The Murder at the Murder at the Mimosa Inn

by JOAN HESSS

  “I don’t know, Claire, and I don’t care. I need to get Mimi out of that jail before she breaks down. She’s more delicate than she appears to outsiders. She’s like a mimosa leaf; if you touch one, it shrinks and folds up.”

  Eric may have enjoyed the imagery, but I suspected Mimi was a good bit sturdier than the analogy implied. Eric, on the other hand, bore no resemblance to the quick-witted mathematician I had known. We needed to get Mimi back for his sake, not hers.

  I gave him a rallying poke and said, “Tell me exactly what you said in your statement, and anything else you may have overlooked.”

  “I started the movie at about ten o’clock. Before that, I went upstairs and overheard Mimi talking to Harmon, which is when the mud was supposed to fall off my shoe in the hall, except that I forgot to pick it up when I was outside earlier. So I waited until ten-thirty, when I went to the boathouse. Well, I was a minute late because of a question, and I had to go across the croquet court, and that reminded me about the mud, so I picked up a piece to leave later and—”

  “Never mind,” I said. How the man ever learned to count, much less to make forays into calculus and other murky fields, was hard to imagine. Sequencing was not a visible strength. “Tell me what you saw at the boathouse—or didn’t see.”

  He stared into space. “As I came out on the porch, I saw Mimi leave. I gave her time to cut across the yard to the back door, then went to the boathouse and called to Harmon. He didn’t answer, and it was too dark to see anything. For a minute or two, I thought he was fooling around. But he wasn’t there, Claire.”

  “But Mimi said he was and that she talked to him,” I said patiently. “Did he fly out a window?”

  “There aren’t any windows. The sheriff says that Mimi bashed Harmon on the head and hid his body in the rowboat. I didn’t look in the rowboat; it was too dark and I couldn’t have seen anything, anyway.”

  “So what did you do then?”

  “Well, I decided that he had changed the plans without telling me. He could have warned Mimi that he wasn’t going to be there, but that she was supposed to pretend that he was. I slipped back to the movie projector with plenty of time for the reel change.”

  “But Mimi swears that he was there when she left—and that he was alive. If we accept that, we’ll have to come up with an explanation for Harmon’s vanishing act. Are you positive no one went in the boathouse between the time Mimi left and you arrived?”

  “I could see the door the entire time, Claire. It was dark, but there was enough moonlight and overflow from the upstairs windows.” Eric made a strangled noise and began to tremble.

  I quickly opted for a new topic. “After Mimi went in the back door, what did she do?”

  “She met Suzetta in our bedroom to confirm that the option was burned, then they came back in time for the lights to go on at the end of the movie. After that, we locked up and went to bed.”

  What a muddle, I sighed to myself. I did not want Eric to sense my discouragement, so I managed a jolly smile. “Don’t worry; we’ll figure it out. Up until Harmon disappeared, everyone was acting according to his or her script, right? Did anyone do anything that seemed inappropriate?”

  “I don’t know, Claire; Harmon had the script. Do you think I ought to go to the sheriff’s office and tell them that I lied, that Harmon was there when I arrived? I could say that he said something about the option, so I—”

  “No, Eric,” I said hastily, “you’re likely to make things worse. The sheriff has doubts about the motive; for God’s sake, don’t drop by to confirm it. I need to get my hands on Harmon’s master script. Mimi thought it was in the office, but Peter said he searched for it. Can you think of any place else it might be?”

  “Harmon’s room, maybe.”

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and search for it, then? We need to compare everyone’s actions with the script to see if anyone improvised something radically different. Look for the option while you’re there. Go!” I said, shooing him out of the kitchen with a maternal eye and an encouraging look.

  Eric did as ordered. I waited until I heard a quiet click from the top of the stairs, then climbed on the stool. Lofty, but not helpful. My first realization was that I did not care for heights, even of the three-foot sort. The second was that the staff had not done a very good job on the countertops. The third was that I was confused by the whole mess and wanted to go home to my bookstore, where things fit into polite categories. Here, I could not isolate fiction from nonfiction.

  Begin at the beginning, I lectured myself. I did well until I arrived at the log in the cove. I could not stir up any regret; on the contrary, more primitive feelings rose like sparks from an open fire, heat and all. Unlike the mimosa leaf, I hadn’t folded on contact. Not in the least. After some introspection, I concluded that no action was required on the matter, or was advisable.

  I moved on to the last few hours of the melodrama. Bella’s name had popped up from several different sources. Bella had sworn that Harmon knew nothing of the drug transactions happening backstage at the Faberville Community Theater; Bella had sworn that Harmon was indeed prepared to exercise the option. Bella had been talkative to everyone except Miss Claire Marple.

  I wrote her name in the soapy film on the countertop. She had made as many transformations as Suzetta: dowdy mouse, hysterical wife, decisive woman, grieving widow, self-imposed exile. And motor-mouth extraordinaire. Surely, I deserved a few words.

  It was too late for a proper neighborly call, but I hadn’t come up with another excuse as I knocked on the bungalow door. “Bella? It’s Claire. I thought you might be in the mood for a little company.”

  She came out of the bedroom, wearing her coat over jeans and a sweater. “Claire,” she murmured, “how kind of you.”

  “Are you going out?” At ten o’clock?”

  “No, dear, I just returned from a walk in the rose garden. I was afraid the lime might have burned the roses’ roots, so I went to see if they were drooping.” She shrugged off her coat and gestured for me to come inside. “Would you like a cup of tea? It’s my turn to play hostess.”

  “Yes, thank you, I would. This day has been one of the longest in my life, exceeded only by the day I went into labor with Caron and the day my husband was killed in a car wreck. I can imagine how you must feel.”

  “It has been trying. By now, the only thing Lieutenant Rosen doesn’t know about me is my shoe size and my secret fondness for chocolate mint ice cream.”

  “I have a problem with almond fudge,” I admitted. A familiar tickle crept down my nose. I rubbed frantically, first with a ladylike finger and then with my whole hand. As the tickle abated, I realized Bella was watching me with a perplexed expression.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Allergies. Nickie said he had some samples that might help; I may have to beg for them.” A lovely cue. “Did Peter tell you about the drug problem at Farber and the theater connection?”

  She gave me a cup and saucer, then sat down across from me. “He did, but I fail to see any relevance to Harmon’s … death. If my husband had been suspicious, he would have confided in me. He was quite fond of Nickie.” She paused, then added, “He was fond of Mimi, too. It’s so difficult to believe she could have done such a dreadful thing.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said flatly.

  “The sheriff sat in on my statement, and he became quite agitated when I mentioned Harmony Hills. Apparently, Mimi and Eric lied about it when they gave their statements. I don’t understand that, either. Harmon was quite determined to go through with the project; ironically, he wanted to invest the profits in a new theater building.”

  “At the expense of destroying the Mimosa Inn. Are you quite sure Mimi and Eric knew his plans?”

  “Quite sure, dear. I’m sorry.”

  I did not like the way things were going. “Tell me about Harmon,” I suggested. “All I saw was the role he played, which was distressingly adept. What was he really
like?”

  Bella went to the dinette to take a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. As I waited, the dreaded nose tickle caught me by surprise and I sneezed explosively.

  “I’ll get pills from Nickie,” I vowed before Bella could offer sympathy or a tissue.

  She gave me a doubtful smile, lit a cigarette, and sat down again. “Harmon was a kind man, who doted on the students at the theater as if they were his offspring. We had no children, you see, and he used them as replacements. He encouraged them to bring their problems to him, and often loaned them money or wrote glowing letters of recommendation.”

  “He had his theater troupe; you had your chemistry students.

  “I still have my students, even if I no longer have Harmon. I’m looking forward to returning to my routine Monday morning—if your policeman allows us to leave.”

  “I have no idea what he intends to do,” I said, displeased with her description. “Sheriff Lafleur may decide that the investigation is completed; in that case, Peter may agree and let us leave. Are you going to teach classes Monday morning? Shouldn’t you take a leave of absence for a few weeks?”

  “To sit home and mope? No, Claire, my students need me—and I need the diversion. Their eternal ineptness in chemistry lab will help to take my mind off things.”

  “Then it’s probably best,” I murmured. When Carlton was killed, I had stayed home and moped, and it had served no useful purpose. “What about the funeral?”

  “On Wednesday at four o’clock. Perhaps I’ll see you there, dear. For now, I’m still a bit tired, and I think I’ll go to bed.” She went across the room to hold open the door for me.

  I tried a final shot. “What will happen to Harmony Hills now? Will you see the project through, or let the option expire?”

  “Harmony Hills will be built as a tribute to my husband.”

  I opened my mouth to mention the missing option, but found I was about to speak to solid wood. Ah, well, I told myself as I walked along the path through the garden. The marble cupid was a pale ghost in the moonlight, forever optimistic, waiting.

  “Do you realize that you may be gazing at ‘cul-dee-saxes’ in the near future?” I asked him sternly. In moments of confusion, I have been known to talk to inanimate objects. A symptom of schizophrenia, or so I’ve been warned. Thus far, nothing has answered.

  Except for a drowsy deputy on the porch, no one was about. A line of light shone from under the office door, but I went upstairs without allowing myself to toy with the idea of a chat with “my policeman,” who had done nothing constructive about Mimi’s arrest, the unidentified drug pusher, or my ambivalent attitude toward him.

  “Phooey!” I muttered under my breath as I went into the room I shared with my daughter the squealer.

  Caron was sitting in the middle of the bed, a book held not more than two inches from her nose. It was upside down, which was a rather unmissable clue to her former activity.

  “Did Inez have any pertinent comments about postpubescent child abuse?” I asked as I undressed and pulled on a night shirt.

  “I happen to have been reading.” She noticed that the book was somewhat illegible from its present perspective, and put it down. “Not really, but she does know some of the people—or of them, anyway.”

  “How clever of her. She knows you, me, and Peter—not a bad batting average. This impresses you?” I sat down at the dressing table and began to dab calamine lotion on each red bump and welt. I estimated there were four thousand; I might still be dabbing at sunrise.

  “And someone else.” Caron picked up the book and made a pretense of fascination with the written word, now upright.

  I dabbed diligently for a long moment. When I could no longer restrain myself from taking the proffered carrot, I said, “And who might that be?”

  She flipped to the next page, read it with great concentration, dogeared the corner, and carefully placed the book on the floor beside the bed. I was going to suffer for all the indignities of the last two days, fish threats and all. In the interim I dabbed twenty-nine bumps. After Caron was satisfied with her petty revenge, she lay back on the bed, crossed her arms over her chest, sighed grandly, and said, “The guy’s wife.”

  “The guy’s wife? That narrows it down to the female half of those present, excepting you. Could you be more precise?” I forced myself to dab a nasty red bump just below my earlobe. It could pass for a ruby earring if it continued to swell at the present rate.

  “Did you ever see the creepy old movie about vampires?”

  “I do not see the relevance of my cinema attendance record. If you intend to drag this out until September, let me know now. Otherwise, please get on with it.”

  “Well … Inez’s sister Julianna goes to Farber High School, and she has junior chemistry with Mrs. Crundall.”

  “The earth trembles under my feet. Would you mind putting some lotion on my back? I can’t reach all the mosquito bites, and I’m afraid they’ll keep me awake tonight.”

  “Don’t you want to know what Julianna thinks of Mrs. Crundall?” Caron growled, outraged by my lack of interest in adolescent gossip. “It could be vital, Mother.”

  I tossed the tube of lotion at her. “I am still stunned by the knowledge that Inez has a sister. The idea of an older version of Inez gives me goose bumps.”

  “Those are mosquito bites,” Caron said coldly. “Julianna is terribly perceptive, and she told Inez all sorts of things about Mrs. Crundall. But if you don’t care”—pout, pout, pout—“we’ll drop the subject.”

  “I apologize,” I said, watching her in the mirror. The pouts might keep me awake long after the itches subsided. “What did Juliette tell Inez?”

  “Julianna!”

  “What did Julianna tell Inez that Inez found worthy of repeating to you?” I said humbly.

  “For one thing, the kids call Mrs. Crundall ‘Bella Lugosi’ because she’s so awful. Just like the actor that played Count Dracula in the movies.”

  “High-school teachers often earn unflattering nicknames. I had an English teacher once—”

  “She is the very worst teacher at the high school. The kids in her class have hours of homework every single night, and in class she bawls them out all the time.”

  “Ghastly stuff. Are you sure Julianna isn’t exaggerating because she doesn’t understand the nature of molecules?” I said, trying to be reasonable without risking another bout of pouts.

  “Julianna is a straight-A student,” Caron sniffed. “And she says that all the kids hate Bella Lugosi-Crundall. After all, she’s a cheerleader.”

  “Mrs. Crundall?”

  “Julianna, Mother. Mrs. Crundall is a horrid teacher and a mean person—and everybody hates her.”

  “That’s strange,” I said, mostly to myself. “Bella implied that she felt like a surrogate mother to her students.”

  “Snow White’s stepmother believed the same thing,” Caron said. She looked at the telephone, stared at me, and with reluctance picked up her book. “I think the woman is capable of anything, including murder!” she announced before diving into her book.

  From the mouths of babes, I told myself as I applied a final blob of calamine. I now resembled a clown who had been caught in a thundershower, but I wasn’t going anywhere. Ignoring Caron’s huffs, I found my notebook and flipped through the pages.

  There were several heavily underlined observations that no longer had significance. Suzetta had been on duty when she had prowled out the back door. I drew a line through it. Bruce had produced the rumble in order to take Harmon’s car to the assigned meeting place. I drew another line. For exercise I drew an irritable slash through every terse reference to Suzetta. Nickie had admitted that he had left the drawing room during the movie, but he wouldn’t have been so candid if he had murdered Harmon. Slash on Nickie. No drugs in Bruce’s room—slash. Mimi and Eric deserved a slash as an act of faith, so I marked them off the list.

  One name remained.

  A faint snore drifted from
the bed. I crept around the room until I was dressed in jeans and a sweater. Then, feeling as silly as usual in such circumstances, I quietly closed the door behind me and tiptoed down the stairs.

  ELEVEN

  It was nearly midnight by this time. A small lamp on the desk provided enough light for me to wind a path through Aunt Beatrice’s furniture to the front door. I slipped out to the porch and eased the door closed.

  I had company. Two figures sat on the swing, shoulders touching and heads an inch apart. The swing creaked softly, but the two figures could have passed for cardboard props.

  “Who’s there?” I squeaked.

  “Bruce Wheeler.”

  “Oh, Bruce, you almost gave me a heart attack,” I said as I went over to the swing. “Who’s with you?”

  “This is Alvin McGig. He’s a busboy. We’re both off duty now, and we weren’t disturbing anyone until you came along.”

  “It’s fine with me,” I began defensively, “if you want to”—I realized that they were holding hands. Oh, dear—“swing on the porch, Bruce. I thought it seemed like a nice night for a stroll, myself. The moon is so—high, and the stars are, too.”

  “Enjoy yourself.”

  Alvin giggled, but broke off in a hiccup when Bruce glared at him. I waved a hand in farewell and managed a decorous pace until I reached the edge of the garden. As soon as I was concealed by shrubbery, I stumbled to the bench and sank down before my legs disgraced me in front of my marble friend.

  Bruce’s questionable story was now explained. My virile beach boy would have bleached his tan before admitting to his unconventional preference for the same gender. Naturally, he had not cared to discuss the goal of his late-night walks; Alvin McGig’s company was a dubious reward. Grimacing, I pulled myself up. A whisper put me back on the bench.

  “Claire?”

  It was either a giant mosquito or Peter Rosen. To my regret, it proved to be the latter. He stepped from behind the cupid—my cupid—and joined me.

  “Out for a breath of fresh air?” he teased as he sat down beside me. “I thought you preferred the canned, filtered, mechanically cooled variety?”