Murder At Murder At the Mimosa Inn, The Read Online Free Page A

around the corner and ducked into the office. Seconds later, a tulip-shaped glass sailed out in a graceful arch. We held our collective breath as it splattered on the floor, shards of glass erupting in glittery explosion. The tinkle was as loud as a grenade in the shocked hugh.
    “Damn it,” Nickie said quietly behind me. He hurried over to Eric for a terse conference. As they started for the
dining room, a woman came out of the room and closed the door behind her. The three exchanged looks, then the woman pasted on a smile and came forward.
    “Please don’t worry about—about that minor incident,” she said coolly. “An unexpected guest has arrived, and he wasn’t prepared for our little game. But it’s under control now, and the lecture will begin any minute.”
    I studied the woman, who I realized was the heretofore unseen Mimi. She had shoulder-length black hair, wide violet eyes, and cheekbones high enough to give her a vaguely exotic look. Her mouth was small and heart-shaped, as though she were sweetly pouting. Although she could have passed for a college student, there were a few fine lines around her eyes, and her forehead, at the moment, was scored by two deep creases. A certain softness under her chin also belied the little-girl picture. I am personally familiar with that symptom.
    Mimi kept the determined smile on her face as she nudged Nickie toward the front of the room. “Please don’t be concerned,” she added with a shrug. “The gentleman in question will soon be plied with scotch. Everything is fine.”
    Despite unconvinced looks from all present, she held her ground. The busboy rushed back into the dining room with an amber bottle clutched in his hand. A rumble of approval was followed by a tantalizing clink of glass. I caught myself wondering if I ought to try the same barbaric tactics and gave myself a mental scolding. I would drink sherry—and like it. Ambiance over self-indulgence.
    Nickie tapped the podium with a pencil. With the ingrained obedience of a Sunday school class, we turned around and assumed attentive expressions. Behind me I heard a shuffle of feet and final coughs. The white-haired horsy woman sat down beside me and gave me a vague smile. Very suspicious, I cautioned myself, although I had no idea why the gesture might be suspicious.
    “Welcome to the first ‘Murder at the Mimosa Inn,’”
Nickie said. “We’re delighted to have you join us, and we’re going to do our very best to amuse and entertain you.” He took out a brochure to run over the schedule, then described the various facilities available for those who opted not to worry about the impending crime.
    Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I nudged the woman beside me and whispered out of the corner of my mouth, “Who’s the loud-mouthed oaf in the dining room?”
    In response, I received a painful elbow in the ribs and a priggish, disgusted snort. Clearly, my neighbor was not the sort who whispered in church or tolerated such childishness. I decided not to engage in a game of elbowing; the woman had a vastly sharper weapon than I.
    Nickie finished the schedule and put the brochure away. “Part of the fun is not knowing when or how the murder will take place,” he warned us genially. “Be prepared for anything, including a few bloopers on our part. The Mimosa Inn and the Farberville Community Theater are both novices at this newest sport, and anything can happen. Keep your eyes open and your back to the wall.”
    The woman next to me lifted an alabaster finger. “Could the murderer be one of the guests?” she asked in a melodious voice that didn’t fool me one bit. I knew to whom she referred, the silly old thing. And her hair wasn’t white; it was blue. And thin.
    Nickie shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that, Mrs.—ah … ?”
    “Mrs. Robison-Dewitt,” the treacherous woman said, inching away from me. “I’m the editor of the Ozark Chronicle. We’ve scheduled an article on the murder