by Joan Hess
“The sheriff thinks that Mimi clouted him with something so that his body fell into a boat. She then tossed a tarp over it, left the boathouse as scheduled, and later returned to transport the gruesome cargo over here.”
“But why?” I protested, wincing as I remembered Eric’s childlike devotion to his wife. “She doesn’t have a motive, Peter. Earlier this afternoon, she told me that Harmon was the patron saint of the Farberville Community Theater. He was going to purchase a new building for the theater.”
Peter shook his head. “Bella Crundall gave me a rather different version of the relationship. She said that Harmon had an option on about three hundred acres next to the inn, and that Mimi and Eric had been frantic to buy it back from him. But he was interested in putting in a vast development called, if you can stomach it, Harmony Hills. The inn would be a joke, sitting beside suburbia.”
“Mimi said that Harmon wasn’t going to exercise the option, that he planned to allow it to expire quietly. In fact, he told Mimi that it would be a prop in the scenario and would end up a charred pile of ashes. One corner of it was presented in a Baggie this morning.”
“No, Suzetta Price said that the paper she burned was a blank contract. Bella was adamant about the fact that Harmon intended to exercise the option despite the Vanderhans’ pleas. It was a very lucrative deal for him. Several hundred thousand dollars, minimum.”
“Well, I refuse to believe that Mimi would murder anyone, much less Harmon! Your sheriff has the mind of a gnat. Mimi is a nice person, and she wouldn’t bash Harmon.”
“I don’t like it, either,” Peter said, offering a hand to pull me to my feet. “But Mimi may be in custody by the time we get across the lake, so you’d better be prepared.”
“I’ll be prepared,” I vowed in a cold voice as the mud sucked at the bottoms of my shoes. “But the sheriff had better be prepared, too!”
NINE
The sheriff was waiting for us on the grassy beach in front of the inn. Behind him, Eric stood unmoving, his demeanor as lively as that of a cigar-store Indian. On the porch the guests had gathered to watch the latest scene.
“Ah, Rosen, I need to discuss something with you,” the sheriff murmured. They moved away to talk in terse whispers. Peter shook his head several times, but the sheriff continued steadily until at last they seemed to reach an agreement, albeit tentative on one side.
I hurried across the grass to shake Eric’s arm. “Where’s Mimi?” I demanded in my own terse whisper.
“They—they put her in a police car. Claire, they seem to think that she—that she was the one who … Mimi didn’t murder Harmon. She wouldn’t hurt anyone, and she thought Harmon was a wonderful man. I suppose I ought to do something, but I—”
He clamped his lips together and blinked several times. His Adam’s apple rippled in his throat as if it were on a elastic string. “I was the one who damned her. If I had known, I would have said that Harmon was still in the boathouse when I went inside, but Mimi and I thought we had nothing to hide.”
I tightened my grip. “I know that Mimi didn’t do it, Eric. I don’t think Peter is convinced either, but the sheriff does have the authority to order an arrest.”
The ripples started again. I pulled him away from the ears of the law, and once we were at a safe distance, added, “Listen, Eric, we know that Mimi is innocent. That means that someone else is guilty, and all we have to do is figure out who it is.”
“Is that all?” Eric said woodenly.
He was clearly useless as a nominee for my Baker Street Irregulars, or even a bungling Watson. I gave him a brief lecture about self-control and efficiency in the face of disaster, then sent him away to worry about dinner. Peter caught me before I could perfect a scheme to incriminate Mrs. Robison-Dewitt by planting some vile bit of evidence on her person.
“Technically, Mimi is not under arrest yet,” he told me as we started toward the porch. “Sheriff Lafleur wants to take her in for an official statement and further questioning, but he admits that the case is basically weak. No weapon so far, and a motive based on conflicting stories.”
“Well, Eric’s on the edge of a collapse. I hope Sheriff Lafleur—are you sure about that name?”
“Arlo Lafleur,” Peter said gravely. “I checked his identification card.”
“I hope he knows what he’s doing,” I said tartly. “What about this other investigation that you claim brought you here? If there is a perfectly legitimate felon—”
“It had nothing to do with Harmon Crundall. Those people involved in the—ah—other matter had no reason to murder Harmon. If they were going to kill someone, I imagine it would be me. And I’m still here.”
“Then you won’t tell me anything about it?” I said in a wounded voice. We both knew what it meant; I can be transparent, or at least translucent, when I take the trouble to do so.
He took my elbow to steer me away from the porch. When we were in the garden, he said, “I will tell you the essential details, but only so that I won’t have you prowling around with some crazy scheme. However, I want your solemn promise—”
“Cross my heart.” I swallowed a gloat.
He did not look terribly impressed by my avowed sincerity. After a moment of indecision, he relented and said, “We have seen a significant increase of drugs on the Farber campus in the last year. Not the so-called recreational drugs, but a colorful selection of amphetamines and barbiturates that are most popular around the end of the semester. Although we know where they’re coming from, we haven’t identified the campus distributor.”
“The source being our favorite pharmaceutical salesman, Nickie Merrick,” I said with a shrug. Too bad; I’d liked Nickie, and he was far better at playing detective than Peter. The oiled hair was an inspired touch. “Then he’s passing the drugs to a student?”
“So we assume. However, he travels a great deal, and is only in Farberville on the weekends. He has been watched for months; his only contact remotely related to the campus is the theater. Other than that, he stays home. He does not bar-hop, stroll around campus with a briefcase, or inadvertently leave packages on park benches. No contact with anyone in Farberville except grocery clerks and gas station attendants.”
“And the theater members who are also Farber students, such as Suzetta and Bruce?” I prompted.
“Those two, Eric Vanderhan, who teaches one class, and the three boys who were supposed to be Lieutenant Merrick’s squad from Scotland Yard.”
“Forget Eric. He is not a drug pusher. What do you know about the boys? They could very well be the ones you’re after. They all have pasty complexions; maybe they’ve been in prison.”
Peter tactfully overlooked my emotional outburst. “They joined the theater within the last few months, and the drugs have been inundating the campus since the fall.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “It has nothing to do with Harmon’s death.”
“But he might have found out that his precious theater was being used to cover drug transactions. If he threatened to expose Nickie, then—”
“Harmon didn’t have any idea about the drugs; Bella was quite sure about that point. She said that his behavior was perfectly normal—no worries, no secretive conversations. He was not a subtle man, and she swears she would have been able to tell if he were concerned about something that might harm the theater.”
“What are you going to do about Nickie Merrick?” I said to change the subject. A conversation with Bella was called for, but I saw no need to discuss it with Peter.
“I have enough evidence to arrest him, but I want to take his campus contact at the same time. Merrick is still under observation. If he tries to make a deal, we’ll be nearby. But I don’t want him to sense anything that might deter him from his business, so forget this conversation—now.”
“Of course.” I told Peter that I wanted to check on Bella, in case she might be in the mood for a tray from the dining room or a bit of company. He raised an eyebrow, but finally left to return to the Mimosa Inn.
At the bungalow, I tapped on the door. Bella appeared from the bedroom, looking a good deal pinker.
“Claire, how nice of you to come by to check on me,” she said through the screen. “I’m feeling better now, and I really would prefer to be alone to think about what has happened.”
Her words caught me by surprise. I considered several options, including brute force, but finally said something inane and went back through the garden. As a detective, I was not a noticeable success. It was time for another suspect. Minutes later, another suspect landed in my arms in a metaphorical sprawl.
“Claire, I’ve been looking for you,” Nickie Merrick called as I came out of the garden. He lowered his voice to a piercing stage whisper. “Do you think we might have a word in private?”
“By all means,” I said with a gracious nod. The lawn was thickly populated, as was the porch and probably the drawing room. I was not about to invite a drug pusher into my bedroom for an intimate chat. “How about the boathouse?”
“Where Harmon was murdered? I don’t think it’s—”
“The body only stayed there a few hours,” I said firmly, “and no one will disturb us. I didn’t think Scotland Yard’s finest would prove squeamish.”
Looking less than delighted, Nickie opened the door for me and we went inside. Inches past the threshold, I let out an explosive sneeze. The shadowy recesses fluttered for an uneasy moment before subsiding into watchfulness.
“There must be some sort of mold in here,” I said, wiping my eyes and blotting the end of my nose. “This is the only place that sets off this distasteful reaction.”
“You’re probably right, Claire. If the sneezing begins to interfere too much, let me know. I’ve got some samples of an antihistamine in my car. It’s a new product and it’s been quite effective with allergy sufferers. Very popular in the spring.” He moved across the room to stare at the empty slip, still disturbed by my inspired choice of conference rooms. “So poor Harmon started his last boat ride here …”
“Did you hear that Mimi’s been taken in for further questioning?” I sneezed emphatically to convey my disapproval.
“Bruce told me a few minutes ago. She seemed like such a nice girl; it’s a damn shame. But I suppose Harmon must have gotten carried away with his role and made a pass at her, and she was forced to defend herself with a paddle. If only she hadn’t tried to cover it up, she might have been able to claim self-defense.”
“Mimi did not”—sneeze!—“murder Harmon!”
“Maybe not,” he said, squatting to peer at a spider that had decided to relocate after what must have seemed a hurricane jolted his web. “Anyway, I hope the sheriff can get this over with before Monday morning. I have accounts to service and standing appointments that I can’t afford to break. Some doctors are impossible to see without—”
“What did you want to discuss, Nickie?” I asked. Despite the casualness of his tone, I could tell that he was as nervous as Eric had been earlier. Very interesting. Sneeze!
“You appear to be on friendly terms with the cop from Faberville. I was wondering if he had said anything about me.”
“Such as?”
“For one thing, was he satisfied with my statement? I wasn’t completely candid. In fact, I kept certain things back in order to protect an innocent party.”
“I have no idea whether Lieutenant Rosen was or was not satisfied with your statement, Nickie. It’s not particularly wise to keep things from an officer investigating a homicide, though. That I learned from personal experience. If this person that you think you’re protecting comes out with a different story, you’re apt to find yourself in the cell adjoining Mimi’s.”
“Tell me what you think, then. I did leave the drawing room during the movie last night, but only for a minute or two. I did not go anywhere near the boathouse, not did I see anyone while I was outside.”
“It sounds pretty frail,” I said with a sympathetic smile that ended with a particularly loud sneeze. “If you didn’t see or hear anything, then why should you refuse to admit that you slipped out? Was it not in your script?”
“No, I was never supposed to be a suspect, so I had nothing to do until this morning when I glowered at everyone over coffee.” He stood up and straightened his tie with trembling hands. “I went outside to meet someone—but the person never came. It would have sounded bad, so I told Rosen that I didn’t leave the room during the movie.”
“Who never came?”
I knew it was his campus contact, but he didn’t know that I knew. I held my breath and assumed a look of mild curiosity, although a trio of sneezes rather destroyed the effect. My bedroom would have been safer; I was in danger of jarring my nose out of position—permanently.
“It doesn’t matter, Claire. The point is that I was outside for a few minutes, and I’m afraid it might be misconstrued if Rosen finds out about it later.”
He was lying. He was afraid that Peter might have-followed him, which was likely. However, and to my chagrin, I had no idea what Peter thought about Nickie’s statement. I repeated the latter sentiment to Nickie and suggested that he confess to the sin of omission.
It was growing dark outside, and I could barely see Nickie’s slow shake of his head. “Maybe later,” he said as he opened the door for me. I sneezed a farewell to the spider, and went across the now deserted lawn to the inn.
Dinner was being served to a solemn group of guests, none of whom even glanced up when I entered the room. Caron was not there, nor was Peter. I heard Eric’s voice in the kitchen; at last he was handling the mundane duties of innkeeper.
Nickie found two chairs in a corner table, and I allowed him to seat me. The gloomy miasma was impossible to resist; we ordered, ate, and exited to the drawing room as quickly as possible.
“At this point we were scheduled to unravel the mystery and toast the winner with champagne,” Nickie said in a wry voice. “This group would be livelier on a sewage disposal tour.”
“Do you know who the mock murderer was to be?”
Nickie tugged on his moustache, his eyes on the closed office door. “Harmon wouldn’t tell me. He thought I might give something away by an inadvertent inflection or beaded stare. Some of the others might know, Claire. Ask one of them.”
Mimi was not available, and Eric was too distraught to handle more than one thing at a time. Nickie didn’t know and Bella wasn’t talking. My most likely stoolies were Suzetta and Bruce, but neither of them was in sight.
Suzetta had not been visible since the agonizing session in the dining room just after the murder was announced. It could be suspicious, I decided. It struck me that Peter had completely forgotten about her midnight prowl the night before, when he and I had bumped nose-to-pajama in the dark. She hadn’t been dressed in rowing clothes, but one cannot be sure what constitutes appropriate attire for transporting one’s murder victim.
I gave Nickie a vague wave and went to the register to find out Suzetta’s room number. Then, a study in nonchalance, I glided upstairs for a girlish chat with the secretary/ private eye/student who had a propensity for prowls.
All very good, but no one answered my discreet tap. I gave up and went along the corridor to my room, where I found my daughter still glued to the telephone. Her last call, I told myself coldly, as I remembered her treachery. She took in my expression, whispered a panicky farewell, and replaced the receiver.
“Did you find the cove on the far side of the lake?” she asked, shrinking into the bedspread. As well she should.
“Yes, and I found a cop waiting for me when I arrived. It seems he heard a bit of gossip on the road.”
“Then you didn’t have to walk back. Good, I was worried that you might get caught in the dark.”
“You were worried about me? I thought your only concerns were the proximity of fish and your income.” I stopped in front of the mirror. A twig clung to the top of my head like a tiny flagpole sans flag. My skin was crisscrossed by red scratches, my chin smudged with
dust. Not an image that appealed. But Peter hadn’t been deterred by my untidy appearance … . I put that disturbing memory aside and turned to glare at Caron.
“I was worried,” she repeated. Her lip inched forward, her eyebrows toward each other. “You always think the worst about me, Mother. I happen to be a very sensitive person—you can ask any of the kids at school.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. While we’re on that subject, am I correct in assuming that Inez is well informed of the latest developments in the case?”
The lip ebbed, and gradually curled at the corners. “Inez agrees that I might be in danger. I swore that I would stay by the telephone in case someone tried to do something to me.”
“A veritable umbilical cord of safety,” I said, returning to the mirror to see if I might be worthy of salvage. “What is Inez going to do if the receiver is banged down in mid-scream? Call the operator to report a homicide, or call information to ask the identity of the strangler?”
“At least Inez is worried about me,” Caron sniffled.
“A mere child, who has no knowledge of what has happened? You need to realign your pose, dear. In the meantime, you are not—repeat—not to speak to Peter Rosen unless he asks you a direct question. Your answer may range anywhere from ‘yes’ to ‘no,’ or perhaps a giddy ‘I don’t know.’ If you do otherwise, you may plan to spend the next five years in your room, where you will subsist on bread, water, and broiled fish.”
Caron plopped a pillow over her face. After a despairing glance in the mirror, I decided to see if Suzetta might have returned to her room. She had not. I tried the knob and found that it turned easily. No one was in the corridor, and half a second later neither was I.
Suzetta’s bedroom was furnished the same as my own, with an antique bed and the obligatory ceramic pitcher in a bowl. The top of the dresser, however, was lost under an array of bottles, tubes, brushes, and other paraphernalia beyond my limited experience. I felt some satisfaction in the knowledge that her beauty was not a simple task; my semiannual Avon lady would have a coronary at the potential income.
