The Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn by Joan Hess

Author:Joan Hess [Hess, Joan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-02-09T13:00:00+00:00

EIGHT

“I hope you don’t have any crazy ideas about trying to solve this homicide,” Peter said as I came into the office. “There is no champagne for the winner, nor is there any gourmet dinner. The game is over, Claire. I want you to keep your nose out of the investigation.”

Inwardly, I was less than warmed by the reception, but I pasted on a meek expression and said, “Of course not. I would never dream of interfering in a police investigation.”

“Why do I have such difficulty believing you?”

I did not tell him that his instincts were good. Instead, I settled for a martyred sigh, meant to convey how deeply he had wounded me with his callous remark. “I have no intention of involving myself in Harmon Crundall’s death. What time was he killed, by the way?”

“The medical examiner estimated the time of death to be between ten o’clock and midnight. Once he’s completed the autopsy, he’ll have an official report, but we’re presuming that the death coincided with the staged time.”

“A charming coincidence,” I murmured.

Peter sat back and ran a hand through his dark curly hair. “This whole thing is going to drive me crazy. The script was written so that any of the actors could be the villian in the story, and so, of course, not one of the actors has an alibi. A darkened room with people moving about; the boathouse conveniently placed out of the light from the porch; motives abounding but not necessarily real.”

“Have you finished with the statements?”

“I’ve seen most of the guests, and all of the troupe except for Bella Crundall, although I don’t expect to hear anything of value. Thus far I’ve heard the same story from everyone. The actors claim it was all a big shock, no reason for anyone to murder Crundall, a happy family of amateur actors presenting a weekend of fashionable entertainment.”

“How about the guests, then? Perhaps someone was nursing a grudge from a business deal, or is a closet maniac who got carried away with the ambiance.”

“Mrs. Robison-Dewitt had an identical theory. Guess whom she mentioned as the most likely maniac?”

“I don’t suppose she happened to leave the drawing room during the movie, a baseball bat in one hand?”

“You’ll have to discuss that with her. Now tell me what you saw and did from your arrival at noon yesterday.”

I dutifully told him of all my excursions and of the clues I had found in various places. I saw no reason to mention that Caron was the one who deciphered the cryptic clues, and I omitted my mental ramblings on general principle.

Peter jotted things down during my narrative, then flashed his teeth at me and told me that I was excused. Although I expected a stern word of warning as I left, he waved me out and began to reread my statement.

Caron was sitting on a settee in the drawing room, her lower lip extended to its utmost. “That man”—glaring at a deputy—“came to our room and made me come downstairs.

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