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

also think it’s disgraceful that you let her call me nasty names.”
    A lot of cerebration for the blonde, I told myself as I moved closer to the porch. It was infinitely more intriguing than croquet—and very suspicious. Our Mrs. Smith was obviously Mrs. Bella Crundall. An unfortunate state of affairs.
    Harmon had difficulty dealing with the situation, having
spent several hours pickling his brain. “Suzetta baby, give me a minute to think of something. I’m sure Bela didn’t mean to call you a floozy, honey bunch. She knows that you’re my secretary.” He tried to focus his eyes on Bella without much success. “This is business, Bela. Suzetta has to type some papers for me.”
    “Oh, Harmon,” Bella groaned. She ran down the steps to the path that would ultimately take her to the bungalows. We all stared at her flapping coat until she was gone. All of us except Suzetta, who I noticed was busy repairing her lipstick with an unconcerned air.
    Mimi stepped forward. “Mr. Crundall, we cannot allow this kind of scene at the Mimosa Inn. Our guests are disturbed, and frankly so am I. Perhaps it would be better if you and Miss Price were to leave.”
    “I’m not leaving anywhere,” Harmon rumbled in a thunderous voice. “I’m going to be here Monday morning to finish our deal. If you don’t like it, Mrs. Vanderhan honey, you can go suck a mimosa leaf!”
    He stumbled to his feet and staggered toward the drawing room door. “Come on, Suzetta, we’re going to sit in the bar. I’m tired of waiting for ice; maybe that bartender can juggle it into my glass faster if we sit inside.”
    Suzetta followed at a leisurely pace, preening in the attention of the spectators. When the door closed, I heard the sound of twenty-odd breaths being released. Quite a drama, I concluded thoughtfully. The imprudent husband, the wife, the bubble-headed blonde. A trite but nevertheless intriguing triangle.
    Peter came over to me. “Intrigued?”
    “Not in the least,” I said with a cool, if mendacious, smile. “It’s simply a pathetic little situation that should not have been aired in public. The poor woman was ill-advised to follow her husband, and he was ill-advised to raise such hell about it. Suzetta was ill-advised at birth. But it is none of our business and, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a walk.”

    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