dabbed his chin with a napkin, and took his arm. Grimacing under the inert load, they steered him out of the dining room and up the stairs. The rest of us gaped like craniate vertebrates. Caron was visibly appalled; I could hardly wait to hear her condemnation of the episode and of adults as a species.
Nickie Merrick tapped his fork on a glass and said, “Please don’t worry about Mr. Crundall; he’s on his way to bed, I’m sure. The movie will start promptly at ten o’clock. The busboys will have to move the chairs into the drawing room, so please wait on the porch. Bruce will be serving cordials to those who wish an after-dinner drink.”
We all went to the porch, where our juggling bartender poured generous belts of brandy. My dinner companions formed a circle on one end of the porch and all agreed that Harmon’s behavior was disgraceful. The absent Bella received a great deal of tongue-clucking and sympathy. When the subject had been thoroughly analyzed, I asked if anyone had solved any cryptic clues. The group disbanded as if I’d mentioned herpes.
Only Peter remained. “So who do you think is to be the ill-fated victim?”
“Harmon, possibly,” I said. “If anyone deserves to be murdered, it’s that horrible man. But I’m not sure whether he’s who he says he is, or is an actor in the mock murder. I’m nurturing a wild hope that Mrs. Robison-Dewitt will be discovered in the classic death pose. She purports to be from some magazine, but I’ve never heard of it. Do you think she’s legitimate?” I mentally gave myself a pat on the back for the timely red herring.
“Can’t tell the players without a scorecard,” Peter said. He started to add something, but looked over my shoulder and closed his mouth.
I followed his eyes. Suzetta and Mimi stood in the middle of the staircase, deep in conversation. Suzetta looked almost human; her eyelashes were at rest and her kittenish expression had been replaced with a pensive frown. Mimi shook her head in response to something Suzetta said. Suzetta put her hands on the other woman’s shoulders and repeated something with noticeably urgency. Again, Mimi shook her head, then pulled away and ran back upstairs.
Suzetta stared after her, now indecisive and quite worried. Then, as if cued by a whisper from off stage, she resumed the brainless pose and pranced down the stairs. “Is it show time?” she asked, loudly enough to be heard on the porch, or across the lake if the bullfrogs were listening.
Before she reached the door, Nickie Merrick strode into the middle of the room and grabbed her arm. He muttered something in her ear that unsettled her, then shoved her toward the door that led to the porch. I caught a glimpse of her white face before she moved out of view. Seconds later, I heard her announce that the movie would begin in only a teeny little second and that she just adored movies, didn’t everyone?
I carefully avoided looking at Peter as we went into the drawing room. Caron informed me that she was not about to watch some horrid old movie and went upstairs to call Inez, or so I suspected. Praying the telephone bill would not rival
that for the room, I allowed Peter to find chairs for us. Nickie made a few introductory comments about Agatha Christie while Eric took charge of the projector. The lights went out; the movie began.
I tried to keep my eyes open as the fabled Orient Express roared down the tracks, but I dozed off before Hercule could twirl his mustache over a bona fide corpse. From time to time I was aware of shuffled movement in the rows behind us, and I dreamily imagined parallel scenes of mayhem taking place in the dark room.
I was in the middle of an improbable scenario in the boathouse, complete with oversized spiders using all eight legs to strangle a red-nosed Harmon, while Bella rapped him on the shoulder with a pooper-scooper and demanded a divorce, when Peter shook my shoulder.
“Is he dead yet?” I grumbled.
“Not that I
Nickie Merrick tapped his fork on a glass and said, “Please don’t worry about Mr. Crundall; he’s on his way to bed, I’m sure. The movie will start promptly at ten o’clock. The busboys will have to move the chairs into the drawing room, so please wait on the porch. Bruce will be serving cordials to those who wish an after-dinner drink.”
We all went to the porch, where our juggling bartender poured generous belts of brandy. My dinner companions formed a circle on one end of the porch and all agreed that Harmon’s behavior was disgraceful. The absent Bella received a great deal of tongue-clucking and sympathy. When the subject had been thoroughly analyzed, I asked if anyone had solved any cryptic clues. The group disbanded as if I’d mentioned herpes.
Only Peter remained. “So who do you think is to be the ill-fated victim?”
“Harmon, possibly,” I said. “If anyone deserves to be murdered, it’s that horrible man. But I’m not sure whether he’s who he says he is, or is an actor in the mock murder. I’m nurturing a wild hope that Mrs. Robison-Dewitt will be discovered in the classic death pose. She purports to be from some magazine, but I’ve never heard of it. Do you think she’s legitimate?” I mentally gave myself a pat on the back for the timely red herring.
“Can’t tell the players without a scorecard,” Peter said. He started to add something, but looked over my shoulder and closed his mouth.
I followed his eyes. Suzetta and Mimi stood in the middle of the staircase, deep in conversation. Suzetta looked almost human; her eyelashes were at rest and her kittenish expression had been replaced with a pensive frown. Mimi shook her head in response to something Suzetta said. Suzetta put her hands on the other woman’s shoulders and repeated something with noticeably urgency. Again, Mimi shook her head, then pulled away and ran back upstairs.
Suzetta stared after her, now indecisive and quite worried. Then, as if cued by a whisper from off stage, she resumed the brainless pose and pranced down the stairs. “Is it show time?” she asked, loudly enough to be heard on the porch, or across the lake if the bullfrogs were listening.
Before she reached the door, Nickie Merrick strode into the middle of the room and grabbed her arm. He muttered something in her ear that unsettled her, then shoved her toward the door that led to the porch. I caught a glimpse of her white face before she moved out of view. Seconds later, I heard her announce that the movie would begin in only a teeny little second and that she just adored movies, didn’t everyone?
I carefully avoided looking at Peter as we went into the drawing room. Caron informed me that she was not about to watch some horrid old movie and went upstairs to call Inez, or so I suspected. Praying the telephone bill would not rival
that for the room, I allowed Peter to find chairs for us. Nickie made a few introductory comments about Agatha Christie while Eric took charge of the projector. The lights went out; the movie began.
I tried to keep my eyes open as the fabled Orient Express roared down the tracks, but I dozed off before Hercule could twirl his mustache over a bona fide corpse. From time to time I was aware of shuffled movement in the rows behind us, and I dreamily imagined parallel scenes of mayhem taking place in the dark room.
I was in the middle of an improbable scenario in the boathouse, complete with oversized spiders using all eight legs to strangle a red-nosed Harmon, while Bella rapped him on the shoulder with a pooper-scooper and demanded a divorce, when Peter shook my shoulder.
“Is he dead yet?” I grumbled.
“Not that I
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