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

weekend for our autumn edition.” She paused to give the rest of us a chance to gasp in admiration, then said, “I presume that our personal safety is assured?”
    She sounded as though she were anticipating a crazed attack from the innocent party on her left. If I had stashed a water gun in my purse, I would have doused her on the spot
to watch her melt. I was obliged to settle for a well-bred sniff.
    Nickie looked at me and grinned. “Your personal safety is assured, Mrs. Robison-Dewitt. Trust me. Now, if your questions have been answered, I’d like to begin the lecture. Since we know why we’re here, I thought you might enjoy hearing how Scotland Yard utilizes various technological advances to solve its very real crimes.”
    He gestured at Eric, who was back at his post beside the projector. The lights went out and the screen behind Nickie lit up with a view of New Scotland Yard. Mrs. Robison-Dewitt stiffened, but gradually relaxed as nothing dreadful happened to impinge on her personal safety, meaning that I didn’t leap on her. I crossed my legs, settled back, and listened intently.
    Nickie was good, I decided, as he talked knowledgeably about his subject. I was aware of a certain amount of restiveness behind me, but I found the lecture informative and enjoyable. As he talked, he fielded questions and allowed a certain amount of diversion from his topic. We were all eager for help, although we lacked polygraphs, saliva kits, and other such paraphernalia.
    He had just introduced the use of psychology to analyse sociopathic personalities, when a voice from the back of the room interrupted. My composure went the way of the tulip glass.
    “Does a psychologist have a chance with a truly insane mind?” The tone was properly sincere, but the hint of mockery was unavoidable. The voice belonged to the one person who was not supposed to be within twenty miles of the Mimosa Inn. The one person who had scoffed at my weekend plans and expressed amusement at the whole concept.
    “Damn!” I hissed like a pressure cooker on the verge of explosion, which was a pertinent analogy.
    “Do you mind … ?” Mrs. Robinson-Dewitt hissed in response.

    I minded, but there wasn’t any point in including the woman in my decidedly black thoughts, What was he doing there? Peter Rosen had scoffed—and laughed—at the idea; why had he come? I swiveled my head to find him in the back of the room, wishing grimly that I would discover that I was mistaken, that he hadn’t really asked the skeptical question. I saw silhouettes, but I couldn’t spot him in the rows of people.
    While all this was going on, Nickie Merrick was answering the question in a serious manner. The damned voice goaded him on, then suddenly switched positions and began a barrage of medical questions about schizophrenic chemical deficiencies. It was much too complex to bother with; I focused all my energy on holding in a series of semihysterical comments about unwanted people popping up at inopportune moments to destroy otherwise perfectly pleasant plans.
    Nickie finally admitted defeat and turned on the lights. “Our speaker in the back of the room seems better acquainted with this material than I, so perhaps you might continue this with him if you’re interested.” He was not as pleased as he tried to sound, but it was a graceful escape.
    We all blinked in the sudden flush of light. Chairs creaked and possessions were shuffled as the group began to rise. Eric stepped to the podium and said, “As you have heard, there will be a croquet tournament tomorrow afternoon. The winners will receive silver trays with a suitable engraved motif. If you’re unfamiliar with the game, I’ll be delighted to offer instruction this afternoon. In the meantime, enjoy the facilities at the Inn. Swim, nap in the sun, or allow Mimi to arrange a bridge game on the porch. However, those who search may find a clue to the identity of the murderer.”
    Mrs. Robison-Dewitt rose, looked down