The Murder at the Murder at the Mimosa Inn

by JOAN HESSS

  Smiling to myself, I drifted away from him. Smiling to himself, he caught up with me. Damn. We walked in silence for several minutes, arriving at last at the marble cherub in the garden. I had forced myself not to look at the boathouse when we passed it, but I was eager to examine it—alone. I wasn’t eager to share Caron’s brilliant deductions with anyone, especially Supercop.

  “I believe that’s Cupid, the Roman love imp,” he said, pointing at the statue. “Do you think it’s an omen?”

  “No, I think it’s a mildly vulgar statue of a little boy who should have put on clothes before climbing on a pedestal. Why don’t you take a hike—with Mrs. Robison-Dewitt?”

  “One of your admirers?”

  “Not precisely, but clearly one of yours. You shouldn’t let such a golden opportunity to be worshiped slip away. She may not have Suzetta’s curves, but I’m sure she has admirable qualities. If nothing else, she might feature you in the Ozark Chronicle. You should be the cover boy for the autumn edition. I’d even buy a copy, just to keep under my pillow.”

  “Claire, I wish you’d relax,” he said. He caught my hand and led me to a stone bench. I permitted the presumptuous familarity out of curiosity. Or so I told myself.

  “Then explain why you came,” I demanded, perching on one end of the bench, the better to escape should the necessity arise.

  “I can’t, Claire. It has to do with a long-term investigation, but I’m not at liberty to discuss it. There are some unsavory people involved; it might be dangerous for you to have any information about the case.”

  “Here? At the Mimosa Inn? I don’t believe you, Peter. I think you came simply to …”

  “To show you up?”

  “Which is futile. I am going to solve the murder and win the champagne. I may also decide to go after the croquet championship.”

  “Oh, really?” Eyebrows rose like fermatas.

  I knew he was baiting me, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Yes, really, Peter Rosen. Would you like to make a side bet about the murder solution?”

  “That would certainly spice up the drama, wouldn’t it? What do you suggest we bet?”

  “Whatever you can afford to lose,” I suggested sweetly.

  “All I possess is my virtue—but I’m willing to risk it.”

  “I didn’t realize you had any vestiges of virtue. A dinner might be more appropriate, or straightforward currency,” I said. Or dithered.

  “Dinner it is,” Peter said. “The loser will prepare an extravagant meal for the winner, seven courses with wine for each. We’ll leave the question of virtue for a later discussion.”

  “Fine. Now why don’t you run along and pretend you’re on the trail of a real criminal. I’d like to sit here by myself. I need to ponder my plan of action.” And get to the boathouse … alone.

  His expression abruptly sober, he stood up and said, “There is no pretense, Claire. But I want you to promise me to focus all your energy on solving the mock murder, and forget what I said about the investigation. Okay?”

  I drew a big X on my chest as I crossed my fingers behind my back. “Absolutely.”

  FOUR

  After Peter left, I went back to the boathouse. It was a small white building, freshly whitewashed but still in need of general repairs—as we all are at times. I slipped inside and closed the door. Light fell through cracks in the walls, casting yellow stripes on squatty cardboard boxes, piles of paddles, and musty tarps. Water lapped quietly in two slips, one empty and the other protecting a dilapidated rowboat with a puddle of foul water in its bottom.

  My nose began to tingle with an incipient sneeze. I warned it to behave as I investigated the piles of clutter, praying there would be no fuzzy little things with four (or more) legs to be encountered. Nothing. As I turned to leave, the sneeze came. I stopped to wipe my eyes and saw on the back of the door a few words scrawled with a pencil.

  “Aha!” I said in quiet triumph. The next clue was uncovered. It took me a few minutes to read the words in the dim light, but at last I made them out and faithfully recorded them in my notebook: “The rickety building holds the answer.”

  Wonderful. I was in the only rickety building in sight, and I was fairly sure I hadn’t overlooked anything of importance. The word “rickety” could be arranged to read “tickery” or “cry kite,” but that seemed farfetched. I gave up on anagrams. One could, I supposed, be smothered with a canvas tarp or bludgeoned with a canoe paddle. No one had, as far as I knew.

  I forced myself to my hands and knees. Trying not to notice the pain to said parts of my anatomy, I crawled over every last inch of floor and squeamishly poked a finger in every last inky corner. I found countless cobwebs, a toothless comb, a beerless beer can, and a limitless amount of dust. The last was my downfall.

  I was kneeling on the floor, sneezing hysterically, when the door opened. The rectangle of sunlight caught me in the undignified pose, but it was not enough to interrupt the sneezes. My eyes were blinded with tears; my nose produced a spasm of outrage about every three seconds. It was a charming picture, I concluded as I helplessly waited out the staccato barrage.

  At last things quieted down. I wiped my eyes and stood up. A bewildered Nickie Merrick was frozen in the doorway.

  “Claire, are you okay?”

  I hesitated in order to confirm that the fireworks were totally over, then said, “Hello, Nickie. It seems that I’m allergic to whatever is growing in dark corners. There aren’t any clues in here, but there is something worth further study in terms of chemical warfare. That much I have deduced. It’s safe to come in now.” I punctuated the promise with a sneeze.

  “No, don’t let me interrupt you; I was just wandering about to see how the sleuths were doing. Have you made any progress with the clues?”

  “Some, but I’m ready to leave,” I admitted. We walked to the house together. When we reached the porch, I said, “Are you playing Scotland Yard at the high tea? George Gideon, or a milder sort such as Roderick Allyn or Henry Tibbet?”

  “Only if I can find my knickers and my plimsolls. For whom shall I scan the crowd? A sleek Cordelia Grey or a determined Harriet Vane?”

  “An uninspired but sincere Miss Marple. If you’ll excuse me, it’s time to don the orthopedic shoes with the crepe soles and fetch my knitting—after a quick shower.”

  All of which I did. Afterwards, I sat in front of the dressing table and went so far as to powder my hair into a temporary gray. Caron napped through the preparations. Although I was tempted to awaken her in order to discuss the ominous words on the boathouse door (a nice ring), I let her sleep. I did, however, put my notebook on the dressing table in case she rallied while I was downstairs. “The rickety building holds the answer.” Unless and somehow smug, I told myself glumly as I left the room for the ritual of high tea. A charming excuse for a fourth meal; no wonder our English cousins have well-rounded, rosy cheeks.

  I met several of my cohorts in the hallway, specifically two caped Sherlock Holmeses, an unshaven man in a trenchcoat who had glued a cigarette to his lower lip—and a gaggle of gray-headed women with knitting bags. We trooped out to the porch. More gray-headed women with knitting bags were tearing into cucumber sandwiches and scones. Pinkies were curled like stout commas.

  We were not amused. Feeling like an instant replay, I took a cup and saucer from Mimi, who was presiding over a silver tea service, loaded up a plate with goodies, and eased through the crowd to the end of the porch and a broad, inviting swing.

  An Oriental gentleman in a white coat and string bow tie twinkled at me over a sliver of walnut cake. “Miss Marple?”

  “Good guess,” I sighed. “Are you Charlie Chan?”

  The cup clattered on his saucer. “I am Hercule Poirot,” he snorted. In farewell.

  As a wave of heat rushed up my neck, a black man came out of the crowd and joined me. He ran his eyes over my longish black dress, lace collar, and cardigan sweater. “Miss Marple?” he hazarded.

  “Good guess. Hercule P
oirot?”

  His cup clattered, too. “Sam Spade,” he corrected me haughtily as he retreated.

  I was doing wonderfully. Zero out of two, and hostility to boot. Clearly, I should cease the game and spend my idle moments thinking about the rickety-building clue. As much as I adored tea, I could more profitably pass the time sneezing in the boathouse—or rattling Caron into a more helpful frame of mind.

  Before I could finish my tea and escape, Peter wormed his way through the crowd. He smiled at my costume, but made no comment. He wore the same clothes he had been in earlier, a knit shirt and chino pants. Designer sneakers, of course.

  “Who are you supposed to be?” I asked politely.

  “Peter Wimsey.”

  “Lord Peter Wimsey does not skulk about in shirts with alligators on the front. His valet would never permit it.”

  “I’m undercover,” he explained with facetious sincerity.

  I was trying to decide whether or not he deserved a laugh, when Nickie Merrick came through the crowd. “Did I hear you say that you were undercover, Lieutenant Rosen?” he said, an unpleasant smile on his face.

  “That’s right, Merrick.”

  The two men studied each other, as if they were mongrels in front of a succulent bone. For a brief moment, I flattered myself that I was the bone under contention, but let the image evaporate as the seconds stretched into decidedly uneasy minutes. Murder seemed in the making, and it would occur before my eyes if I didn’t do something to ease the tension.

  “He’s Peter Wimsey,” I tried with a gay laugh.

  “Is he?” said Nickie. No gay laugh followed.

  “His valet was held up at the deer crossing,” I continued in the same bright voice. Clever, clever Claire. “When the poor man arrives, he’ll be scandalized, won’t he, Lord Peter?”

  Peter gave Nickie one final glance, then smiled at me. “I like the ‘Lord Peter’ title, Claire. I may have it put on my credit cards when I get back home.”

  “To Farberville, Lieutenant?” said Nickie.

  Peter nodded. Nickie spun on his heel and pushed his way through the wall of bodies to the door. It slammed behind him, causing several unwary Marples to jiggle their teacups in alarm.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “Scotland Yard doesn’t seem to appreciate the competition from the Farberville CID. He doesn’t realize that with you here, my chances of solving anything are noticeably diminished.”

  “Oh?” I said. I was about to add a further comment when Mrs. Robison-Dewitt appeared. She was wearing a longish black dress with a lace collar, a cardigan sweater, and orthopedic shoes with crepe soles. She held a knitting bag in one hand. She hadn’t powdered her hair, but she hadn’t needed any theatrical assistance there.

  Two mirror images, right down to the strained attempts to produce socially acceptable nods. The Bobbsey twins in drag. Tweedledee and Tweedledum, just as the black bird filled the sky.

  She took in my costume in a single look that felt like a toothpick in my carotid artery. “How interesting you look, Mrs. Malloy,” she whinnied through her nose. “Whom did you intend to represent?”

  “Nero Wolfe,” I told her levelly. “This is Archie Goodwin, but I believe you two have already met.”

  “Mr. Goodwin, so pleased to see you again.” She wasn’t.

  The porch was glazing over with ice. Peter grabbed me and tugged me through the crowd. Muffled noises came from his throat, but he managed to hold in the laughter until we reached the drawing room.

  “Nero Wolfe?” he sputtered.

  I disengaged my arm and sat on a brocade settee. “That woman ought to be put out to pasture. She’s been snorting at me since I arrived. How dare she show up in my costume.”

  “She’s undoubtedly echoing that sentiment to whoever will listen. After the lecture, she asked me with great seriousness if you might have the symptoms of a sociopath. A homicidal sociopath, if I recall. I told her that your psychiatrist was fairly certain that you were unlikely to attack anyone except for family members and close friends. I don’t think she found comfort in the diagnosis.”

  It was my turn to sputter, and I did. “You said what?”

  “I had to say something.”

  “You did not have to say all that nonsense about psychiatrists or imply that I am prone to murder my relatives,” I said. “If the inclination should occur, it will center on detectives who go around slandering innocent people!”

  “Innocent?”

  “This is a drawing room, not an echo chamber. I am going upstairs to change clothes and study all the clues I’ve thus far deciphered. You might utilize the time with a cookbook, since you’re going to need some recipes in the immediate future!”

  I stomped up the stairs, my shoulders squared and my head erect. Dangerous in that I couldn’t see my feet over my nose, but well worth the minor peril. I bumped into Harmon and Suzetta halfway up the stairs. Harmon had his pudgy fingers clamped tightly around the bannister, which was wise. He appeared to be on another planet, where he was apt to encounter little green men along with the notorious pink elephants.

  Suzetta was wearing a black bikini, with black and white scarves artistically draped over her basically bare body. Eye makeup had been applied with a leaden hand. A paste emerald glittered from her navel.

  “I just adore costume parties!” she confided with a giggle. “Do you recognize me? I’m a harem girl—or a Harmon girl! Isn’t that the cutest joke?”

  “The cutest,” I agreed gravely. “Do find Mrs. Robison-Dewitt and see if she can guess what you are; she’ll be so gratified, and she just adores puns.”

  Suzetta produced a blank look, Long past the blank stage, Harmon grabbed her waist. “Lez go, honey bunch. Honey bear wants a little drink.”

  Waving her eyelashes in farewell, Suzetta obediently tripped down the stairs. If there were a troll under the staircase, he would have been thrilled with the tender flesh, ninety-five percent of it conveniently exposed. Honey bear was already marinated.

  My thoughts returned to Peter Rosen’s jibe. “Innocent?” he had drawled in mocking disbelief. And telling the battleship that my psychiatrist was almost sure I wouldn’t attack a stranger! She was now undoubtedly convinced I was Farberville’s version of Lizzie Borden. Peter deserved all eighty of the whacks.

  I stormed into the room and slammed the door. Caron lay in bed, a book balanced on her knee.

  “Did you look at this?” I demanded belligerently as I snatched up my notebook to flap it at her. “Are you going to help me with the murder or not?”

  Caron’s lip floated downward as she took in my costume and prematurely gray hair. If it was gray because of the powder. After the episode on the porch, I wouldn’t have been too surprised if the gray failed to brush out. Ever.

  “Mother?” she whispered.

  “No, Jane Fonda! Listen, Caron, I wish you’d pull yourself out of this self-imposed lethargy and help me with the clues. You’re liable to ruin the mattress if you stay there indefinitely. Furthermore, I—”

  “What on earth is wrong with you?” Caron interrupted calmly. “You sound like a harpy.”

  She had a point. I made a face in apology and sat down to brush the powder out of my hair. Despite my fears, my reddish hair soon reappeared as my shoulders disappeared under a talcum snowfall. It helped to calm me down, and when I finally turned around, my voice was back to normal.

  “Sorry, dear. High tea has never been my style.” I told her about the encounters with Hercule and Sam Spade, which resulted in a round of uncontrollable giggles from her and a few from me. Mrs. Robison-Dewitt was good for a second round. Then Caron returned to her book, and I opted for a soothing bath with my notebook propped on a soapy knee. Afterwards, I put on a wool dress and we went downstairs for dinner.

  Some of the guests had changed clothes, but many of them were still in costume. Nickie sat at the head of a table of Marples as though he were the captian of a cruise ship. In one corner, the blond bar
tender tossed olives in the air between orders; Eric was busy uncorking bottles of wine. Mimi caught Caron and me at the dining-room door and led us toward a table for eight.

  “Found any clues?” she asked as we moved between the tables.

  I made a noncommittal reply. Caron and I found ourselves sitting with a depressed Marple, a food-splattered Dover, the Oriental Hercule—and the Peter Wimsey-Rosen. While Caron tired not to giggle, I avoided everyone by escaping into the menu. After orders had been given, we began a desultory conversation about the scheduled croquet tournament.

  “Oh, Harmon,” trilled a voice from the doorway, “isn’t this just terribly nice! Wherever shall we sit?”

  A shudder went around the table, since there were two empty chairs. Inevitably, Suzetta spotted them and dragged an anesthetized Harmon Crundall across the dining room. She wore a scarlet dress, slightly more conventional than the harem outfit. The neckline was more of a waistline, however, and the flesh count still hovered above the seventy-percent mark.

  Peter sucked in a breath as she leaned over him and said, “Do you mind if we sit here?”

  “By all means,” he managed to say, once his eyeballs returned to their proper location.

  Harmon thudded into one of the chairs. He tried to pat the seat next to him, but his hand swished past the edge and he almost toppled over. With a faint squeak, Suzetta sat down.

  When the waiter came, she ordered for both of them, although it was obvious that Harmon was far beyond the food-as-redemption stage. His face was blotched, his lips flecked with spittle. It was only a matter of time before the fall from grace.

  Those of us at the table again took up the topic of croquet rules, politely ignoring the occasional belch from Harmon and the increasingly acerbic whispers from his companion. Caron was mortified by the adult antics; I could sense her bristle with indignation. When dinner arrived, we began to eat with ravenous concentration, as if we hadn’t been stuffing ourselves with tea-party food earlier.