Read Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The Online

Authors: Joan Hess

Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The (4 page)

“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?”
“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 apology.
“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.
Peter at last broke the silence, saying, “The inn is sponsoring a special event this weekend, Mrs … . ?”
“A convention?” She peered nervously over her shoulder, in case a salesman should pop out of the brass planter to slap a name tag on her lapel or seduce her with spiked punch.
“Not exactly,” murmured Mimi. “It’s rather complicated, but the fact is that we are filled this weekend. The quarters over the garage are used by the staff, and all of our closets are full of brooms. I’m terribly sorry that we can’t accommodate you, Mrs … . ?”
I had an urge to try the same ploy, but I was more interested in the address of her mental hospital—from which she clearly had escaped. She had listened to Mimi with growing dread, and now seemed on the verge of a collapse—which would amuse the rubber-neckers behind us, but was apt to disrupt the ambiance.
She breathed for a moment in noisy little gulps, then said, “What about the little bungalows beyond the garden? I will pay whatever you tell me, but it’s so dreadfully important.”
“We only use them when the inn is filled,” Mimi said, “and they’re closed now. I suppose we could air one for you, Mrs … . ?”
“Smith,” the woman quavered. She gave Mimi a pathetically grateful look, nodded at me, and scurried over to the desk to snatch up a battered cloth suitcase. She was through the back door before Mimi could find the registration book.
Mimi gave me a wry smile. “There’s not much reason to insist that Mrs. Smith put her name in the book, is there? I’m surprised she didn’t try ‘Jane Doe.’ What a curious creature … Why do you think she is so determined to stay here, Claire?”
“Perhaps she’s compulsive about croquet,” I said, equally mystified but not especially concerned. I had more important things to worry about, so I shifted to an
expression of mild curiosity. “Are you in the process of selling the Mimosa Inn to Harmon Crundall?”
Flinching, Mimi moved behind the desk and took several minutes to write Mrs. Smith’s name in the registration book. “It’s a possibility,” she said, her voice so low, I could barely hear her.
“Eric didn’t mention it earlier.”
“It’s not something we enjoy discussing. Last fall, when we wanted to buy the inn, we were a little short on the down payment. Harmon paid us a substantial sum for an option on some land. It’s been a slow season, what with the bitterly cold winter and all. We had some severe plumbing problems that played havoc with the budget, and we were unable to buy back the option. Now Harmon has insisted that we allow him to exercise the option on the land that adjoins the inn. Should that happen, the Mimosa Inn would be ruined.”
“Dreadful,” I murmured encouragingly. I noticed that Peter was eavesdropping and moved closer to the desk. “So that’s why he’s here this weekend?”
“The option expires Monday at midnight. He brought the contract and papers for us to sign. Our lawyer says we haven’t much choice.” She looked around the room with a tight frown. “It’s not fair. We haven’t really had a chance to make a go of the Mimosa Inn. Our bookings are strong for the remainder of the summer and fall, and we ought to show a healthy profit by then.”
“But Harmon won’t wait?”
“We’ll be sitting in the middle of an urban war zone by next spring,” Mimi said bitterly. She slammed the book closed. “But you mustn’t worry about it, Claire. I’ll think of something on my own. Harmon Crundall won’t destroy the Mimosa Inn, unless he does it over my dead body—or his!”
Her eyes welled with tears. Covering her mouth with her hand, she dashed into the office. The sound of sobs came
through the door, muffled but unmissable. I waited for a moment, then turned toward the stairs.
Peter stepped into my path. “Very interesting,” he said with a grin, tilting his head at the closed door.
I sidestepped around him and continued on. “Wasn’t it? Of course, she and Eric must be heartbroken about the deal. It’s nasty stuff.”
“Are you going upstairs to make squiggles in your notebook? I thought we might take a stroll around the grounds. We can search for clues, or simply enjoy the sunshine.”
I shot Mr. Amiable a sugary smile. “You go on, Peter. I do have a few things to jot drown, but I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes. Besides, Caron may be devising some scheme to escape. I need to check on her.”
I had no intention of strolling with the man—or searching for clues together. This was a solo flight, and I wasn’t going to behave like an ambulatory pigeon. He knew that I knew something; he was hoping to pry it out of me with his broad, warm smiles and sincere gazes. Ha!
On the way upstairs I congratulated myself on the display of self-control. Now that I had recovered from the shock of finding him at the inn, I would try to discover why he was there. But first things first, I told myself as I went into my room.
Caron was gone. The bed was rumpled; the bedspread had been used as a cover and the pillow was on the floor. Her suitcases had been emptied onto all available surfaces, the floor being the most convenient. That much was dictated by her character. Her absence was not, however: I was fairly certain she hadn’t come downstairs for the lecture nor slipped away for a swim in the lake. Food was out, due to the diet.
I picked up the pillow and tossed it on the bed, exposing a folded sheet of paper on the floor. Glumly anticipating a suicide note from Caron, I opened it and read: “Vital clue: Tues. a hobo collapsed nearby.”
Very curious—and very suspicious. It made no sense whatsoever, but its intent was clear. I had allowed myself to be distracted by Peter’s appearance and the crazy scenes downstairs. This was the first clue; all I had to do was decipher it before any of my fellow sleuths … or Peter. Champagne would surely follow. I read it several times.
“Vital clue: Tues. a hobo collapsed nearby.”
I went to the window and looked down at the serene scene below. The grassy beach was again populated by a series of lumpy figures, a miniaturized mountain range of broiled flesh. None of them resembled a hobo, rehabilitated or not. How was I to determine what had happened three days ago?
Eric was in the middle of the croquet court with one of the elderly couples. They practiced strokes, then took positions around the court. A blue ball rolled through a wicket. A yellow ball attempted to follow, but bounced back and rolled to a stop against the rail. A surprisingly colorful expletive drifted up to my window.
Farther down the lawn, Peter was in conversation with Mrs. Robison-Dewitt, which I found more than a bit irritating. It hadn’t taken him long to form a new alliance, I thought in a petty voice. The two of them deserved each other: She could be Watson to his Holmes, if she didn’t prim him to death in the process.
But where was Caron?
I peered under the bed in case she was attempting some nonsense, say only clean floor, and stood up. Harmon’s name went into my notebook, along with Suzetta’s. Mrs. Smith was noted with a question mark. The clue was refolded and tucked in my pocket. Feeling competent if not befuddled, I left the bedroom.
As I reached the top of the stairs, I saw a figure crawling down the corridor on its hands and knees. Very suspicious. Entranced, I tiptoed behind the figure, which appeared to be a middle-aged man with a dauntingly broad posterior.
Which wiggled as we progressed down the hall. If he had possessed a tail, it would have waggled.
When he reached the wall, he turned and bumped into my shins. He looked up in alarm. I gave him a polite smile and said, “Hello. Did you find any blood-stained dustballs?”
He scrambled to his feet and edged around me, his eyes cold and accusing. “I thought I might have dropped something,” he muttered as he pushed past me. He ducked into one of the bedrooms and slammed the door.
I was not fooled by the lame explanation, but I doubted that I would find anything of interest along the floorboard. Leaving the crawler to his dirty-kneed modus operandi, I continued downstairs to find Caron. Or a clue. The latter was more important.
The drawing room was unpopulated, but I heard voices in the dining room. There, to my delight, I found that a portable bar had been rolled in. Several of the guests clutched cocktails. A bartender had been put to work and was fending off the good-natured rush with laughter—and liquor.
“Hi,” he said as I approached with a hungry look. “You don’t look like a sherry sort of person. What can I get for you?”
He was well under thirty. His tanned face and sun-bleached blond hair gave him the appearance of a California beach boy, which was somewhat improbable a thousand miles inland. He did have the muscles and white teeth; all he lacked was a surfboard. Did I care?
“A small scotch and water,” I said. “What happened to the sherry-only dictum?”
“Mimi sensed a potential rebellion in the ranks and decided to open the bar. Shall I put this on your tab?” he said, pushing a glass across the bar.
I decided that Mimi was probably hoping to make a fortune before Monday in order to thwart the Crundall scheme. On the other hand, it was an admirable idea. “I didn’t see you earlier,” I said idly.
“I went into town after lunch. I do most of the shopping and run errands as needed. How’s the murder going?”
“We’re all still breathing. I did find a clue in my room, but I can’t figure it out—yet. Do you serve hints?”

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