Read Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The for Free Online

that bad,” I protested. I wondered why I was defending the man.
    “You don’t know Harmon,” Mimi said morosely. She lifted her chin to stare at me, the violet eyes transformed to circles of slate. “Or do you?”

THREE
    “I ’ve never seen that man before in my entire life,” I said to Mimi, surprised by her tacit accusation. I was not the only one who was determined to be suspicious; the busboy would probably demand to see my driver’s license if I asked for a drink.
    Mimi grimaced. “He’s a pig. That woman with him is out of a low-budget movie, isn’t she? Strictly artificial turf in her yard.”
    I opened my mouth to agree, then clamped it closed. Mimi had agreed too quickly, had offered the condemnation too easily. Very suspicious. I glanced at Peter to see if he had noticed anything, and met innocent, warm eyes. Just like a painting on velvet—and about as credible.
    “Absolutely,” I managed to say to Mimi, edging away from them. The game, I reminded myself, was afoot, and the champagne would go to the winner. I stumbled into a barricade behind me. It gasped and began to sputter an incoherent apology.
    “Excuse me, I didn’t think—I didn’t realize that you—oh, dear, I am dreadfully sorry to startle you. I do so—oh!”

    The woman gave up and gazed imploringly at me. Her wispy brown hair formed a halo around pale, nondescript features, and her shabby cloth sprouted threads at the seams. There was a faint aroma of mothballs about her, as if she’d been stored for several years in a trunk. I swallowed an urge to tidy her up.
    “You will forgive me, won’t you?” she pleaded.
    Unaccustomed to terrifying undernourished, dowdy women, I nodded. “I ran into you, I’m afraid. I ought to apologize.”
    The woman shrank back as though I’d bared fangs at her. Her hand was now on her heart, or at least in the general area. Two patches of red appeared on her concave cheeks. “No, I came up behind you, and it was inexcusable of me,” she insisted in a ragged whisper as she continued to retreat.
    Peter caught her arm before she could stumble over a brass planter. Gently, he said, “Would you like to sit down?”
    “No, I couldn’t,” she gasped. She slipped out of his grip and looked at Mimi, who had been observing the scene with a stunned expression. “You’re Mrs. Vanderhan?”
    With a tiny jerk, Mimi came out of the trance. “Yes, I am. Are you registered for the weekend?”
    “I didn’t make a reservation, but I must stay here. It’s—it’s important, you see, that I stay here. Could I dare presume that you might have an extra room for me?”
    “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
    “I wouldn’t mind something small or out of the way,” the woman persisted, increasingly agitated. “Perhaps a room over the stable might be available? I could pay whatever you asked, even if it’s just for a closet. It’s so very important, you see.”
    Mimi didn’t see, nor did I. We both stared at the sad little woman who was begging for a closet as if it were the most crucial thing in the world. Several of the guests had gathered nearby, a row of elderly bunnies intent on a patch of forbidden carrots. I could hear the trickle of salivation.

    Peter at last broke the silence, saying, “The inn is sponsoring a special event this weekend, Mrs … . ?”
    “A convention?” She peered nervously over her shoulder, in case a salesman should pop out of the brass planter to slap a name tag on her lapel or seduce her with spiked punch.
    “Not exactly,” murmured Mimi. “It’s rather complicated, but the fact is that we are filled this weekend. The quarters over the garage are used by the staff, and all of our closets are full of brooms. I’m terribly sorry that we can’t accommodate you, Mrs … . ?”
    I had an urge to try the same ploy, but I was more interested in the address of her mental hospital—from which she clearly had escaped. She had listened to Mimi with growing dread, and now