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

Robison-Dewitt turned out to be a mean croquet player. My ball was knocked about the court at every opportunity, and once rolled within inches of the lake. We played in silence, each intent on damaging each other’s positions as maliciously as possible. I was not a natural, but I managed to do adequately. On the sidelines, Caron observed our progress with a glum expression.
    After an hour, Eric finally won. Mrs. Robison-Dewitt nodded at him, replaced her mallet, and stalked into the inn. Peter was discussing strategy with Eric as I went over to talk to Caron.

    “Haven’t you found anything to do yet?” I asked her.
    “No, I haven’t. The people running this farce aren’t going to have to murder anyone; I’m going to expire from boredom any second now. The youngest guest is about seventy years old, Mother. I feel as though I’m at a retirement home.”
    I was thirty-nine years old. That gave me over thirty years to meet Caron’s criterion for the retirement home, but I decided to overlook it. Dropping to the grass beside her, I pulled the clue out of my pocket. “In the midst of the tragic ennui, see if you can figure this out,” I suggested.
    In spite of herself, Caron glanced at it. “Was there a hobo in the area? Wait a minute—that sounds like a cryptic clue.”
    “I found it cryptic, to say the least.”
    “No, Mother, I mean a cryptic crossword clue.” She took the paper to study it more closely. “The word ‘collapsed’ is the tip-off that the beginning of the sentence is an anagram. We have to rearrange the letters in the ‘Tues. a hobo’ to get … boathouse!”
    I grabbed the paper back. “You’re right, Caron. There must be something in the boathouse. Do you want to go poke around with me? You’re much better at crossword clues than I.”
    Caron stretched and stood up. “I think I’ll take a nap. See you later, Miss Marple.” She went up the steps and disappeared into the house.
    The boathouse, I told myself as I hurriedly scrambled to my feet. I glanced at Peter, who was still talking to Eric. I did not want any uninvited guests tagging along, although I would have welcomed Caron’s cryptic expertise. The child does amaze at times.
    I had reached the far side of the court when a bellow stopped me. The bellower was Harmon Crundall—and the bellowee the mysterious Mrs. Smith. She stood in the middle of the porch, the pitiful suitcase in one hand and an
equally pitiful purse in the other. Her face was as white as the gingerbread trim, but it was rapidly changing to match the gray of the siding. Harmon, on the other hand, had opted for a patchy cerise.
    “Bella! How dare you come here, you mousy pile of rags! If I had wanted to see you—and I don’t—I would have brought you here!” he roared. If she had been a house made of straw, she would have been blown over the rail.
    “I had to come, Harmon.”
    “You—had—to—come? You didn’t have to come, Bella! I told you to stay home and do some housework; I want you to get out of here this minute and wait at the house! I’ll see you Monday—if you’re lucky!” Harmon slammed the bottle down to emphasize his rage. Golden liquid gurgled over the top and drenched his hand.
    “Oh my God,” Eric said in an underbreath. He started for the porch, although I couldn’t see what he could do. Mimi came out of the drawing room door with Nickie Merrick on her heels.
    “Leave!” Harmon roared. He pointed at the lake as if expecting the waters to part and produce your four-lane highway with your gravel shoulders.
    Although the recipient of his rage was trembling, her jaw crept out to a mulish position, and she seemed to take on a few inches of stature. “I will not leave, Harmon. I have as much right to be here as you. More, since I didn’t bring a floozy with me!”
    Suzetta jerked herself up. “Harmon, are you going to let her talk to me like that? I think it’s disgraceful that your wife would follow you on a business trip, and I