by Joan Hess
“She’s excited about finally meeting you. However, just now she’s rushing around upstairs to see about bedrooms and towels and such, so you’ll have to wait until things are settled.”
Eric let the luggage thump to the floor, took out a large leather book, and showed me where to sign it. With an antique fountain pen, naturally. I would have done Caron’s name in crayon, considering her attitude, but that would have destroyed the charming appearance of the registration book. Ambiance.
We then regathered the luggage and staggered up a long flight of stairs to the second floor. To my relief, Aunt Beatrice’s furniture had only been inadequate for the main floor; the bedroom was simply furnished but comfortable. An antique bed and dresser, and a dressing table with a calico skirt, all sitting on a braided rug. I forgave Eric the ceramic pitcher and bowl, on the assumption that it was only for display, and found a closet and a modern bathroom. Caron found the bed.
“I’m eager to meet Mimi,” I told Eric, “but I’m eager to solve a murder, too. Tell me what happens now.”
He took a folded brochure from the top of the dresser and handed it to me. “Here’s the schedule for the weekend, Claire. There’s a salad buffet in the dining room, and you’ll want to explore the grounds before the lecture begins at two o’clock.”
“Lecture?” Caron groaned, fluttering her eyelashes from the depths of a pillow.
Eric was clearly unacquainted with adolescent tragedy. He squinted at her as though she were some elusive logarithm, then said, “It’s optional, of course. If you’d prefer, you can sail one of the little boats or swim. I’m afraid there aren’t any young people to entertain you. The group is on the older side, except for your eternally youthful mother.”
Caron forced one eye open. “Where’s the pool?”
“We don’t have a pool,” Eric answered warily. He was intelligent enough to see what was coming, but too inexperienced to do much about it. He and his wife were childless, obviously. After two days with Caron, they would gladly sign an oath to maintain their status quo.
I tried to intercept the missile. “You’ll swim in the lake, Caron. I know this will come as a shock, but swimming pools did not play a vital role in the American way of life until the last decade. People were actually forced to swim in lakes, rivers, and even the ocean.”
The other eye was turned on me. “With fish?”
Eric cleared his throat as the missile continued on its course. “The lake is stocked, but only with bass and catfish. No barracuda or sharks or anything like that.”
“But the fish stay in the water all the time. That means that they do all sorts of gross things right where a person is supposed to swim. I’d rather eat spiders.” The missile having razed its intended target, Caron pulled the pillow over her head. A series of uncooperative noises ensued.
I shrugged at Eric and motioned for him to join me in the hallway. We walked downstairs to what I now mentally deemed the drawing room. “So you’ve had the inn less than a year? Have you had many guests?”
“This is our busiest weekend thus far. There are only about twenty guests, and it’s quite a mixed group. But everyone is a mystery fan.” He led me across the drawing room to a pair of curtained French doors. “Here’s the dining room, Claire. Have a bit of lunch, although I must warn you that we’re pushing sherry for the weekend. Mimi thinks it’s appropriate, considering the scenario.”
I was not feeling terribly kindly toward the unseen Mimi, since I lump sherry in the same category that Caron does piscatory bodily productions. However, I managed a civilized tone. “I’ll read the schedule while I eat, Eric, but tell me what to expect. Will a troupe of actors produce the murder on stage after dinner?”
He waggled a finger at me. “Now, that wouldn’t be fair. You’ll just have to wait and see what develops. The murderer could sit beside you during dinner or creep up behind you in the hallway. But from what I’ve heard about your detecting prowess, this ought to be a piece of cake.”
“Oh?” I said, displeased by the thought that certain past events were the topic of conversation on Farberville street corners. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll do my homework while I eat lunch. Will you be at the lecture?”
The finger waggled again. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”
Sighing, I went into the dining room and studied my cohorts for the murder weekend. Most of them had already eaten, I brilliantly deduced as I filled a plate and sat down at a corner table. two elderly couples glanced at me but continued to whisper across the table to each other. A white-haired woman with a long, equine face was the only other diner. She gave me a frosty smile over a forkful of shrimp, which regained her attention before I could reciprocate.
The sixth person in the room was a thirtyish man with oiled black hair and a thin moustache, who was looking out the window. Very suspicious. I determined to remain alert and cautious. The murderer might be anyone, although the elderly couples appeared superficially harmless. In fact, I was garnering quite a few quick peeks from their table, as if they suspected me of potential mayhem. Me, for God’s sake. I shot them a haughty look over my artichoke heart.
A pimply busboy in a starched white coat asked me what I would prefer to drink. He looked too naive to hear the truth, so I requested iced tea and settled back to read the brochure.
“You Are Invited to a Murder,” the opening line informed me slyly from a circle of whimsical red splotches. It went on:
Friday
12:00 Luncheon
2:00 Lecture by Sergeant Nicholas Merrick of Scotland Yard
5:00 Tea/sherry on the veranda: Famous Literary Detectives
8:00 Dinner
10:00 Movie: Murder on the Orient Express
Saturday
9:00 Breakfast
1:00 Luncheon
2:00 Croquet tournament
5:00 Tea/sherry on the veranda
8:00 Dinner
9:00 Gala champagne party and presentation of sleuthing awards
Sunday
10:00 Brunch
11:00 Checkout
I read it carefully several times for clues or hints, of which there were none. The two couples and the elderly lady drifted out of the dining room, all studiously avoiding my veiled scrutiny The competition did not look keen, I concluded. A piece of cake, as Eric had assumed earlier—and a case of champagne to show Peter Rosen who was the abler detective. I brooded for a minute, amazed by the competitive drive that sprang from the mere mention of his name. Surely I was there for the mental challenge, the stimulating puzzle, the love of mystery fiction—wasn’t I?
“Phooey on him!” I hissed under my breath.
The oily-haired man looked up at the comment. He gave me a broad smile, which I interpreted as an invitation for conversation. My first suspect, falling into my artichoke hearts. The game was afoot.
“Why don’t you join me for coffee?” I cooed.
“Thank you, I’d enjoy that.” He carried a cup and saucer to my table and sat down across from me. He had a round boyish face and a slight paunch, as if middle age had crept up on him while he was engaged in sedentary pursuits. A plaid sports coat did nothing to enhance his shape. But a suspect is a suspect.
He demolished my hopes with his first sentence. “I’m Nicholas Merrick.”
“From Scotland Yard? The detective who’s giving the lecture at two o’clock? You were my very first suspect for the murder, but you won’t do—although you don’t sound very English. Claire Malloy,” I added with a desultory attempt at decorum. We shook hands across the table.
“I hope that I sound like a pharmaceutical sales representative from Farberville, since that’s what I am. Scotland Yard turned down our request, so I agreed to take the role. My accent doesn’t ring true, but my heart is pure. What about you?”
I told him about the Book Depot and my secret fantasy to outsleuth Miss Marple (and unspecified policemen) and win the champagne. He made a few comments about mystery fiction, but carefully avoided a
nything about the murder that was to occur. I tried a few studiously casual questions, and received only evasions in return. Phooey
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.
TWO
Caron 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.”
