Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The by Joan Hess Read Free Book Online

face and sun-bleached blond hair gave him the appearance of a California beach boy, which was somewhat improbable a thousand miles inland. He did have the muscles and white teeth; all he lacked was a surfboard. Did I care?
    “A small scotch and water,” I said. “What happened to the sherry-only dictum?”
    “Mimi sensed a potential rebellion in the ranks and decided to open the bar. Shall I put this on your tab?” he said, pushing a glass across the bar.
    I decided that Mimi was probably hoping to make a fortune before Monday in order to thwart the Crundall scheme. On the other hand, it was an admirable idea. “I didn’t see you earlier,” I said idly.

    “I went into town after lunch. I do most of the shopping and run errands as needed. How’s the murder going?”
    “We’re all still breathing. I did find a clue in my room, but I can’t figure it out—yet. Do you serve hints?”
    His white teeth contrasted with his tan. Winking at me, he scooped up a few olives from a dish and began to juggle them with amazing competence. “Olives, onions, or oranges,” he said, “but no hints. I’m under orders—and I don’t really know anything, anyway. I’m only hired help.”
    Mesmerized by the flying olives, I nodded dumbly and then forced myself to leave the dining room. Strange guests, juggling bartenders, insidious business schemes, incomprehensible clues on the bedroom floor. A murder was definitely in the making. I loved it.
    Harmon and Suzetta were still on the porch. The bottle was more than half full, which meant it had been exchanged with a depleted one. Suzetta was concentrating on her toenails. Harmon gave me a blurry grin, but I hurried down the steps before he could offer an equally blurry invitation to join them.
    Peter and Eric stood in the middle of the croquet court, while Caron watched from a shady seat against the lattice wall that surrounded the underside of the porch. She resembled a teenaged, freckled Buddha. I gave her a vague wave and tried to veer around the court before I was snagged.
    “Claire!” Eric called. “Come play croquet with us.”
    “Later,” I answered over my shoulder. I would go to the garden, I decided, and reread the clue until it made sense. If necessary, I would search the woods for pieces of a hobo. Then—
    “One little game, Claire,” Eric pleaded. “We need another person to have a foursome. This gentleman is a beginner, so you needn’t be intimidated.”
    Gentleman, my fanny. I went back to the court and yanked a mallet from the cart. “One quick game, Eric.” I flashed a pseudo-grin at Peter Rosen. “I won’t be intimidated.
The gentleman talks a good game, but he’s liable to knock his balls in the lake. Now, what do I do?”
    Eric came over and showed me how to hold the mallet. I put one ball neatly through a wicket, straightened up and said, “Well, are we ready to play?”
    Peter took careful aim and sent his ball into mine. They clinked woodenly. “I’m ready, Eric. What happened to our fourth?”
    “Here she comes,” Eric replied absently, gathering up the balls to set them near a brightly striped wooden post.
    Mrs. Robison-Dewitt came down the steps, spotted me, and drew herself to a halt. We stared at each other. Her mouth tightened until it disappeared into a web of wrinkles, and her nostrils quivered with displeasure. The gesture was familiar, and not popular.
    “She is going to play?” Mrs. Robison-Dewitt snorted.
    Eric looked bewildered; Peter looked quietly convulsed with laughter, although he managed to restrain himself from audible disgrace. I suspect I looked as pleased as the dear old battleship, but I managed a cool expression.
    “I was collared into it,” I said, “but I’ll be glad to withdraw, if you’re concerned about your personal safety. One never quite knows where one’s shots will go.”
    Eric grabbed a mallet and sent his ball through the first two wickets. “Your turn,” he told Peter brightly.
    Mrs.