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

stepped into my path. My nose bounced off a pajama-clad chest.
    “Claire?” Peter hissed incredulously.
    I gingerly explored the bridge of my nose. “Well, it’s not Ellery Queen. Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to creep around in your bare feet and frighten people?”
    “What do you think you’re doing?” More hiss.
    “Oh, go to bed!” I hissed in reply. I stomped upstairs and did exactly as I suggested to him.

FIVE
    T he next morning the main event at last occurred. Eric came into the dining room with a pale, worried face and said, “I’m sorry to disrupt your breakfast, but a terrible thing has happened. At about seven o’clock this morning, the gardener found Harmon Crundall on the floor of the boathouse. Mr. Crundall—he was—I’m afraid—well, he’s dead.”
    A happy little shiver rounded the room. I slipped out my notebook and held it in my lap. I presumed I was slightly ahead of the others in sorting out the suspects, due to both my keen powers of observation and my fortuitous midnight prowl the previous night, even though it had led to no startling insights. I could almost taste the champagne. Perhaps I wouldn’t make poor Peter do the cooking. After all, a woman’s place may be in the kitchen—as long as she’s fixing crow á la king, with humble pie for dessert. He’d get to eat every bite of it, while I basked in the glow of the candlelight. I am such an incurable romantic.
    Eric gave us a moment to react with facetious surprise, then continued. “Since we were fortunate enough to have a
detective in residence during the preceding events, we have asked Sergeant Merrick of Scotland Yard to conduct the investigation. I hope all of you will do your utmost to cooperate with him.”
    Nickie came to the front of the room and stared coldly at us. We shivered once more, less happily. “This is a serious situation,” he began ponderously. “I have determined that security is adequate at the Mimosa Inn; the gate is locked during the night and trespassers are rare, if not nonexistent, due to the distance from the highway. That leads me to conclude that the murderer is here—at the Mimosa Inn and possibly in this very room, sipping coffee or innocently buttering his or her toast!”
    Several cups hit their respective saucers; triangles of toast flew across the tablecloth. We all gazed impassively at each other. The Oriental Hercule broke the silence. “Where is the deceased’s wife, Sergeant Merrick? Has she been informed?”
    “I’ve sent someone to break the news and bring her here. It is a felony to withhold information, sir. Do you have some reason to believe she’s involved in this ghastly crime?”
    “No, Sergeant, not at all. It’s just—just that, well, she was upset at dinner, and I—I wondered—”
    “I would prefer that you leave the speculation to me. That, sir, is my duty. As for the details of the crime … The medical examiner was called to the scene at seven-fifteen this morning, when he determined that the victim had been dead for more than six hours but less than twelve. When pressed for a more precise figure, he offered an estimate of roughly seven to nine hours.”
    Mrs. Robison-Dewitt had no intention of being daunted by Nickie’s brusque demeanor. “The case of death, Sergeant Merrick?” she called, waving a finger in the air.
    “The medical examiner has suggested the classic blunt
instrument. My men have examined all the oars and canoe paddles in the boathouse, and none of them have traces of blood or hair. I’m afraid we must search further afield for the weapon. In the meantime, I must question those of you who can assist in our inquiry.”
    It was as if the class had been accused of the murder. Throats were cleared; napkins were folded into precise rectangles; expressions mimicked those of a children’s choir. I felt guilty, even though I knew perfectly well I hadn’t bashed Harmon with anything more lethal than a frown of disapproval.
    Nickie