confided with a giggle. “Do you recognize me? I’m a harem girl—or a Harmon girl! Isn’t that the cutest joke?”
“The cutest,” I agreed gravely. “Do find Mrs. Robison-Dewitt and see if she can guess what you are; she’ll be so gratified, and she just adores puns.”
Suzetta produced a blank look, Long past the blank stage, Harmon grabbed her waist. “Lez go, honey bunch. Honey bear wants a little drink.”
Waving her eyelashes in farewell, Suzetta obediently tripped down the stairs. If there were a troll under the staircase, he would have been thrilled with the tender flesh, ninety-five percent of it conveniently exposed. Honey bear was already marinated.
My thoughts returned to Peter Rosen’s jibe. “Innocent?” he had drawled in mocking disbelief. And telling the battleship that my psychiatrist was almost sure I wouldn’t attack a stranger! She was now undoubtedly convinced I was Farberville’s version of Lizzie Borden. Peter deserved all eighty of the whacks.
I stormed into the room and slammed the door. Caron lay in bed, a book balanced on her knee.
“Did you look at this?” I demanded belligerently as I snatched up my notebook to flap it at her. “Are you going to help me with the murder or not?”
Caron’s lip floated downward as she took in my costume and prematurely gray hair. If it was gray because of the powder. After the episode on the porch, I wouldn’t have been too surprised if the gray failed to brush out. Ever.
“Mother?” she whispered.
“No, Jane Fonda! Listen, Caron, I wish you’d pull yourself out of this self-imposed lethargy and help me with
the clues. You’re liable to ruin the mattress if you stay there indefinitely. Furthermore, I—”
“What on earth is wrong with you?” Caron interrupted calmly. “You sound like a harpy.”
She had a point. I made a face in apology and sat down to brush the powder out of my hair. Despite my fears, my reddish hair soon reappeared as my shoulders disappeared under a talcum snowfall. It helped to calm me down, and when I finally turned around, my voice was back to normal.
“Sorry, dear. High tea has never been my style.” I told her about the encounters with Hercule and Sam Spade, which resulted in a round of uncontrollable giggles from her and a few from me. Mrs. Robison-Dewitt was good for a second round. Then Caron returned to her book, and I opted for a soothing bath with my notebook propped on a soapy knee. Afterwards, I put on a wool dress and we went downstairs for dinner.
Some of the guests had changed clothes, but many of them were still in costume. Nickie sat at the head of a table of Marples as though he were the captian of a cruise ship. In one corner, the blond bartender tossed olives in the air between orders; Eric was busy uncorking bottles of wine. Mimi caught Caron and me at the dining-room door and led us toward a table for eight.
“Found any clues?” she asked as we moved between the tables.
I made a noncommittal reply. Caron and I found ourselves sitting with a depressed Marple, a food-splattered Dover, the Oriental Hercule—and the Peter Wimsey-Rosen. While Caron tired not to giggle, I avoided everyone by escaping into the menu. After orders had been given, we began a desultory conversation about the scheduled croquet tournament.
“Oh, Harmon,” trilled a voice from the doorway, “isn’t this just terribly nice! Wherever shall we sit?”
A shudder went around the table, since there were two
empty chairs. Inevitably, Suzetta spotted them and dragged an anesthetized Harmon Crundall across the dining room. She wore a scarlet dress, slightly more conventional than the harem outfit. The neckline was more of a waistline, however, and the flesh count still hovered above the seventy-percent mark.
Peter sucked in a breath as she leaned over him and said, “Do you mind if we sit here?”
“By all means,” he managed to say, once his eyeballs returned to their proper location.
Harmon thudded
“The cutest,” I agreed gravely. “Do find Mrs. Robison-Dewitt and see if she can guess what you are; she’ll be so gratified, and she just adores puns.”
Suzetta produced a blank look, Long past the blank stage, Harmon grabbed her waist. “Lez go, honey bunch. Honey bear wants a little drink.”
Waving her eyelashes in farewell, Suzetta obediently tripped down the stairs. If there were a troll under the staircase, he would have been thrilled with the tender flesh, ninety-five percent of it conveniently exposed. Honey bear was already marinated.
My thoughts returned to Peter Rosen’s jibe. “Innocent?” he had drawled in mocking disbelief. And telling the battleship that my psychiatrist was almost sure I wouldn’t attack a stranger! She was now undoubtedly convinced I was Farberville’s version of Lizzie Borden. Peter deserved all eighty of the whacks.
I stormed into the room and slammed the door. Caron lay in bed, a book balanced on her knee.
“Did you look at this?” I demanded belligerently as I snatched up my notebook to flap it at her. “Are you going to help me with the murder or not?”
Caron’s lip floated downward as she took in my costume and prematurely gray hair. If it was gray because of the powder. After the episode on the porch, I wouldn’t have been too surprised if the gray failed to brush out. Ever.
“Mother?” she whispered.
“No, Jane Fonda! Listen, Caron, I wish you’d pull yourself out of this self-imposed lethargy and help me with
the clues. You’re liable to ruin the mattress if you stay there indefinitely. Furthermore, I—”
“What on earth is wrong with you?” Caron interrupted calmly. “You sound like a harpy.”
She had a point. I made a face in apology and sat down to brush the powder out of my hair. Despite my fears, my reddish hair soon reappeared as my shoulders disappeared under a talcum snowfall. It helped to calm me down, and when I finally turned around, my voice was back to normal.
“Sorry, dear. High tea has never been my style.” I told her about the encounters with Hercule and Sam Spade, which resulted in a round of uncontrollable giggles from her and a few from me. Mrs. Robison-Dewitt was good for a second round. Then Caron returned to her book, and I opted for a soothing bath with my notebook propped on a soapy knee. Afterwards, I put on a wool dress and we went downstairs for dinner.
Some of the guests had changed clothes, but many of them were still in costume. Nickie sat at the head of a table of Marples as though he were the captian of a cruise ship. In one corner, the blond bartender tossed olives in the air between orders; Eric was busy uncorking bottles of wine. Mimi caught Caron and me at the dining-room door and led us toward a table for eight.
“Found any clues?” she asked as we moved between the tables.
I made a noncommittal reply. Caron and I found ourselves sitting with a depressed Marple, a food-splattered Dover, the Oriental Hercule—and the Peter Wimsey-Rosen. While Caron tired not to giggle, I avoided everyone by escaping into the menu. After orders had been given, we began a desultory conversation about the scheduled croquet tournament.
“Oh, Harmon,” trilled a voice from the doorway, “isn’t this just terribly nice! Wherever shall we sit?”
A shudder went around the table, since there were two
empty chairs. Inevitably, Suzetta spotted them and dragged an anesthetized Harmon Crundall across the dining room. She wore a scarlet dress, slightly more conventional than the harem outfit. The neckline was more of a waistline, however, and the flesh count still hovered above the seventy-percent mark.
Peter sucked in a breath as she leaned over him and said, “Do you mind if we sit here?”
“By all means,” he managed to say, once his eyeballs returned to their proper location.
Harmon thudded
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