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Authors: Joan Hess

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“Harmon’s room, maybe.”

“Why don’t you go upstairs and search for it, then? We need to compare everyone’s actions with the script to see if anyone improvised something radically different. Look for the option while you’re there. Go!” I said, shooing him out of the kitchen with a maternal eye and an encouraging look.

Eric did as ordered. I waited until I heard a quiet click from the top of the stairs, then climbed on the stool. Lofty, but not helpful. My first realization was that I did not care for heights, even of the three-foot sort. The second was that the staff had not done a very good job on the countertops. The third was that I was confused by the whole mess and wanted to go home to my bookstore, where things fit into polite categories. Here, I could not isolate fiction from nonfiction.

Begin at the beginning, I lectured myself. I did well until I arrived at the log in the cove. I could not stir up any regret; on the contrary, more primitive feelings rose like sparks from an open fire, heat and all. Unlike the mimosa leaf, I hadn’t folded on contact. Not in the least. After some introspection, I concluded that no action was required on the matter, or was advisable.

I moved on to the last few hours of the melodrama. Bella’s name had popped up from several different sources. Bella had sworn that Harmon knew nothing of the drug transactions happening backstage at the Faberville Community Theater; Bella had sworn that Harmon was indeed prepared to exercise the option. Bella had been talkative to everyone except Miss Claire Marple.

I wrote her name in the soapy film on the countertop. She had made as many transformations as Suzetta: dowdy mouse, hysterical wife, decisive woman, grieving widow, self-imposed exile. And motor-mouth extraordinaire. Surely, I deserved a few words.

It was too late for a proper neighborly call, but I hadn’t come up with another excuse as I knocked on the bungalow door. “Bella? It’s Claire. I thought you might be in the mood for a little company.”

She came out of the bedroom, wearing her coat over jeans and a sweater. “Claire,” she murmured, “how kind of you.”

“Are you going out?” At ten o’clock?”

“No, dear, I just returned from a walk in the rose garden. I was afraid the lime might have burned the roses’ roots, so I went to see if they were drooping.” She shrugged off her coat and gestured for me to come inside. “Would you like a cup of tea? It’s my turn to play hostess.”

“Yes, thank you, I would. This day has been one of the longest in my life, exceeded only by the day I went into labor with Caron and the day my husband was killed in a car wreck. I can imagine how you must feel.”

“It has been trying. By now, the only thing Lieutenant Rosen doesn’t know about me is my shoe size and my secret fondness for chocolate mint ice cream.”

“I have a problem with almond fudge,” I admitted. A familiar tickle crept down my nose. I rubbed frantically, first with a ladylike finger and then with my whole hand. As the tickle abated, I realized Bella was watching me with a perplexed expression.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Allergies. Nickie said he had some samples that might help; I may have to beg for them.” A lovely cue. “Did Peter tell you about the drug problem at Farber and the theater connection?”

She gave me a cup and saucer, then sat down across from
me. “He did, but I fail to see any relevance to Harmon’s … death. If my husband had been suspicious, he would have confided in me. He was quite fond of Nickie.” She paused, then added, “He was fond of Mimi, too. It’s so difficult to believe she could have done such a dreadful thing.”

“I don’t believe it,” I said flatly.

“The sheriff sat in on my statement, and he became quite agitated when I mentioned Harmony Hills. Apparently, Mimi and Eric lied about it when they gave their statements. I don’t understand that, either. Harmon was quite determined to go through with the project; ironically, he wanted to invest the profits in a new theater building.”

“At the expense of destroying the Mimosa Inn. Are you quite sure Mimi and Eric knew his plans?”

“Quite sure, dear. I’m sorry.”

I did not like the way things were going. “Tell me about Harmon,” I suggested. “All I saw was the role he played, which was distressingly adept. What was he really like?”

Bella went to the dinette to take a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. As I waited, the dreaded nose tickle caught me by surprise and I sneezed explosively.

“I’ll get pills from Nickie,” I vowed before Bella could offer sympathy or a tissue.

She gave me a doubtful smile, lit a cigarette, and sat down again. “Harmon was a kind man, who doted on the students at the theater as if they were his offspring. We had no children, you see, and he used them as replacements. He encouraged them to bring their problems to him, and often loaned them money or wrote glowing letters of recommendation.”

“He had his theater troupe; you had your chemistry students.

“I still have my students, even if I no longer have Harmon. I’m looking forward to returning to my routine Monday morning—if your policeman allows us to leave.”

“I have no idea what he intends to do,” I said, displeased with her description. “Sheriff Lafleur may decide that the investigation is completed; in that case, Peter may agree and let us leave. Are you going to teach classes Monday morning? Shouldn’t you take a leave of absence for a few weeks?”

“To sit home and mope? No, Claire, my students need me—and I need the diversion. Their eternal ineptness in chemistry lab will help to take my mind off things.”

“Then it’s probably best,” I murmured. When Carlton was killed, I had stayed home and moped, and it had served no useful purpose. “What about the funeral?”

“On Wednesday at four o’clock. Perhaps I’ll see you there, dear. For now, I’m still a bit tired, and I think I’ll go to bed.” She went across the room to hold open the door for me.

I tried a final shot. “What will happen to Harmony Hills now? Will you see the project through, or let the option expire?”

“Harmony Hills will be built as a tribute to my husband.”

I opened my mouth to mention the missing option, but found I was about to speak to solid wood. Ah, well, I told myself as I walked along the path through the garden. The marble cupid was a pale ghost in the moonlight, forever optimistic, waiting.

“Do you realize that you may be gazing at ‘cul-dee-saxes’ in the near future?” I asked him sternly. In moments of confusion, I have been known to talk to inanimate objects. A symptom of schizophrenia, or so I’ve been warned. Thus far, nothing has answered.

Except for a drowsy deputy on the porch, no one was about. A line of light shone from under the office door, but I went upstairs without allowing myself to toy with the idea of a chat with “my policeman,” who had done nothing
constructive about Mimi’s arrest, the unidentified drug pusher, or my ambivalent attitude toward him.

“Phooey!” I muttered under my breath as I went into the room I shared with my daughter the squealer.

Caron was sitting in the middle of the bed, a book held not more than two inches from her nose. It was upside down, which was a rather unmissable clue to her former activity.

“Did Inez have any pertinent comments about postpubescent child abuse?” I asked as I undressed and pulled on a night shirt.

“I happen to have been reading.” She noticed that the book was somewhat illegible from its present perspective, and put it down. “Not really, but she does know some of the people—or
of
them, anyway.”

“How clever of her. She knows you, me, and Peter—not a bad batting average. This impresses you?” I sat down at the dressing table and began to dab calamine lotion on each red bump and welt. I estimated there were four thousand; I might still be dabbing at sunrise.

“And someone else.” Caron picked up the book and made a pretense of fascination with the written word, now upright.

I dabbed diligently for a long moment. When I could no longer restrain myself from taking the proffered carrot, I said, “And who might that be?”

She flipped to the next page, read it with great concentration, dogeared the corner, and carefully placed the book on the floor beside the bed. I was going to suffer for all the indignities of the last two days, fish threats and all. In the interim I dabbed twenty-nine bumps. After Caron was satisfied with her petty revenge, she lay back on the bed, crossed her arms over her chest, sighed grandly, and said, “The guy’s wife.”

“The guy’s wife? That narrows it down to the female half of those present, excepting you. Could you be more
precise?” I forced myself to dab a nasty red bump just below my earlobe. It could pass for a ruby earring if it continued to swell at the present rate.

“Did you ever see the creepy old movie about vampires?”

“I do not see the relevance of my cinema attendance record. If you intend to drag this out until September, let me know now. Otherwise, please get on with it.”

“Well … Inez’s sister Julianna goes to Farber High School, and she has junior chemistry with Mrs. Crundall.”

“The earth trembles under my feet. Would you mind putting some lotion on my back? I can’t reach all the mosquito bites, and I’m afraid they’ll keep me awake tonight.”

“Don’t you want to know what Julianna thinks of Mrs. Crundall?” Caron growled, outraged by my lack of interest in adolescent gossip. “It could be vital, Mother.”

I tossed the tube of lotion at her. “I am still stunned by the knowledge that Inez has a sister. The idea of an older version of Inez gives me goose bumps.”

“Those are mosquito bites,” Caron said coldly. “Julianna is terribly perceptive, and she told Inez all sorts of things about Mrs. Crundall. But if you don’t care”—pout, pout, pout—“we’ll drop the subject.”

“I apologize,” I said, watching her in the mirror. The pouts might keep me awake long after the itches subsided. “What did Juliette tell Inez?”

“Julianna!”

“What did Julianna tell Inez that Inez found worthy of repeating to you?” I said humbly.

“For one thing, the kids call Mrs. Crundall ‘Bella Lugosi’ because she’s so awful. Just like the actor that played Count Dracula in the movies.”

“High-school teachers often earn unflattering nicknames. I had an English teacher once—”

“She is the very worst teacher at the high school. The
kids in her class have hours of homework every single night, and in class she bawls them out all the time.”

“Ghastly stuff. Are you sure Julianna isn’t exaggerating because she doesn’t understand the nature of molecules?” I said, trying to be reasonable without risking another bout of pouts.

“Julianna is a straight-A student,” Caron sniffed. “And she says that all the kids hate Bella Lugosi-Crundall. After all, she’s a cheerleader.”

“Mrs. Crundall?”

“Julianna, Mother. Mrs. Crundall is a horrid teacher and a mean person—and everybody hates her.”

“That’s strange,” I said, mostly to myself. “Bella implied that she felt like a surrogate mother to her students.”

“Snow White’s stepmother believed the same thing,” Caron said. She looked at the telephone, stared at me, and with reluctance picked up her book. “I think the woman is capable of anything, including murder!” she announced before diving into her book.

From the mouths of babes, I told myself as I applied a final blob of calamine. I now resembled a clown who had been caught in a thundershower, but I wasn’t going anywhere. Ignoring Caron’s huffs, I found my notebook and flipped through the pages.

There were several heavily underlined observations that no longer had significance. Suzetta had been on duty when she had prowled out the back door. I drew a line through it. Bruce had produced the rumble in order to take Harmon’s car to the assigned meeting place. I drew another line. For exercise I drew an irritable slash through every terse reference to Suzetta. Nickie had admitted that he had left the drawing room during the movie, but he wouldn’t have been so candid if he had murdered Harmon. Slash on Nickie. No drugs in Bruce’s room—slash. Mimi and Eric
deserved a slash as an act of faith, so I marked them off the list.

One name remained.

A faint snore drifted from the bed. I crept around the room until I was dressed in jeans and a sweater. Then, feeling as silly as usual in such circumstances, I quietly closed the door behind me and tiptoed down the stairs.

ELEVEN

I
t was nearly midnight by this time. A small lamp on the desk provided enough light for me to wind a path through Aunt Beatrice’s furniture to the front door. I slipped out to the porch and eased the door closed.

I had company. Two figures sat on the swing, shoulders touching and heads an inch apart. The swing creaked softly, but the two figures could have passed for cardboard props.

“Who’s there?” I squeaked.

“Bruce Wheeler.”

“Oh, Bruce, you almost gave me a heart attack,” I said as I went over to the swing. “Who’s with you?”

“This is Alvin McGig. He’s a busboy. We’re both off duty now, and we weren’t disturbing anyone until you came along.”

“It’s fine with me,” I began defensively, “if you want to”—I realized that they were holding hands. Oh, dear—“swing on the porch, Bruce. I thought it seemed like a nice night for a stroll, myself. The moon is so—high, and the stars are, too.”

“Enjoy yourself.”

Alvin giggled, but broke off in a hiccup when Bruce glared at him. I waved a hand in farewell and managed a decorous pace until I reached the edge of the garden. As soon as I was concealed by shrubbery, I stumbled to the bench and sank down before my legs disgraced me in front of my marble friend.

Bruce’s questionable story was now explained. My virile beach boy would have bleached his tan before admitting to his unconventional preference for the same gender. Naturally, he had not cared to discuss the goal of his late-night walks; Alvin McGig’s company was a dubious reward. Grimacing, I pulled myself up. A whisper put me back on the bench.

“Claire?”

It was either a giant mosquito or Peter Rosen. To my regret, it proved to be the latter. He stepped from behind the cupid—my cupid—and joined me.

“Out for a breath of fresh air?” he teased as he sat down beside me. “I thought you preferred the canned, filtered, mechanically cooled variety?”

“I do. It seems I’m allergic to whatever they use around here. What are you doing, if I may be so bold?”

“Waiting for you. Were you heading for Bella’s bungalow? Don’t let me delay you further.”

“Did you follow me to the bungalows yesterday, too?”

“Only in my dreams. It must have been some other white knight.”

Oh, so silky. I sulked for a few minutes, while I considered the limitations imposed by his unexpected presence. On the one hand, I saw no reason to share the upcoming glory that would come with my brilliant solution. On the other, I saw no reason to be bashed on the head and rowed across the lake, face down in an inch of mucky water. Miss Marple sat by a cozy fire and chatted reminiscently about parlor maids and vicars; her attentive policeman
then undertook the more dangerous tasks. Perhaps that’s why she finished so many booties.

“I’ve been thinking,” I announced reluctantly. I ran through the process by which I had eliminated all but one of the suspects. My voice paled when I described the scene on the porch, but recovered and ended in triumph.

“That sounds quite good,” Peter said, “but we have no evidence that Bella was ever in the boathouse, much less that she murdered her husband. If you have no qualms about potential slander suits, you can race around making accusations. I can’t—without proof.”

“Bella was in the boathouse,” I insisted.

“She didn’t carve her initials in the door.”

“No, but she brought the evidence with her back to the bungalow,” I said, suddenly excited. “The only site that sets off my sneezes is the boathouse, because of a particular type of mold in there. Earlier, when I dropped by the bungalow, my nose started to tickle—and Bella’s coat was next to me on the sofa.”

“I’m not sure your nose will hold up in court.” He leaned over to study the object under discussion. “You’re covered with blotches, Claire. Are you developing some rare skin disorder?”

“That was not amusing. I can prove that Bella was in the boathouse, if I have to sneeze in front of the jury to do it. Now, all we need is motive and—”

“Claire, slow down. Even if she did visit the boathouse, she may have done so at any time in the last twenty-four hours. This afternoon, for instance, or yesterday before Harmon went out for the staged rendezvous with Mimi. Mimi swears that he was alive when she left; less than two minutes later he was gone—in the terminal sense. How did Bella manage to squeeze in between Mimi and Eric?”

“I don’t know. I do know that she was in the boathouse, and it wasn’t to watch the spider races. Besides that, the woman is a liar. She led me to believe that she was a doting
mother hen to her dear students, but Caron’s friend Inez says her nickname is Bella Lugosi. If Bella lied about that, maybe she lied about everything.”

“High-school kids are not notoriously accurate in their character judgments. I had a biology teacher once—”

“Well, I’m going to ask her. Are you coming?” The last was tossed over my shoulder as I started toward the far side of the garden.

Looking less than thrilled at the invaluable opportunity, Peter accompanied me to the bungalow. The light was on, and behind the curtains a figure moved about the main room. A good omen, since I wasn’t confident enough to pound on the door and demand an explanation—or a confession. A gentle knock sufficed.

“Claire … and Lieutenant Rosen, what a charming surprise,” Bella said without enthusiasm. “Would you like to come in for tea or a quick nightcap?”

“Thank you,” I said. I pulled Peter inside, aimed him at the sofa, and made a vague gesture in the direction of the stove. “Let me help you with the cups, Bella.”

When we were settled, Bella turned shrewd eyes on us. “A bit late for a social call, isn’t it? Was there something in particular that you had in mind?”

“Yes,” I said before Peter could swallow his mouthful of tea, “I was curious about your visit to the boathouse.”

“Are you, dear? I didn’t realize that anyone knew about that.” Bella sat back and rewarded me with a broad smile.

“The mold.” I went to the closet and opened the door. Bella’s coat politely precipitated the desired nasal explosion. I shot a smug smile at Peter, then sat down, wiped my eyes, and looked at my suspect. “Was Harmon surprised to see you, or had you mentioned the planned visit before hand?”

“I decided to drop by while he was awaiting Mimi. We had a few marital details to discuss, and I knew I wouldn’t see him again until Sunday morning. He was supposed to go
home for the day, you know, and return for brunch Sunday morning.” She took a sip of tea. “Harmon did love a lavish brunch, especially the cheese grits and biscuits.”

Peter opened his mouth. I elbowed him and quickly said, “Did you and Harmon have a nice visit?”

“He was quite alive when I left,” Bella replied serenely. “Mimi can confirm that.”

“What time was that?”

“She was scripted to arrive around ten-thirty, but you’ll have to ask her if she was prompt. I don’t wear a watch.” She held up a wrist to show us the timelessness of it.

I found myself gaping at the still visible scratches. Beside me, Peter gulped down his tea and returned my earlier jab. While I was recovering, he said, “Where did those come from, Mrs. Crundall? From a walk around the lake in the dark, when the thorns are impossible to avoid?”

“Hardly, Lieutenant. Claire can tell you that I did some work in the garden. I cannot bear to see roses neglected so cruelly.”

“She was digging there this morning,” I admitted. After a moment of thought, I added, “Is that when your shoes picked up the mud? A clump of mud was found in Harmon’s room. Everyone assumed that Eric had left it—according to his script. But he told me this evening that he had forgotten it … and it was an odd shade of gray. From the lime, I imagine.”

She fumbled through her purse for her cigarettes. When she had lit one, she shrugged. “I did go to Harmon’s room after I left the boathouse. I didn’t notice the mud, and I forgot that the pseudo-detectives were going to crawl around with magnifying glasses.” She inhaled deeply, then allowed the smoke to drift out in lazy, guiltless curlicues. “Harmon was alive when Mimi arrived, dear. You mustn’t forget that.”

A sticky problem. I looked at Peter. “Well?”

“Mimi insists that he was.” He turned a choirboy smile
on Bella. “Did you find the option and carry it away before it could be burned?”

“Harmon was acting like a benevolent uncle instead of a business man,” Bella said with the first trace of anger we had seen. “He swore that the option would go up in smoke—along with several hundred thousand dollars of potential profit. I saw no purpose in that, so I did go to his room to remove the option. He had several blank forms in his briefcase; I merely substituted for the vital one.”

“Is it here now?” I asked.

“Yes, it is. I have an appointment with my lawyer Monday morning to see how best to proceed. He mentioned some sort of emergency order from a probate judge; the exact details escape me.”

“You drove to Farberville earlier this evening,” I said.

“You told me that you had been walking in the garden.”

“Did I? How peculiar of me to confuse the two activities.”

“Very,” I agreed. “So you intend to exercise the option yourself, even if the Mimosa Inn is ruined?”

“As quaint as the scenery may be, I would perfer to see it filled with ranch houses, and my bank account filled as well. Then, overcome with grief from my tragic and untimely loss, I’ll submit my resignation and head for Europe on the next ocean liner. I think I’d enjoy an outside cabin, or even a suite.”

“What about your precious flower garden?”

“I’ll be able to afford a gardener, dear. I understand some of the botanical gardens in Holland are simply fabulous.”

“And your students?”

She smiled again. “They can blow their precious heads off in chemistry lab.”

The nickname was apropos, though Bela Lugosi had more empathy. I had made admirable progress with the suspect. She had admitted to a motive, a very believable one. She had admitted to being in the boathouse. It was
clear that she was capable of murder. If only Mimi and Eric had missed their cues and stayed inside!

Bella stood up and took Peter’s cup and mine to the sink. “It’s getting late, my dears, and I am recently bereaved. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to bed.”

Peter ignored the hint. “Harmon did not want to exercise the option, and was adamant with Mimi after you left. Why did you bother to go to his room in order to get it?”

“Harmon was too agitated to know what he was saying,” Bella said firmly. “Once the play started, nothing could be allowed to interfere. As he was inclined to repeat, ‘The show must go on.’ I presumed by the next day he would be more rational about the option. In the interim, I did not want it destroyed.”

“You lied about it in your statement,” Peter said. “You said that Harmon was the one who intended to exercise the option.”

“I don’t adhere to the nonsense of not speaking ill of the dead. Since Harmon was in no condition to contradict me, I decided to let him take the role of the villian.”

“But that’s dreadful,” I said.

“Then tell yourself that I was overcome with grief.” She held open the door and covered an unnecessarily broad yawn. “I do hope that doesn’t cause problems with your investigation. I’d hate to miss my appointment Monday morning in Farberville.”

Peter and I went back to the bench in the garden. It was becoming very familiar by now, a home away from home. The moon had risen; it was perched on the cupid’s head like a whimsical wisp of a hat. From the edge of the lake, frogs croaked an atonal song of unrestrained lust. Even the crickets chirped suggestively.

The garden by moonlight, the stars glittering, the sounds of nature at its horniest. I gave myself a pinch. “Well, it was instructive. We know that Bella was there and that she later took the option. She seemed so damned genteel. I’m disappointed in her—and I hope her roses all droop.”

“I’m surprised you missed the most pertinent comment.”

“What-did-I-miss?” It rushed out as one indignant word.

BOOK: Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The

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