peered over the bannister at unmoving, misshapen humps of furniture. Squinting did not help. I wiggled my toes. My foot had decided not to cooperate and was firmly entrenched in the sanctuary of midair. If I held the teetery pose much longer, I was apt to fall down the stairs, but I couldn’t bring myself to move.

  In the middle of all this internal debate, a blond head moved across the area at the bottom of the staircase. The small lamp on the desk caught the swish of Suzetta’s scarlet skirt before she vanished from view. The door that led to the parking area opened and closed with diminutive clicks.

  Relieved, my foot agreed to meet the carpet. I crept down the stairs to follow the blonde, all the while smugly picturing Peter’s expression when I announced that I had solved the mock murder in the middle of the night. I had suspected that Suzetta did not ring true, and now I had proof. Dopey blondes do not prowl under the cover of night.

  I went to a back window and looked out at the depressingly deserted parking area beside the stable. As I stared at the scene, I heard a low rumble that echoed like a distant thunderstorm, although no flicker of lightning had preceded it. I continued to watch, hoping for a flash of scarlet, but Suzetta had vanished—permanently, it seemed. Her destination was as puzzling as the cryptic clues. No light shone from the upper story of the stable, nor did anyone slither from shadow to shadow. No one did anything that I could see.

  After ten futile minutes, I reluctantly gave up and started for the kitchen. If I couldn’t solve a crime, I could at least console myself with a scone and a glass of milk.

  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.

  FIVE

  The 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 excesse
s. 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?”