The Murder at the Murder at the Mimosa Inn

by JOAN HESSS

  “I do. It seems I’m allergic to whatever they use around here. What are you doing, if I may be so bold?”

  “Waiting for you. Were you heading for Bella’s bungalow? Don’t let me delay you further.”

  “Did you follow me to the bungalows yesterday, too?”

  “Only in my dreams. It must have been some other white knight.”

  Oh, so silky. I sulked for a few minutes, while I considered the limitations imposed by his unexpected presence. On the one hand, I saw no reason to share the upcoming glory that would come with my brilliant solution. On the other, I saw no reason to be bashed on the head and rowed across the lake, face down in an inch of mucky water. Miss Marple sat by a cozy fire and chatted reminiscently about parlor maids and vicars; her attentive policeman then undertook the more dangerous tasks. Perhaps that’s why she finished so many booties.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I announced reluctantly. I ran through the process by which I had eliminated all but one of the suspects. My voice paled when I described the scene on the porch, but recovered and ended in triumph.

  “That sounds quite good,” Peter said, “but we have no evidence that Bella was ever in the boathouse, much less that she murdered her husband. If you have no qualms about potential slander suits, you can race around making accusations. I can’t—without proof.”

  “Bella was in the boathouse,” I insisted.

  “She didn’t carve her initials in the door.”

  “No, but she brought the evidence with her back to the bungalow,” I said, suddenly excited. “The only site that sets off my sneezes is the boathouse, because of a particular type of mold in there. Earlier, when I dropped by the bungalow, my nose started to tickle—and Bella’s coat was next to me on the sofa.”

  “I’m not sure your nose will hold up in court.” He leaned over to study the object under discussion. “You’re covered with blotches, Claire. Are you developing some rare skin disorder?”

  “That was not amusing. I can prove that Bella was in the boathouse, if I have to sneeze in front of the jury to do it. Now, all we need is motive and—”

  “Claire, slow down. Even if she did visit the boathouse, she may have done so at any time in the last twenty-four hours. This afternoon, for instance, or yesterday before Harmon went out for the staged rendezvous with Mimi. Mimi swears that he was alive when she left; less than two minutes later he was gone—in the terminal sense. How did Bella manage to squeeze in between Mimi and Eric?”

  “I don’t know. I do know that she was in the boathouse, and it wasn’t to watch the spider races. Besides that, the woman is a liar. She led me to believe that she was a doting mother hen to her dear students, but Caron’s friend Inez says her nickname is Bella Lugosi. If Bella lied about that, maybe she lied about everything.”

  “High-school kids are not notoriously accurate in their character judgments. I had a biology teacher once—”

  “Well, I’m going to ask her. Are you coming?” The last was tossed over my shoulder as I started toward the far side of the garden.

  Looking less than thrilled at the invaluable opportunity, Peter accompanied me to the bungalow. The light was on, and behind the curtains a figure moved about the main room. A good omen, since I wasn’t confident enough to pound on the door and demand an explanation—or a confession. A gentle knock sufficed.

  “Claire … and Lieutenant Rosen, what a charming surprise,” Bella said without enthusiasm. “Would you like to come in for tea or a quick nightcap?”

  “Thank you,” I said. I pulled Peter inside, aimed him at the sofa, and made a vague gesture in the direction of the stove. “Let me help you with the cups, Bella.”

  When we were settled, Bella turned shrewd eyes on us. “A bit late for a social call, isn’t it? Was there something in particular that you had in mind?”

  “Yes,” I said before Peter could swallow his mouthful of tea, “I was curious about your visit to the boathouse.”

  “Are you, dear? I didn’t realize that anyone knew about that.” Bella sat back and rewarded me with a broad smile.

  “The mold.” I went to the closet and opened the door. Bella’s coat politely precipitated the desired nasal explosion. I shot a smug smile at Peter, then sat down, wiped my eyes, and looked at my suspect. “Was Harmon surprised to see you, or had you mentioned the planned visit before hand?”

  “I decided to drop by while he was awaiting Mimi. We had a few marital details to discuss, and I knew I wouldn’t see him again until Sunday morning. He was supposed to go home for the day, you know, and return for brunch Sunday morning.” She took a sip of tea. “Harmon did love a lavish brunch, especially the cheese grits and biscuits.”

  Peter opened his mouth. I elbowed him and quickly said, “Did you and Harmon have a nice visit?”

  “He was quite alive when I left,” Bella replied serenely. “Mimi can confirm that.”

  “What time was that?”

  “She was scripted to arrive around ten-thirty, but you’ll have to ask her if she was prompt. I don’t wear a watch.” She held up a wrist to show us the timelessness of it.

  I found myself gaping at the still visible scratches. Beside me, Peter gulped down his tea and returned my earlier jab. While I was recovering, he said, “Where did those come from, Mrs. Crundall? From a walk around the lake in the dark, when the thorns are impossible to avoid?”

  “Hardly, Lieutenant. Claire can tell you that I did some work in the garden. I cannot bear to see roses neglected so cruelly.”

  “She was digging there this morning,” I admitted. After a moment of thought, I added, “Is that when your shoes picked up the mud? A clump of mud was found in Harmon’s room. Everyone assumed that Eric had left it—according to his script. But he told me this evening that he had forgotten it … and it was an odd shade of gray. From the lime, I imagine.”

  She fumbled through her purse for her cigarettes. When she had lit one, she shrugged. “I did go to Harmon’s room after I left the boathouse. I didn’t notice the mud, and I forgot that the pseudo-detectives were going to crawl around with magnifying glasses.” She inhaled deeply, then allowed the smoke to drift out in lazy, guiltless curlicues. “Harmon was alive when Mimi arrived, dear. You mustn’t forget that.”

  A sticky problem. I looked at Peter. “Well?”

  “Mimi insists that he was.” He turned a choirboy smile on Bella. “Did you find the option and carry it away before it could be burned?”

  “Harmon was acting like a benevolent uncle instead of a business man,” Bella said with the first trace of anger we had seen. “He swore that the option would go up in smoke—along with several hundred thousand dollars of potential profit. I saw no purpose in that, so I did go to his room to remove the option. He had several blank forms in his briefcase; I merely substituted for the vital one.”

  “Is it here now?” I asked.

  “Yes, it is. I have an appointment with my lawyer Monday morning to see how best to proceed. He mentioned some sort of emergency order from a probate judge; the exact details escape me.”

  “You drove to Farberville earlier this evening,” I said.

  “You told me that you had been walking in the garden.”

  “Did I? How peculiar of me to confuse the two activities.”

  “Very,” I agreed. “So you intend to exercise the option yourself, even if the Mimosa Inn is ruined?”

  “As quaint as the scenery may be, I would perfer to see it filled with ranch houses, and my bank account filled as well. Then, overcome with grief from my tragic and untimely loss, I’ll submit my resignation and head for Europe on the next ocean liner. I think I’d enjoy an outside cabin, or even a suite.”

  “What about your precious flower garden?”

  “I’ll be able to afford a gardener, dear. I understand some of the botanical gardens in Holland are simply fabulous.”

  “And your students?”

  She smiled again. “They can blow their precious heads off in chemistry lab.�
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  The nickname was apropos, though Bela Lugosi had more empathy. I had made admirable progress with the suspect. She had admitted to a motive, a very believable one. She had admitted to being in the boathouse. It was clear that she was capable of murder. If only Mimi and Eric had missed their cues and stayed inside!

  Bella stood up and took Peter’s cup and mine to the sink. “It’s getting late, my dears, and I am recently bereaved. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to bed.”

  Peter ignored the hint. “Harmon did not want to exercise the option, and was adamant with Mimi after you left. Why did you bother to go to his room in order to get it?”

  “Harmon was too agitated to know what he was saying,” Bella said firmly. “Once the play started, nothing could be allowed to interfere. As he was inclined to repeat, ‘The show must go on.’ I presumed by the next day he would be more rational about the option. In the interim, I did not want it destroyed.”

  “You lied about it in your statement,” Peter said. “You said that Harmon was the one who intended to exercise the option.”

  “I don’t adhere to the nonsense of not speaking ill of the dead. Since Harmon was in no condition to contradict me, I decided to let him take the role of the villian.”

  “But that’s dreadful,” I said.

  “Then tell yourself that I was overcome with grief.” She held open the door and covered an unnecessarily broad yawn. “I do hope that doesn’t cause problems with your investigation. I’d hate to miss my appointment Monday morning in Farberville.”

  Peter and I went back to the bench in the garden. It was becoming very familiar by now, a home away from home. The moon had risen; it was perched on the cupid’s head like a whimsical wisp of a hat. From the edge of the lake, frogs croaked an atonal song of unrestrained lust. Even the crickets chirped suggestively.

  The garden by moonlight, the stars glittering, the sounds of nature at its horniest. I gave myself a pinch. “Well, it was instructive. We know that Bella was there and that she later took the option. She seemed so damned genteel. I’m disappointed in her—and I hope her roses all droop.”

  “I’m surprised you missed the most pertinent comment.”

  “What-did-I-miss?” It rushed out as one indignant word.

  “If Harmon wasn’t planning to exercise the option, then Mimi doesn’t have a motive. She must have been telling the truth about that.”

  “Go call that sheriff person and tell him! Without a motive, his case is a butterfly net,” I said. “He might as well arrest Mrs. Robison-Dewitt. I can see it: She was skulking about in a long flannel nightgown, a croquet mallet clutched in her bony fingers. She sees movement by the boathouse and creeps over to investigate. Her nostrils flare as she smells the residual alcohol on Hamon’s breath. Outraged, she flings the mallet and—”

  “She has an alibi.”

  “Or so she says,” I said, deflated. It had been amusing, if whimsical. “What’s her alibi?”

  “It’s already been confirmed. She was playing pinochle with another of the guests until almost three o’clock in the morning. When pressed, she turned pink and sputtered that they had lost track of the time and that she was not in the habit of visiting gentlemen’s bedrooms in the middle of the night.”

  “I don’t doubt that. Who’s the gentleman?”

  “policemed don’t gossip—it’s unprofessional. Now, if we eliminate Bella and Mrs. Robison-Dewitt, then we’re left without any suspects. Sheriff Lafleur may prove reluctant for that reason to dismiss Mimi. A night in jail won’t hurt her. On the contrary, she may be safer there than she would be at the Mimosa Inn.”

  “Safer—locked up with rapists and murderers?”

  “I believe the county facitlity specializes in drunken drivers and horse thieves. Only in the big city do we have the more hardened criminals.”

  “County facilities are not country inns.”

  “Whoever murdered Harmon is probably feeling secure right now, with Mimi detained at the sheriff’s office as the prime suspect. If our murderer discovers that she’s been released, he is apt to get nervous.”

  “And kill again?” I looked at the dark shadows surrounding us on every side. Did Peter have a gun? Would Suzetta lend me hers? Could I sleep with an oar under my pillow?

  “It does happen in mystery novels,” Peter said. “Just as the bumbling cop points his finger in accusation, the pointee falls dead from an obsure South American ant venom. The real culprit rises from the flames like a phoenix.”

  “I’m pleased to know that you can read something more complex than the Sunday comics,” I said, irritated by his lackadaisical attitude. “Could we please stay on the subject?”

  “My apologies, Miss Marple. Did the vicar’s parlor maid ever vanish from the loo within thirty seconds?”

  His uncanny reference reminded my of the movie—and the two-hour period of darkness that permitted all the actors to make an astounding number of exits and entrances.

  “Did you watch all of the movie?” I asked abruptly.

  His teeth glinted in the moonlight. “I was sitting beside you, Claire. I thought my alibi was impeccable.”

  “You know perfectly well that I fell asleep. You certainly could have slithered away and returned for the final credits. Everyone else seems to have done so.”

  “I wish I had slithered off to the boathouse to watch the drama there, but I didn’t. I watched every minute of the movie, althought I missed some of the dialogue because of a buzzing snore.”

  “I do not snore.”

  “That may require further investigation. Perhaps I could put a tape recorder next to your bed.”

  “You have not been invited into my bedroom.”

  “Not yet,” he murmured. The teeth glinted briefly again.

  I sternly turned my thoughts from the bedroom to the boathouse. Bella had left about ten-thirty; Mimi had arrived moments later. Eric came outside in time to see her walk toward the back of the inn. The times began to swirl around my head like the smoke from Bella’s cigarette.

  “Eric promised to search Harmon’s room for the option and the master script,” I said; “He won’t find the option, obviously, but he may have had success with the script. I’m going to ask him.”

  Peter trailed me out of the garden. The porch swing was bereft of its courting couple, to my relief. We found Eric in the office, almost invisible behind a pile of folders and ledger books.

  “I have to pay accounts Monday,” he explained in a panic-stricken voice. “The lawyer called to say that he could do nothing until Mimi was formally charged. Will—will she be charged, Lieutenant?”

  Peter shook his head. “I doubt it, although it is out of my jurisdiction. Claire has proved that Mimi did not have a motive. I’ll call Sherff Lafleur in the morning and see what I can do.”

  “Thank God. I didn’t know what to do if … .”

  “Pay the accounts so that the Mimosa Inn will be here when Mimi returns,” I inserted tartly, hoping to jog him out of despair. “Did you search the room?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t find the option, but the other thing is here somewhere. Maybe it’s under this … well, I may have put it in a file … no, here it is!” He produced a thin stack of papers clipped together.

  Resisting the urge to rip the script out of his hand, I accepted it with a grateful smile. “Thanks, Eric. Everyone talked about it, but no one actually saw it.”

  Peter made a rumbling noise behind me. I grasped the script tightly to my chest and tried to scoot around him. “Good night,” I trilled optimistically.

  “The script?” he said, holding out his hand.

  “I had it first. You can read it in the morning.”

  When the dust settled, I had agreed to share the master script if he would share the official statements. We switched on a lamp in the drawing room and read in silence. A peeping Tom could have mistaken us for an old married couple, both parties too bored for anything risqué.

  Peter had already read the sta
tements; he was gazing at me when I finished the last of them. “Well, Miss Marple?”

  “I have to ask Eric something,” I said. I went into the office and returned shortly thereafter. “Now I have to ask Mimi a question. Do cells have telephones?”

  “I doubt it,” Peter said, clearly mystified by my secretive expression. “Visiting hours are usually from four to six—and that’s in the afternoon, not the middle of the night.”

  “I think I know what happened, but I have to talk to Mimi. If you won’t convince Sheriff Lafleur to cooperate, I’ll climb the wall and whisper through the bars.” I tried for a coldly determined stare, as though I could will him into compliance.

  “The sheriff will not be pleased at your request. Why can’t it wait until morning, Claire?”

  “What kind of humanitarian are you? Poor Mimi is sobbing on a cot in a filthy cell, no doubt convinced that she’ll end up in prison—or worse! Eric is liable to collapse, taking the Mimosa Inn with him!” I realized I was a bit loud, and dropped my voice to a whisper. “If you’ll do this tiny favor, I’ll tell you who murdered Harmon Crundall.”

  “Do you know?”

  “I have a fairly good idea, yes. And I think I know how it was done, and for what reason.” I twitched my foot impatiently. “But I cannot explain until I talk to Mimi.”

  “Mimi is asleep. Sheriff Lafleur is asleep, and will not appreciate being roused by idle speculation. Tell me your theory and let me decide what needs to be done.”

  “I have qualms about a slander suit. Are you going to help or not, Peter? I’d appreciate it, but I can handle it alone if necessary. The perfect picture of a self-sufficient woman, who had no idea where the county jail was, or how high the walls and thick the bars. Or any experience with ropes and pitons, which always made me think of Armenian bread.

  After a prolonged sigh, Peter said, “It’ll take some diplomacy to get us in. I’ll use the office telephone.”

  I sent Eric upstairs to fetch clean clothes for Mimi. Peter called everyone except the governor, then told me that we would be permitted a short conversation with Mimi. I suspected from his black expression that he would be unhappy with anything less than a murderer tied up in a pink ribbon. Within the hour.