“Is it haunted?” Caron gulped.
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
Caron finally gained control of her dangling jaw. “No, I don’t, Mother. I feel that inexplicable psi phenomena usually have a basis in paraphysical energy sources. We did a chapter on it in physics last semester. It was very informative.”
She rambled on in that vein as we drove around the house to a parking area under a clump of trees. An erstwhile stable now housed cars; inside was a daunting array of Mercedes, Cadillacs, etc. My dented Japanese hatchback would prefer fresh air, I told myself as I cut off the engine. The stillness was sudden, complete. And a tad unsettling for those of us who spend our days on a busy street and our nights next to a college campus. Ah, nature at its quietest …
While we were struggling with our suitcases (Caron’s three and my overnight bag), a blond man opened the door. His extreme height and rambling gait gave him a disjointed look, as though he were a marionette controlled by a clumsy puppet-master. His wire-rimmed glasses had gray adhesive-tape cocoons at each corner, and his shirt pocket sagged under the weight of his pen collection. White socks and torn sneakers. I reminded myself that this man had written a nationally acclaimed textbook on an aspect of higher mathematics that I could not pronounce.
He grinned and flapped a hand in welcome. “Claire! I’ve been watching the road for you. I’m so glad that you finally came; it’s going to be a splendid weekend.”
“Hello, Eric,” I puffed, disengaging Caron’s garment
bag from the back seat. I introduced him to Caron, who managed a muttered response to his enthusiastic greeting.
“And how are you, Claire?” He covered me with a hug. “I was so sorry to hear about Dr. Malloy’s accident. He was a great teacher and a good friend.”
But not a careful driver, I added to myself. “Thanks, Eric. I was astounded to hear you were back in the area. What on earth possessed you to buy and renovate a country inn? You were always the outdoor type, as in ivy towers and cramped offices.”
“Wait until you meet my wife,” he said. His face glowed as if he were a child on Christmas morning. “She’s a city girl, and she’s always wanted to escape to the country. Cows and chickens, that sort of thing. We saw an ad for the place. Two months later we signed the papers.”
I looked up at a copper rooster rotating in the breeze. “So you gave up your faculty position—and tenure—to come here?”
“We did. The royalties from the book paid for the remodeling and furnishings. Once we start the publicity, we hope that the Mimosa Inn can pay for itself. Until then, we’ll have to struggle along. I’m so glad you’re here, Claire. Let’s get you and Caron checked in.”
I found his narrative hard to believe. Eric was as much a naturalist as I; neither of us could survive in a city park for more than an hour. I was curious to meet the woman who had lured him away from the relative safety of academia.
“So what do you think of the setting?” he said as we shuffled up a brick sidewalk with enough luggage to take a six-week safari into the remotest jungle—
and
dress for dinner every night.
“The house is magnificent,” I said. “The lake is beautiful, the woods woody, the sky unsullied by carbon monoxide. The one thing I don’t see is an orchard of mimosa trees.”
“The inn is named after my wife.”
“Your wife’s name is Mimosa?” I twittered. Politely, I hoped.
Eric peered down at me. “Mimi. But we are going to plant mimosa trees as soon as we can afford them.”
We did a Three Stooges routine in the doorway. After a round of grunts and embarrassed laughs, Caron popped out and skittered into a large open room. I followed with more dignity, gazing around at the high ceiling and antiques that rather overpowered the room.
A small desk sat near the entrance, and behind it a closed door with a discreet sign that suggested it was private, though no threat followed. The furnishings were straight out of a period English novel, from the brocade to the chintz, from the sheers to the brass knickknacks cluttering mahogany surfaces. An aroma of lemon oil competed with more prosaic variety from the lake. It all gleamed and glittered. Only the butler was missing, and I wasn’t sure where we could put him.
“My goodness,” I managed to murmur, trying to sound awed rather than shell-shocked. “How charming.”
“Do you like it? Mimi felt that we ought to try for a sense of subdued gentility Luckily, an elderly aunt died at the right time, leaving an attic crammed with furniture.” He gave us a bemused smile. “Luckily for us, anyway. Aunt Beatrice may have felt differently.”
Caron opened her mouth to offer an editorial on the interior decorator—or on Aunt Beatrice’s postmortem generosity. I stepped in front of her and said, “I’m looking forward to meeting Mimi, Eric.”
“She’s excited about finally meeting you. However, just now she’s rushing around upstairs to see about bedrooms and towels and such, so you’ll have to wait until things are settled.”
Eric let the luggage thump to the floor, took out a large leather book, and showed me where to sign it. With an antique fountain pen, naturally. I would have done Caron’s
name in crayon, considering her attitude, but that would have destroyed the charming appearance of the registration book. Ambiance.
We then regathered the luggage and staggered up a long flight of stairs to the second floor. To my relief, Aunt Beatrice’s furniture had only been inadequate for the main floor; the bedroom was simply furnished but comfortable. An antique bed and dresser, and a dressing table with a calico skirt, all sitting on a braided rug. I forgave Eric the ceramic pitcher and bowl, on the assumption that it was only for display, and found a closet and a modern bathroom. Caron found the bed.
“I’m eager to meet Mimi,” I told Eric, “but I’m eager to solve a murder, too. Tell me what happens now.”
He took a folded brochure from the top of the dresser and handed it to me. “Here’s the schedule for the weekend, Claire. There’s a salad buffet in the dining room, and you’ll want to explore the grounds before the lecture begins at two o’clock.”
“Lecture?” Caron groaned, fluttering her eyelashes from the depths of a pillow.
Eric was clearly unacquainted with adolescent tragedy. He squinted at her as though she were some elusive logarithm, then said, “It’s optional, of course. If you’d prefer, you can sail one of the little boats or swim. I’m afraid there aren’t any young people to entertain you. The group is on the older side, except for your eternally youthful mother.”
Caron forced one eye open. “Where’s the pool?”
“We don’t have a pool,” Eric answered warily. He was intelligent enough to see what was coming, but too inexperienced to do much about it. He and his wife were childless, obviously. After two days with Caron, they would gladly sign an oath to maintain their status quo.
I tried to intercept the missile. “You’ll swim in the lake, Caron. I know this will come as a shock, but swimming pools did not play a vital role in the American way of life
until the last decade. People were actually forced to swim in lakes, rivers, and even the ocean.”
The other eye was turned on me. “With fish?”
Eric cleared his throat as the missile continued on its course. “The lake is stocked, but only with bass and catfish. No barracuda or sharks or anything like that.”
“But the fish stay in the water all the time. That means that they do all sorts of gross things right where a person is supposed to swim. I’d rather eat spiders.” The missile having razed its intended target, Caron pulled the pillow over her head. A series of uncooperative noises ensued.
I shrugged at Eric and motioned for him to join me in the hallway. We walked downstairs to what I now mentally deemed the drawing room. “So you’ve had the inn less than a year? Have you had many guests?”
“This is our busiest weekend thus far. There are only about twenty guests, and it’s quite a mixed group. But everyone is a mystery fan.” He led me across the drawing room to a pair of curtained French doors. “Here’s the dining room, Claire. Have a bit of lunch, although I must warn you that we’re pushing sherry for the weekend. Mimi thinks it’s appropriate, considering the scenario.”
I was not feeling terribly kindly toward the unseen Mimi, since I lump sherry in the same category that Caron does piscatory bodily productions. However, I managed a civilized tone. “I’ll read the schedule while I eat, Eric, but tell me what to expect. Will a troupe of actors produce the murder on stage after dinner?”
He waggled a finger at me. “Now, that wouldn’t be fair. You’ll just have to wait and see what develops. The murderer could sit beside you during dinner or creep up behind you in the hallway. But from what I’ve heard about your detecting prowess, this ought to be a piece of cake.”
“Oh?” I said, displeased by the thought that certain past events were the topic of conversation on Farberville street corners. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll do my homework while I eat lunch. Will you be at the lecture?”
The finger waggled again. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”
Sighing, I went into the dining room and studied my cohorts for the murder weekend. Most of them had already eaten, I brilliantly deduced as I filled a plate and sat down at a corner table. two elderly couples glanced at me but continued to whisper across the table to each other. A white-haired woman with a long, equine face was the only other diner. She gave me a frosty smile over a forkful of shrimp, which regained her attention before I could reciprocate.
The sixth person in the room was a thirtyish man with oiled black hair and a thin moustache, who was looking out the window. Very suspicious. I determined to remain alert and cautious. The murderer might be anyone, although the elderly couples appeared superficially harmless. In fact, I was garnering quite a few quick peeks from their table, as if they suspected me of potential mayhem. Me, for God’s sake. I shot them a haughty look over my artichoke heart.
A pimply busboy in a starched white coat asked me what I would prefer to drink. He looked too naive to hear the truth, so I requested iced tea and settled back to read the brochure.
“You Are Invited to a Murder,” the opening line informed me slyly from a circle of whimsical red splotches. It went on:
Friday
12:00
| Luncheon
|
2:00
| Lecture by Sergeant Nicholas Merrick of Scotland Yard
|
5:00
| Tea/sherry on the veranda: Famous Literary Detectives
|
8:00
| Dinner
|
10:00
| Movie:
Murder on the Orient Express
|
Saturday
9:00
| Breakfast
|
1:00
| Luncheon
|
2:00
| Croquet tournament
|
5:00
| Tea/sherry on the veranda
|
8:00
| Dinner
|
9:00
| Gala champagne party and presentation of sleuthing awards
|
Sunday
I read it carefully several times for clues or hints, of which there were none. The two couples and the elderly lady drifted out of the dining room, all studiously avoiding my veiled scrutiny The competition did not look keen, I concluded. A piece of cake, as Eric had assumed earlier—and a case of champagne to show Peter Rosen who was the abler detective. I brooded for a minute, amazed by the competitive drive that sprang from the mere mention of his name. Surely I was there for the mental challenge, the stimulating puzzle, the love of mystery fiction—wasn’t I?
“Phooey on him!” I hissed under my breath.
The oily-haired man looked up at the comment. He gave me a broad smile, which I interpreted as an invitation for conversation. My first suspect, falling into my artichoke hearts. The game was afoot.
“Why don’t you join me for coffee?” I cooed.
“Thank you, I’d enjoy that.” He carried a cup and saucer to my table and sat down across from me. He had a round boyish face and a slight paunch, as if middle age had crept up on him while he was engaged in sedentary pursuits. A plaid sports coat did nothing to enhance his shape. But a suspect is a suspect.
He demolished my hopes with his first sentence. “I’m Nicholas Merrick.”
“From Scotland Yard? The detective who’s giving the lecture at two o’clock? You were my very first suspect for the murder, but you won’t do—although you don’t sound very English. Claire Malloy,” I added with a desultory attempt at decorum. We shook hands across the table.
“I hope that I sound like a pharmaceutical sales representative from Farberville, since that’s what I am. Scotland Yard turned down our request, so I agreed to take the role. My accent doesn’t ring true, but my heart is pure. What about you?”
I told him about the Book Depot and my secret fantasy to outsleuth Miss Marple (and unspecified policemen) and win the champagne. He made a few comments about mystery fiction, but carefully avoided anything about the murder that was to occur. I tried a few studiously casual questions, and received only evasions in return. Phooey