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

sincere gazes. Ha!
    On the way upstairs I congratulated myself on the display of self-control. Now that I had recovered from the shock of finding him at the inn, I would try to discover why he was there. But first things first, I told myself as I went into my room.
    Caron was gone. The bed was rumpled; the bedspread had been used as a cover and the pillow was on the floor. Her suitcases had been emptied onto all available surfaces, the floor being the most convenient. That much was dictated by her character. Her absence was not, however: I was fairly certain she hadn’t come downstairs for the lecture nor slipped away for a swim in the lake. Food was out, due to the diet.
    I picked up the pillow and tossed it on the bed, exposing a folded sheet of paper on the floor. Glumly anticipating a suicide note from Caron, I opened it and read: “Vital clue: Tues. a hobo collapsed nearby.”

    Very curious—and very suspicious. It made no sense whatsoever, but its intent was clear. I had allowed myself to be distracted by Peter’s appearance and the crazy scenes downstairs. This was the first clue; all I had to do was decipher it before any of my fellow sleuths … or Peter. Champagne would surely follow. I read it several times.
    “Vital clue: Tues. a hobo collapsed nearby.”
    I went to the window and looked down at the serene scene below. The grassy beach was again populated by a series of lumpy figures, a miniaturized mountain range of broiled flesh. None of them resembled a hobo, rehabilitated or not. How was I to determine what had happened three days ago?
    Eric was in the middle of the croquet court with one of the elderly couples. They practiced strokes, then took positions around the court. A blue ball rolled through a wicket. A yellow ball attempted to follow, but bounced back and rolled to a stop against the rail. A surprisingly colorful expletive drifted up to my window.
    Farther down the lawn, Peter was in conversation with Mrs. Robison-Dewitt, which I found more than a bit irritating. It hadn’t taken him long to form a new alliance, I thought in a petty voice. The two of them deserved each other: She could be Watson to his Holmes, if she didn’t prim him to death in the process.
    But where was Caron?
    I peered under the bed in case she was attempting some nonsense, say only clean floor, and stood up. Harmon’s name went into my notebook, along with Suzetta’s. Mrs. Smith was noted with a question mark. The clue was refolded and tucked in my pocket. Feeling competent if not befuddled, I left the bedroom.
    As I reached the top of the stairs, I saw a figure crawling down the corridor on its hands and knees. Very suspicious. Entranced, I tiptoed behind the figure, which appeared to be a middle-aged man with a dauntingly broad posterior.
Which wiggled as we progressed down the hall. If he had possessed a tail, it would have waggled.
    When he reached the wall, he turned and bumped into my shins. He looked up in alarm. I gave him a polite smile and said, “Hello. Did you find any blood-stained dustballs?”
    He scrambled to his feet and edged around me, his eyes cold and accusing. “I thought I might have dropped something,” he muttered as he pushed past me. He ducked into one of the bedrooms and slammed the door.
    I was not fooled by the lame explanation, but I doubted that I would find anything of interest along the floorboard. Leaving the crawler to his dirty-kneed modus operandi, I continued downstairs to find Caron. Or a clue. The latter was more important.
    The drawing room was unpopulated, but I heard voices in the dining room. There, to my delight, I found that a portable bar had been rolled in. Several of the guests clutched cocktails. A bartender had been put to work and was fending off the good-natured rush with laughter—and liquor.
    “Hi,” he said as I approached with a hungry look. “You don’t look like a sherry sort of person. What can I get for you?”
    He was well under thirty. His tanned