Free Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The by Joan Hess

know of. In any case, the movie is over and you’re ready for bed.”
    “This time you may be right—but don’t let it go to your head.”
    Peter pulled me to my feet and kept one arm around my waist until we reached the safety of the second-floor, landing. At my door, he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and pushed me inside. I muzzily noted that Caron was asleep in the middle of the bed. The telephone was on the floor nearby—a bad sign for my checkbook.
    I undressed and collapsed beside her. Caron protested but at last ceded two or three inches. I pulled the pillow under my head, punched it into shape, tugged the blanket under my chin, and blissfully closed my eyes.
    “Night,” I murmured through a yawn.
    Thirty minutes later I was still wide awake. I turned on the bedside lamp and read for a while. That managed to rouse me to a state of total alertness. I turned off the light and lay back to listen to the cacophony of crickets, owls, whippoorwills, tree frogs, and other equally dissonant
serenaders. After I had tried every sleep-inducing technique I knew short of suicide, I got out of bed and put on a robe.
    It was, I discovered, almost one o’clock. I decided the fresh air was responsible for my restlessness and resolved not to breathe any more of it than necessary. In the meantime, I had several hours of free time on my hands—and no late movie to watch.
    My stomach made a frivolous suggestion. Unable to think of anything more diverting, I decided to go to the kitchen and see if there might be a neglected plate of scones on the counter. I closed the door behind me and crept down the hall in my bare feet, guided by a dim light from each end of the corridor. Snores and snaffles now joined the outside music. The bucolic countryside, I realized wryly, was more populous than I had ever suspected—and a good deal less peaceful.
    A mischievous urge to scream came to mind. Bedroom doors would fly open; sluggish faces would peer into the corridor in hopes of a blood-drenched corpse and a hovering suspect. I would make a pretense of having just dashed out of my room, and would offer a garbled story about a man in a black cloak. Then—
    A door closed in the darkness below.
    My foot jerked off the first step as though it had touched a burner on a stove. I peered over the bannister at unmoving, misshapen humps of furniture. Squinting did not help. I wiggled my toes. My foot had decided not to cooperate and was firmly entrenched in the sanctuary of midair. If I held the teetery pose much longer, I was apt to fall down the stairs, but I couldn’t bring myself to move.
    In the middle of all this internal debate, a blond head moved across the area at the bottom of the staircase. The small lamp on the desk caught the swish of Suzetta’s scarlet skirt before she vanished from view. The door that led to the parking area opened and closed with diminutive clicks.
    Relieved, my foot agreed to meet the carpet. I crept down
the stairs to follow the blonde, all the while smugly picturing Peter’s expression when I announced that I had solved the mock murder in the middle of the night. I had suspected that Suzetta did not ring true, and now I had proof. Dopey blondes do not prowl under the cover of night.
    I went to a back window and looked out at the depressingly deserted parking area beside the stable. As I stared at the scene, I heard a low rumble that echoed like a distant thunderstorm, although no flicker of lightning had preceded it. I continued to watch, hoping for a flash of scarlet, but Suzetta had vanished—permanently, it seemed. Her destination was as puzzling as the cryptic clues. No light shone from the upper story of the stable, nor did anyone slither from shadow to shadow. No one did anything that I could see.
    After ten futile minutes, I reluctantly gave up and started for the kitchen. If I couldn’t solve a crime, I could at least console myself with a scone and a glass of milk.
    From the darkness, a figure