Read Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The Online

Authors: Joan Hess

Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The (16 page)

“If Harmon wasn’t planning to exercise the option, then Mimi doesn’t have a motive. She must have been telling the truth about that.”
“Go call that sheriff person and tell him! Without a motive, his case is a butterfly net,” I said. “He might as well arrest Mrs. Robison-Dewitt. I can see it: She was skulking about in a long flannel nightgown, a croquet mallet clutched in her bony fingers. She sees movement by the boathouse and creeps over to investigate. Her nostrils flare as she smells the residual alcohol on Hamon’s breath. Outraged, she flings the mallet and—”
“She has an alibi.”
“Or so she says,” I said, deflated. It had been amusing, if whimsical. “What’s her alibi?”
“It’s already been confirmed. She was playing pinochle with another of the guests until almost three o’clock in the morning. When pressed, she turned pink and sputtered that they had lost track of the time and that she was not in the habit of visiting gentlemen’s bedrooms in the middle of the night.”
“I don’t doubt that. Who’s the gentleman?”
“policemed don’t gossip—it’s unprofessional. Now, if we eliminate Bella and Mrs. Robison-Dewitt, then we’re left without any suspects. Sheriff Lafleur may prove reluctant for that reason to dismiss Mimi. A night in jail won’t hurt her. On the contrary, she may be safer there than she would be at the Mimosa Inn.”
“Safer—locked up with rapists and murderers?”
“I believe the county facitlity specializes in drunken drivers and horse thieves. Only in the big city do we have the more hardened criminals.”
“County facilities are not country inns.”
“Whoever murdered Harmon is probably feeling secure right now, with Mimi detained at the sheriff’s office as the
prime suspect. If our murderer discovers that she’s been released, he is apt to get nervous.”
“And kill again?” I looked at the dark shadows surrounding us on every side. Did Peter have a gun? Would Suzetta lend me hers? Could I sleep with an oar under my pillow?
“It does happen in mystery novels,” Peter said. “Just as the bumbling cop points his finger in accusation, the pointee falls dead from an obsure South American ant venom. The real culprit rises from the flames like a phoenix.”
“I’m pleased to know that you can read something more complex than the Sunday comics,” I said, irritated by his lackadaisical attitude. “Could we please stay on the subject?”
“My apologies, Miss Marple. Did the vicar’s parlor maid ever vanish from the loo within thirty seconds?”
His uncanny reference reminded my of the movie—and the two-hour period of darkness that permitted all the actors to make an astounding number of exits and entrances.
“Did you watch all of the movie?” I asked abruptly.
His teeth glinted in the moonlight. “I was sitting beside you, Claire. I thought my alibi was impeccable.”
“You know perfectly well that I fell asleep. You certainly could have slithered away and returned for the final credits. Everyone else seems to have done so.”
“I wish I had slithered off to the boathouse to watch the drama there, but I didn’t. I watched every minute of the movie, althought I missed some of the dialogue because of a buzzing snore.”
“I do not snore.”
“That may require further investigation. Perhaps I could put a tape recorder next to your bed.”
“You have not been invited into my bedroom.”
“Not yet,” he murmured. The teeth glinted briefly again.
I sternly turned my thoughts from the bedroom to the boathouse. Bella had left about ten-thirty; Mimi had arrived moments later. Eric came outside in time to see her walk
toward the back of the inn. The times began to swirl around my head like the smoke from Bella’s cigarette.
“Eric promised to search Harmon’s room for the option and the master script,” I said; “He won’t find the option, obviously, but he may have had success with the script. I’m going to ask him.”
Peter trailed me out of the garden. The porch swing was bereft of its courting couple, to my relief. We found Eric in the office, almost invisible behind a pile of folders and ledger books.
“I have to pay accounts Monday,” he explained in a panic-stricken voice. “The lawyer called to say that he could do nothing until Mimi was formally charged. Will—will she be charged, Lieutenant?”
Peter shook his head. “I doubt it, although it is out of my jurisdiction. Claire has proved that Mimi did not have a motive. I’ll call Sherff Lafleur in the morning and see what I can do.”
“Thank God. I didn’t know what to do if … .”
“Pay the accounts so that the Mimosa Inn will be here when Mimi returns,” I inserted tartly, hoping to jog him out of despair. “Did you search the room?”
“Yes. I couldn’t find the option, but the other thing is here somewhere. Maybe it’s under this … well, I may have put it in a file … no, here it is!” He produced a thin stack of papers clipped together.
Resisting the urge to rip the script out of his hand, I accepted it with a grateful smile. “Thanks, Eric. Everyone talked about it, but no one actually saw it.”
Peter made a rumbling noise behind me. I grasped the script tightly to my chest and tried to scoot around him. “Good night,” I trilled optimistically.
“The script?” he said, holding out his hand.
“I had it first. You can read it in the morning.”
When the dust settled, I had agreed to share the master script if he would share the official statements. We switched
on a lamp in the drawing room and read in silence. A peeping Tom could have mistaken us for an old married couple, both parties too bored for anything risqué.
Peter had already read the statements; he was gazing at me when I finished the last of them. “Well, Miss Marple?”
“I have to ask Eric something,” I said. I went into the office and returned shortly thereafter. “Now I have to ask Mimi a question. Do cells have telephones?”
“I doubt it,” Peter said, clearly mystified by my secretive expression. “Visiting hours are usually from four to six—and that’s in the afternoon, not the middle of the night.”
“I think I know what happened, but I have to talk to Mimi. If you won’t convince Sheriff Lafleur to cooperate, I’ll climb the wall and whisper through the bars.” I tried for a coldly determined stare, as though I could will him into compliance.
“The sheriff will not be pleased at your request. Why can’t it wait until morning, Claire?”
“What kind of humanitarian are you? Poor Mimi is sobbing on a cot in a filthy cell, no doubt convinced that she’ll end up in prison—or worse! Eric is liable to collapse, taking the Mimosa Inn with him!” I realized I was a bit loud, and dropped my voice to a whisper. “If you’ll do this tiny favor, I’ll tell you who murdered Harmon Crundall.”
“Do you know?”
“I have a fairly good idea, yes. And I think I know how it was done, and for what reason.” I twitched my foot impatiently. “But I cannot explain until I talk to Mimi.”
“Mimi is asleep. Sheriff Lafleur is asleep, and will not appreciate being roused by idle speculation. Tell me your theory and let me decide what needs to be done.”
“I have qualms about a slander suit. Are you going to help or not, Peter? I’d appreciate it, but I can handle it alone if necessary. The perfect picture of a self-sufficient woman, who had no idea where the county jail was, or how high the walls and thick the bars. Or any experience with
ropes and pitons, which always made me think of Armenian bread.
After a prolonged sigh, Peter said, “It’ll take some diplomacy to get us in. I’ll use the office telephone.”
I sent Eric upstairs to fetch clean clothes for Mimi. Peter called everyone except the governor, then told me that we would be permitted a short conversation with Mimi. I suspected from his black expression that he would be unhappy with anything less than a murderer tied up in a pink ribbon. Within the hour.
It took almost half an hour of grim silence to drive to the county jail, an unpretentious brick building under a yellowish streetlight. A sleepy-eyed deputy checked Peter’s identity at the door, looked at me as if I deserved a cell of my own, and finally led us down a hallway to a metal door.
Mimi leapt to her feet as the door opened, bewilderment flooding her face. “Claire? Peter? What are you doing here? Did something happen to Eric?”
“No, he’s worried about you, but he’s holding up as well as can be expected. He sent a change of clothes for you.” I turned to Peter. “Are you going to wait outside the cell or in the car?”
“In the car.” He gave me an ominous look before he stomped down the hall and out of sight.
Hoping the car would be there when I came out, I shut the door. “I want you to tell me exactly what you did Friday night, from the dinner nonsense until you went to bed. Don’t ask questions; just talk.”
Mimi sat down on the bed and cupped her face in her hands. “I’ve been over it a thousand times in the last eight hours. I don’t see what good it will do to—”
“Begin with dinner,” I suggested.
“Okay, but it won’t get me out of here. Harmon pretended to pass out at about nine. Suzetta and I helped him upstairs, then I slipped down the back stairs to make
sure the dessert trays were ready. It’s not easy to play a role with twenty hungry guests below.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, impatient to hear what I anticipated.
“Suzetta waited in Harmon’s room until I returned, then we went to the middle of the stairs to have the argument. I went back to Harmon’s room to lure him out of the bedroom for a rendezvous, and—”
“You didn’t have to follow the dialogue, though,” I said. “You both already knew what was going to happen and the audience was downstairs at dinner.”
“True. It was more a matter of being in the right spot so that any stray guest could collect the clue. I did have a quick drink so that my lipstick would be on the glass, but we just—chatted.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Harmon was delighted with the production, but he seemed worried that something might interfere and ruin ‘the show.’ I assured him that all was well and offered to sneak up a dinner tray. He said he would eat when he reached his house; I said that I would see him at the boathouse at ten-thirty. I left.” She shrugged.
“In your statement, you said that you reached the boathouse at ten-thirty, as scheduled. Did you see anyone else on the way there or the way back?”
She curled her legs under her and gave me a pensive look. “No, I wish I had, but I didn’t. When I left, Eric was supposed to be outside, but he must have been a minute or two late. He can do calculations to the third decimal point in his head, but he’s not too good with time. I presumed that he had been delayed by something.”
“Did you tell the sheriff?”
“That my husband can’t tell time? No, Claire, I didn’t … What’s going to happen to me? Will I be—”
“No questions,” I interrupted. I thought I heard the
sound of a car engine being started in the distance. Surely he wouldn’t. “What did Harmon say in the boathouse?”
“Out of the blue he said something about the option expiring at midnight Monday and not to worry,” Mimi said with another shrug. “Then he said that Monday was going to bring a few surprises, but he refused to elaborate. He made a joke about it being time for his murder—” She broke off, blinking furiously to hold back the tears. “I didn’t kill Harmon, Claire—you’ve got to believe me!”
I stood up and pounded on the cell door to bring the jailer. “I know you didn’t, Mimi. Peter will arrange for your release in the morning so that you can attend my production of ‘The Murder at the Mimosa Inn.’ Ten o’clock, in the drawing room.”
“You know who … ?”
I pounded again. “I hope so. Try to get some sleep, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The deputy unlocked the door and escorted me out of the jail. The car was there, complete with surly driver. His resentment faded as I explained my theory, and by the time we parked in the stable, half an hour later, he was almost smiling.
P
ater and I stayed up the remainder of the night, agonizing over the details of the final act. Furtive calls were made, as well as other preparations. At one point, we pulled Eric from his bed to discuss the projector, and at sunrise I pulled Caron from hers to rehearse her role. Caron’s initial response cannot be reproduced without danger of editorial censorship. In essence, she is not her mother’s little sunshine until the sun is fairly high in the sky.
At eight o’clock, all the guests and theater members were roused for breakfast (cheese grits and biscuits, naturally), and then herded to the drawing room and peremptorily told to wait. The staff gradually assembled in the back of the room. At nine-fifteen we were ready to raise the curtain. There was only one major flaw: Mimi and Arlo Lafleur had not yet arrived.
“Call him again,” I told Peter in an undertone. “The group is not going to sit for this much longer.”
“He’s on his way.” It was not the first time we had had this conversation. I felt like a neophyte actress preparing to go on stage, which in a sense I was. All the standard
symptoms of stage fright were present, from boiling stomach to icy hands. To add to my distress, Mrs. Robison-Dewitt shuddered to a halt in front of us like a semi at a gas pump.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded of Peter, failing to notice me beside him. Intentionally, I surmised with a sniff.
“It will be clarified, in every sense of the word,” Peter said. “Would you please return to your seat until we’re ready to begin?”
“I will not, Lieutenant Rosen. Unless you have some written proof of your authority, I shall go to my room to—”
“Play pinochle?” I inserted sweetly. I will admit to a small, suggestive wink.
“Well! I never in all my—how can you permit this outrageous—I shall speak to my attorney!” Mrs. Robison-Dewitt stalked back to her seat and sat down in a haze of noxious fumes.
Peter winced. “Officially, you never saw those statements, Claire. She’s likely to call the Justice Department to report the infringement of her constitutional rights.”
The back door opened in the midst of his lecture. A wan Mimi came in, followed by a frigid Lafleur and his posse. Eric rushed Mimi into the office for a private welcome, while Peter advanced warily to deal with the sheriff.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Rosen,” Lafleur said, including me in his tight frown. His mouth reminded me of a bunny’s posterior, but at least his bifocals worked properly.
“So do I,” Peter said. “I respect your misgivings about this, and I want you to know I appreciate your cooperation, reluctant or not. It’s almost nine-thirty Shall we begin?”
The audience muttered as Peter and I went to the front of the room. I looked around to confirm that all the players were present. Bruce stood in the back of the room, arms folded and expression cold. He was, I suspected, worried
about whatever revelations I had in mind. In the back row, Nickie twisted his mustache between his thumb and first finger. He, too, was worried.
Bella Crundall was not. From one corner she gave me a coy little wave. She wore the same blue suit and white gloves she had worn the previous morning, and the jaunty little hat. The grieving widow had enjoyed a restful night of sleep.
Suzetta sat on the edge of a chintz armchair. Her hair was restrained in a bun on her neck, and she wore a severe dark dress and matching glasses. The giddy harem girl was forever gone; in her place, we had a sober business major.
My darling daughter was draped like a plastic protector across a second armchair. She flicked out her tongue with reptilian disdain, then sank further into the fabric. Later, I promised myself, I would suggest a certain refinement of her drawing room manner.
Mimi and Eric came out of the office, glowing foolishly. The sheriff and his deputies took positions near the exits. We were all present, and the show at last could go on.
Peter waited until the mutters faded. “I apologize for any inconvenience this gathering may have caused, but I know that we all hope to be allowed to leave as soon as possible. For that reason, I have asked Mrs. Malloy to assist me in a little experiment.”
Grumbles of skepticism followed. Clinching the podium, I resisted an urge to curtsy and exit stage left as quickly as possible. The whole thing seemed sillier by the second.
Peter looked at his watch, then continued. “We are going to reconstruct the events that took place Friday night. If you will cooperate, I think we may be able to discover the identity of the murderer, who is in this room—now.”
The grumbles peaked in a wave that threatened to wash us out the window. Mrs. Robison-Dewitt stirred indecisively, remembered my pinochle comment, and settled for an equine snort. The other guests reacted with varying degrees
of disbelief and alarm, while the policemen watched impassively, as though accustomed to daily doses of melodramatic dénouements.
“It is now nine-thirty, so we’ll have to take a few liberties with the schedule,” Peter said. “Friday night all of us were in the dining room. Will you please take the same seats? We’ll roll the clock back to the moment when the script took an interesting twist. I will play the role of Harmon Crundall.”
On that macabre note, we trooped into the dining room, bustled about, and finally sat down at the tables as requested. Mimi and Eric stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Dr. Chong Li announced that he was drinking coffee at that exact moment Friday night, and Peter smilingly sent the busboy into the kitchen. Once the coffee was poured, Peter congratulated us on our keen recollection of the previous seating arrangement, then beckoned to Suzetta, who had taken her seat across from me.
“I believe we’re to make a grand entrance,” he said. “I’m not talented enough to dive into a plate of food, but I would like to go through the motions.”
Suzetta stood up and joined him. The room was silent as they weaved to out table, sat down, and pretended to read menus. I wondered if Peter was adding a bit more zest to the role than necessary; his eyes were rolling and his body swaying like a metronome.
“Mrs. Crundall, your turn for a grand entrance!” he called. He took a drink of water and let it dribble down his chin. A ham of great magnitude, my policeman.
Bella appeared in the doorway. “I fail to see the point of his charade, Lieutenant Rosen. It brings back painful memories, and I therefore refuse to participate.”
“Perfectly understandable. Claire will be delighted to save you any discomfort.” He flopped a hand at me.
We had discussed it earlier, and although I was not
precisely delighted, I was prepared. I went to the door, turned around, and took Bella’s earlier path to the table.
“I’m afraid I don’t know my lines.”
Peter sobered up. “That’s all right. Now, at this time Mrs. Crundall returned to her bungalows. Shortly thereafter, Harmon fell into the potatoes and Suzetta and Mimi carried him upstairs. The rest of the guests went to the porch for a brandy while the chairs were moved and the projector brought in. If you please … ?”
Like spooked cattle, the guests stampeded for the safety of the porch. I lingered to watch Suzetta and Mimi pretend to help Peter upstairs, then went to the porch and took my position by the window.
Bruce leaned against the tailing beside me. “It’s rather early for these people to want drink. Am I required to drag out the bar in the name of dramatic integrity?”
“No, it can stay in the closet, as far as I’m concerned.”
He gazed steadily at me for a moment, then nodded and moved away. I looked through the window in time to see Suzetta and Mimi stage their argument in the middle of the stairs, while Peter listened from the top. When they finished, he sent Mimi upstairs. Suzetta started for the door, but he caught her arm.
“You’re forgetting something, Suzetta. Didn’t you speak to Nickie Merrick before announcing that the movie would begin soon?”
“Did I?” She wrinkled her nose. Adorably.
Without moving, Peter raised his voice. “Merrick, I believe you and Suzetta met in the drawing room at this point.”
“It wasn’t anything of significance,” Nickie protested in a sulky voice. “It wasn’t in the script.”
“Is that so?” Peter said with a show of amazement. “Well, it was one of the events preceding the movie, so we’d best include it. Try to recall the exact words, please.”
Nickie jerked his mustache as he went into the drawing
room. As the rest of us gaped from the porch, he took Suzetta’s arm and loudly said, “We’re a minute or so behind on the script. Get everyone inside for the movie.”
“Okay.” She opened the door and added, “Time for the movie. I just love movies, don’t you.” Her voice was flat and cold, a total opposite of her Friday night trill.
“Very good.” Peter beamed at them, then at us. “The chairs are arranged as they were before. It is important that everyone choose the same seat for the movie.”
“Surely we are not expected to sit through a second viewing of the movie,” Mrs. Robison-Dewitt said. Several others nodded in support.
“This is a homicide investigation,” Peter said, abruptly the steely professional. “I presume that everyone concerned is eager to assist. Now, sit down.”
She and her groupies sat down. Peter made a production of checking the time, then said, “It is now ten o’clock. The deputies will close the curtains, although of course we will not be able to achieve the level of darkness we had Friday night. Any of you who left the room must repeat the actions as accurately as possible. Eric, the movie.”
Gossamer figures moved across the screen as the music began. Peter stared at his watch for almost fifteen minutes, then said, “At this point, Harmon Crundall went down the back stairs to meet Mimi in the boathouse. Suzetta went upstairs to search his room for the option, and Mimi slipped through the dining room door. When Bruce innocently followed her, he was sent to the bungalow to ask if Mrs. Crundall might want a dinner tray.”
“I never went to the bungalow,” Bruce said. Although his words were directed to Peter, his eyes were on me. “I stayed in the kitchen to talk to the busboys.”
“Then you strayed from the script?”
“That’s right—I strayed from the script. I made up the bit about hearing Bella in the bungalow.”
“I wondered about that,” Peter said. Whistling, he
strolled out the door to go to the boathouse. Suzetta stared after him, and with obvious reluctance rose and went upstairs as directed. Mimi and Bruce vanished into the dining room.
Bella Crundall stayed in a shadowy corner, her jaunty hat now tilted to one side. A wisp of her hair dangled across her forehead. “I refuse to participate,” she repeated.
“I quite understand,” I said. “I’ll continue for you.”
I didn’t have the nerve to whistle, so I settled for a hum as I crossed the porch and went down the steps to the lawn. I went into the boathouse. “What do”—
sneeze!
—“you think?”
“It’s flimsy, but we can’t stop now. We’ll have to pray that your scheme works and our culprit cracks. If not, I may have to take that job as a gypsy fortune-teller. Do you have any gold earrings?”
I made a face, told him that he was being pigheaded about the option, sneezed, and exited. I ducked behind a shrub to watch Mimi go into the boathouse. So far, so good, I told myself as I went through the kitchen, up the back stairs, and along the corridor to the bedroom that had once been Harmon’s sty.
Suzetta looked up from an armchair, a magazine opened in her lap. “What are you doing here?” she demanded crossly.
“I’m Bella Crundall, and I’m supposed to search for the option and take it away before you have a chance to burn it. I picked up a blank piece of paper, waved it, and dashed out of the room and back downstairs to the drawing room.
On the screen, ghosts continued to flit about. The audience watched me, however, and with no amusement. I checked my watch. “Okay, Nickie leaves to meet someone.” I ignored his protest and pushed him out the door. When he was outside, I added, “According to an amended statement, Bella went upstairs and then returned to her bungalow through the woods behind the stable. She did so to avoid being seen by the actors in the boathouse. Eric, it’s ten-thirty-five. Aren’t you supposed to be on the porch?”

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