arranged to meet her there, although I had no good explanation why they would choose that place for a romantic interlude—or anything else. I’m a firm believer in comfort over moonlight and redolent breezes. Bedrooms are boring, but also unpopulated by animal life. Adjoining bedrooms are a snap.
From her supine position, Caron opened the notebook and held it above her nose. “The one about the abbreviated problem is obvious. Whoever this blond person may be, he or she is also a private investigator. Personal identity, abbreviated, is ‘P.I.’ Very obvious, Mother.”
Aha, I told myself with a flutter of insight. Suzetta was not a dippy secretary; she was a private investigator hired by—hired by Mimi and Eric! Bella was conducting her own investigation; if she had hired Suzetta, there would be no reason to follow Harmon to the Mimosa Inn. Ergo, Suzetta had taken the job (and the role) in order to thwart Harmon’s scheme to buy the acreage adjoining the Mimosa Inn. She must have been instructed to get the option, at any cost. But why the boathouse?
When I reiterated this to Caron, she was unimpressed. She rescued the paper from the floor, motivated by the thought of hard cash, and read, “‘Do we have to pay? you wonder aloud,’ blah, blah … This one’s simple if you follow the directions, Mother.”
I snatched the paper from her. “What directions?”
“You’re supposed to wonder aloud. Say ‘to pay.’”
I did as ordered, and the third time it came out ‘toupee.’ I whooped and said, “That explains the yellow threads from the scene of the crime. Someone was wearing a toupee, which is the same thing as a wig. That means that the blonde you saw wasn’t Suzetta after all!”
Caron eyed me as though I had sprouted wings and were flopping around the ceiling. “It’s all quite fascinating, Mother, but you’re beginning to foam about the mouth. I’m
going downstairs for lunch; you might consider the wisdom of an ice pack or a tranquillizer.”
“Wait a minute—what about this clue?” I demanded, scrambling through the pages to find the one that mentioned the rickety building. “What does this mean?”
Caron read it, then flashed me a sly look. “I have no idea. I’ll think about it over a salad and a diet soda, however. It may come to me.”
While she combed her hair and changed clothes, I pondered my theory. Someone who was not Suzetta (she would have worn a dark wig) slipped away from the drawing room to meet Harmon in the boathouse, and subsequently bashed him on the head with a blunt instrument that was not a canoe paddle.
I found the list of evidence and tried to fit each one into my theory. The burnt paper was Harmon’s option, now a charred pile of ashes that had probably been flushed into eternity. The glass with lipstick on the rim meant that someone had had a drink with Harmon, and neither Eric nor Bruce was indicated. Mimi had gone back upstairs, I remembered, confirming it on my timetable. She had probably convinced Harmon to meet her for an illicit rendezvous, and warned him that they must be out of sight of the inn. Then she had disguised herself with a blond wig and gone to murder him.
Ooh, I loved it! Hugging myself smugly, I moved on to the clump of mud from the bedroom floor. It didn’t fit in as well, so I dismissed it as a red herring. That left the matchbook found in the boathouse. I tried to imagine Mimi asking Harmon to strike a match so that she could take a careful aim in the dark, but that seemed less than credible.
Caron put down her brush and examined herself once more in the mirror. “Are you planning to lie there and gurgle the rest of the afternoon? I’m hungry, Mother.”
“I thought you were on a diet.”
“I need carbohydrates to think. You don’t want me to waste away before I’ve finished with the clues, do you?”
I decided to take a break before returning to my brilliant solution. We went to the dining room, and once again I found myself
From her supine position, Caron opened the notebook and held it above her nose. “The one about the abbreviated problem is obvious. Whoever this blond person may be, he or she is also a private investigator. Personal identity, abbreviated, is ‘P.I.’ Very obvious, Mother.”
Aha, I told myself with a flutter of insight. Suzetta was not a dippy secretary; she was a private investigator hired by—hired by Mimi and Eric! Bella was conducting her own investigation; if she had hired Suzetta, there would be no reason to follow Harmon to the Mimosa Inn. Ergo, Suzetta had taken the job (and the role) in order to thwart Harmon’s scheme to buy the acreage adjoining the Mimosa Inn. She must have been instructed to get the option, at any cost. But why the boathouse?
When I reiterated this to Caron, she was unimpressed. She rescued the paper from the floor, motivated by the thought of hard cash, and read, “‘Do we have to pay? you wonder aloud,’ blah, blah … This one’s simple if you follow the directions, Mother.”
I snatched the paper from her. “What directions?”
“You’re supposed to wonder aloud. Say ‘to pay.’”
I did as ordered, and the third time it came out ‘toupee.’ I whooped and said, “That explains the yellow threads from the scene of the crime. Someone was wearing a toupee, which is the same thing as a wig. That means that the blonde you saw wasn’t Suzetta after all!”
Caron eyed me as though I had sprouted wings and were flopping around the ceiling. “It’s all quite fascinating, Mother, but you’re beginning to foam about the mouth. I’m
going downstairs for lunch; you might consider the wisdom of an ice pack or a tranquillizer.”
“Wait a minute—what about this clue?” I demanded, scrambling through the pages to find the one that mentioned the rickety building. “What does this mean?”
Caron read it, then flashed me a sly look. “I have no idea. I’ll think about it over a salad and a diet soda, however. It may come to me.”
While she combed her hair and changed clothes, I pondered my theory. Someone who was not Suzetta (she would have worn a dark wig) slipped away from the drawing room to meet Harmon in the boathouse, and subsequently bashed him on the head with a blunt instrument that was not a canoe paddle.
I found the list of evidence and tried to fit each one into my theory. The burnt paper was Harmon’s option, now a charred pile of ashes that had probably been flushed into eternity. The glass with lipstick on the rim meant that someone had had a drink with Harmon, and neither Eric nor Bruce was indicated. Mimi had gone back upstairs, I remembered, confirming it on my timetable. She had probably convinced Harmon to meet her for an illicit rendezvous, and warned him that they must be out of sight of the inn. Then she had disguised herself with a blond wig and gone to murder him.
Ooh, I loved it! Hugging myself smugly, I moved on to the clump of mud from the bedroom floor. It didn’t fit in as well, so I dismissed it as a red herring. That left the matchbook found in the boathouse. I tried to imagine Mimi asking Harmon to strike a match so that she could take a careful aim in the dark, but that seemed less than credible.
Caron put down her brush and examined herself once more in the mirror. “Are you planning to lie there and gurgle the rest of the afternoon? I’m hungry, Mother.”
“I thought you were on a diet.”
“I need carbohydrates to think. You don’t want me to waste away before I’ve finished with the clues, do you?”
I decided to take a break before returning to my brilliant solution. We went to the dining room, and once again I found myself
Similar Books
