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Authors: Joan Hess

Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The (3 page)

BOOK: Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The
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Nickie, as I discovered he preferred, looked at his watch and stood up. “It’s almost one now, and I need to see if the slide projector is ready Will you attend the lecture?”
We walked to the drawing room together. “I certainly will. My daughter is with me, however, and I’d better look in on her before it begins. She may have tied the sheets together in order to climb out the window and bolt for civilization.”
“Is she locked in the room?” Nickie asked, eyeing me with a sudden coolness.
“No,” I sighed. “The problem is that the door’s too easy. I’ll see you in an hour, Nickie.” I started for the stairs.
“Claire?”
I turned around. “Yes?”
“Why did you glower earlier and mutter a virulent ‘phooey’ in my direction?”
“I was thinking of someone else,” I admitted with a
laugh. “I never phooey strangers, unless I suspect them of vile crimes.”
“But now your suspicions are allayed?”
I was in no mood to go into my weekend strategy, so I settled for a conspiratorial wink and said, “I’ll trust no one until the murderer is unmasked. A criminal in every corner.”
The man from Scotland Yard looked at me with a curiously blank expression. His fingers found the tip of his moustache as his eyes went blink, blink, blink.
C
aron had not moved while I was downstairs. Motivated by a vague motherly obligation, I ascertained from a prudent distance that she was breathing, then began to drag suitcases around the room. All this elicited a single sniffle. I unpacked my overnight case, hung a severe black dress complete with lace collar in the closet alongside a sensible cardigan sweater, arranged the orthopedic shoes under it, and took a small spiral notebook from my purse.
“I’m going back down for the lecture,” I announced politely. After receiving a sniffle in response, I eased the door closed and went downstairs. It was not yet one-thirty. I opted to reconnoiter the scene of the crime so that I would be equipped with a mental map when the crucial moment arrived. The scouts and I would be prepared.
The croquet court was a recent addition to the landscape. It consisted of a large rolled surface edged with boards buried in the turf. The wickets conformed to whatever arrangement was demanded by the rules, about which I had no theories. A cart with mallets and balls had been wheeled
near one corner, but no one had availed himself of the equipment. Nor did I; I was on a mission.
I strolled down the slope to the edge of the lake. Several bodies lay on beach towels in the grass, but none of them looked like victims of anything more dire than incipient sunburn. A few heads lifted, a few eyes studied me from the safety of dark lenses. Which one was the murderer? I decided that a plump woman in a bikini deserved some form of painful death for exposing white, undulating ripples of fat, but left that mean-spirited conclusion unspoken.
A boathouse sat at the edge of the cove, surrounded by a minor armada of sailboats and rowboats. I continued past it to follow a graveled path through a rose garden. In the middle I found a stained marble statue of a chubby urchin with a pitcher on his shoulder. It had been a long time since any water had dribbled down his tummy, but the effect had potential.
As I came out of the garden, I saw three shingled bungalows in a line, separated by shrubs. Shutters were fastened across the windows. They were used only during the busy season, I deduced brilliantly. I stopped in front of the first one and cupped my hands on the pane of glass in the door. I ended up with a circle of dirt on my nose. The interior of the bungalow was, quite naturally, dark.
“Very suspicious,” I murmured aloud, savoring the feel of the words. They would be my motto for the weekend, my watchword whenever approached by anything or anyone even remotely inexplicable. Champagne had the same effect on my nose as ragweed, but I
did
like the idea of it. Festive, triumphant champagne. It was unfortunate that scotch did not carry the same connotation; it certainly was more agreeable to drink.
It was nearing lecture time. I followed the path back to the boathouse, where I discovered that the bodies on the beach had vanished. “Very suspicious,” I practiced as I went to the porch, “very, very suspicious.”
The ladderback chairs from the dining room had been brought to the drawing room and arranged in rows. Eric waved from. a corner, intent on a slide projector. Nickie Merrick stood behind a podium at the front of the room, his expression somewhat pinched as he faced a group of twenty or so people vying for the more comfortable chairs.
Overachiever that I have been since the first day of nursery school, I took a seat in the middle of the front row and smiled at Nickie. “Stage fright?”
“No, I’ve done quite a bit of acting.” He stared over my head, absently tugging at his mustache. “A minor problem has arisen, I’m afraid. Mimi’s more than capable of dealing with it, but she was hoping that things would go smoothly. Now it seems that—”
“Sherry?” brayed an incredulous voice from the dining room. “Sherry is for puppeteers and little old ladies with blue hair! Bring me a bottle of scotch, sonny boy!”
A plate crashed on the floor.
“Now, you feeble-minded, pimple-nosed excuse for a human being! Now!” the voice continued. It sounded as though it were being amplified by a bullhorn, static and all. A second plate hit the floor. Several other voices joined in, none of them jolly.
All of us turned around to stare at the interior of the dining room. Eric, I noted out of the corner of my eye, had frozen in the act of fiddling with a knob; his mouth was white and his fingers curled like talons. Gradually, his hand relaxed, but his frown did not. The pipe between his teeth was in danger of bisection.
The busboy scurried around the corner and ducked into the office. Seconds later, a tulip-shaped glass sailed out in a graceful arch. We held our collective breath as it splattered on the floor, shards of glass erupting in glittery explosion. The tinkle was as loud as a grenade in the shocked hugh.
“Damn it,” Nickie said quietly behind me. He hurried over to Eric for a terse conference. As they started for the
dining room, a woman came out of the room and closed the door behind her. The three exchanged looks, then the woman pasted on a smile and came forward.
“Please don’t worry about—about that minor incident,” she said coolly. “An unexpected guest has arrived, and he wasn’t prepared for our little game. But it’s under control now, and the lecture will begin any minute.”
I studied the woman, who I realized was the heretofore unseen Mimi. She had shoulder-length black hair, wide violet eyes, and cheekbones high enough to give her a vaguely exotic look. Her mouth was small and heart-shaped, as though she were sweetly pouting. Although she could have passed for a college student, there were a few fine lines around her eyes, and her forehead, at the moment, was scored by two deep creases. A certain softness under her chin also belied the little-girl picture. I am personally familiar with that symptom.
Mimi kept the determined smile on her face as she nudged Nickie toward the front of the room. “Please don’t be concerned,” she added with a shrug. “The gentleman in question will soon be plied with scotch. Everything is fine.”
Despite unconvinced looks from all present, she held her ground. The busboy rushed back into the dining room with an amber bottle clutched in his hand. A rumble of approval was followed by a tantalizing clink of glass. I caught myself wondering if I ought to try the same barbaric tactics and gave myself a mental scolding. I would drink sherry—and like it. Ambiance over self-indulgence.
Nickie tapped the podium with a pencil. With the ingrained obedience of a Sunday school class, we turned around and assumed attentive expressions. Behind me I heard a shuffle of feet and final coughs. The white-haired horsy woman sat down beside me and gave me a vague smile. Very suspicious, I cautioned myself, although I had no idea why the gesture might be suspicious.
“Welcome to the first ‘Murder at the Mimosa Inn,’”
Nickie said. “We’re delighted to have you join us, and we’re going to do our very best to amuse and entertain you.” He took out a brochure to run over the schedule, then described the various facilities available for those who opted not to worry about the impending crime.
Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I nudged the woman beside me and whispered out of the corner of my mouth, “Who’s the loud-mouthed oaf in the dining room?”
In response, I received a painful elbow in the ribs and a priggish, disgusted snort. Clearly, my neighbor was not the sort who whispered in church or tolerated such childishness. I decided not to engage in a game of elbowing; the woman had a vastly sharper weapon than I.
Nickie finished the schedule and put the brochure away. “Part of the fun is not knowing when or how the murder will take place,” he warned us genially. “Be prepared for anything, including a few bloopers on our part. The Mimosa Inn and the Farberville Community Theater are both novices at this newest sport, and anything can happen. Keep your eyes open and your back to the wall.”
The woman next to me lifted an alabaster finger. “Could the murderer be one of the guests?” she asked in a melodious voice that didn’t fool me one bit. I knew to whom she referred, the silly old thing. And her hair wasn’t white; it was blue. And thin.
Nickie shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that, Mrs.—ah … ?”
“Mrs. Robison-Dewitt,” the treacherous woman said, inching away from me. “I’m the editor of the
Ozark Chronicle.
We’ve scheduled an article on the murder weekend for our autumn edition.” She paused to give the rest of us a chance to gasp in admiration, then said, “I presume that our personal safety is assured?”
She sounded as though she were anticipating a crazed attack from the innocent party on her left. If I had stashed a water gun in my purse, I would have doused her on the spot
to watch her melt. I was obliged to settle for a well-bred sniff.
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.
BOOK: Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The
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