The Extinguished Guest (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 2) (4 page)

I took special pains to prepare all of Wendy's favorite dishes since she returned
home and was sleeping in her old childhood room once again. In the process of eating
such meals, I put on seven or eight pounds myself and was now about fifteen pounds
heavier than I should be for my height, despite my good intentions to lose weight.
I carried the weight well and wasn't fat, by any means, but I was on the verge of
becoming plump. And "plump" and "chubby" were not adjectives I liked to have tacked
on to my physical description.

Stone didn't seem to be concerned about my increasing weight—would probably not even
notice until I got to be the size of Patty Poffenbarger, which I vowed was never going
to happen. Never mind gastric bypass, I'd personally sew my lips together with monofilament
fishing line before I'd allow myself to swell to that extent. To me, being grossly
overweight was as self-destructive as smoking, and I'd been able to wean myself off
cigarettes after years of the lethal habit. I didn't want diabetes, heart disease,
or hypertension any more than I wanted lung cancer or emphysema. There was no reason
I couldn't lose the extra pounds and get back down to my normal, desired weight if
I set my mind to it. Wendy, on the other hand, had to fight to keep weight on her
slim frame.

I was relieved Wendy had formed an instant affinity with Stone. She talked frequently
on the phone with his nephew Andy, whom we'd both met in New York. Andy was a pilot
who owned a five-passenger Cessna and flew private charters. He lived near Stone's
former home in Myrtle Beach, but he'd recently mentioned a desire to move to the Midwest
to get away from the hustle and bustle of the east coast. He yearned to live out in
the country and told Wendy he wouldn't be totally contented until he had to kick manure
off his cowboy boots before entering his ranch house.

I knew Wendy was attracted to Andy. She was doing all she could to encourage him to
make the move to the Midwest. He was a good-looking young man, as thoughtful and admirable
as his uncle, and I hoped, in time, something more permanent would develop between
the two of them. I would be proud to have Andy as my son-in-law.

I looked over at Andy's uncle, Stone Van Patten, who was now deep in thought.

"Stone?"

"Yeah?" he said.

"I have an idea."

"Uh-oh. Go ahead, I'm listening."

"Why don't the two of us do a little investigating ourselves?"

His light blue eyes gazed into my light brown ones for several seconds before he smiled.
"Well, it's an intriguing idea," he said. "We do make a pretty good team, don't you
think?"

"Detectives Smith and Wesson," I said with a nod, teasing him about the fictitious
names he'd given us during a subterfuge encounter we'd had with a bar owner in Boston
during our previous investigation into the murder of Eliza Pitt. "It couldn't hurt
anything, I guess. We don't have anything to lose, do we?"

"No, not really."

"And if we can help figure out who killed Horatio—and why—it could only be advantageous
to the success of the inn."

"I agree, honey," Stone said, after a few moments. He reached out absentmindedly and
tousled my short, brown curly hair. It was a reminder I needed to make an appointment
for a fresh perm sometime in the next week or two. I had worn my hair in the exact
same style since I was a senior in high school, and there was no reason to switch
to a more "en vogue" style now. Stone put his hand back on his lap and continued talking.

"I don't want people to be afraid to stay here. The fact that Prescott's death occurred
here is just a coincidence. But it'll be difficult to convince people not to associate
the inn with the murder."

"Well, then, I say let's go for it. If nothing else, it should make for an interesting
experience."

Chapter 3

Staying on at the Alexandria Inn for a few more days seemed to be no problem for the
Historical Society guests, aside from Boris Dack, who had urgent business matters
to attend to but could still spend the majority of his time at the inn. It was Monday,
and most of the guests had planned to stay for several days and depart on Wednesday
or Thursday. Even though the induction of a new president had been postponed for obvious
reasons, they had nothing else on their schedules.

Most of the guests lived within minutes of the inn but were treating the occasion
as a mini-vacation, an opportunity to let others cook for them, wait on them, and,
in general, treat them like visiting royalty. Although they certainly had vastly different
personalities and temperaments, they all seemed to have one thing in common—they enjoyed
"putting on the dog" and being made to feel like first-class dignitaries. They liked
the feel and the illusion of importance. They wallowed in it, in fact.

Crystal, Stone, and I went out of our way to assure our guests continued feeling as
if they were celebrities because they found it a satisfying arrangement. Satisfied
customers were repeat customers—and word-of-mouth was the best, most cost-effective
kind of advertising. After all, it was hard to beat free when it came to being cost-effective.

We learned quickly, however, to succeed in the accommodations' industry, we had to
be accommodating. Being polite was expected, and necessary, no matter how much it
irked us to be treated as subordinate minions by people with no higher perch on the
caste totem pole than our own.

Thank goodness for Crystal, a professional hostess, who didn't appear to resent being
ordered about by a bunch of hoity-toity old snobs. She scurried among the guests with
a tray full of refreshments in one hand, a coffee carafe in the other, and the pockets
of her apron filled with sugar packets, napkins, spoons, and toothpicks. She provided
everything guests could need before they even realized they needed it. She kept everyone's
coffee cup filled, and encouraged the ingestion of far too many doughnuts and pastries.
Patty Poffenbarger seemed quite fond of the young woman, or at least, she was seldom
very far from her. When Patty wasn't running off at the mouth about her own accomplishments
as a concert pianist, which were probably greatly embellished, she was filling that
mouth with refreshments from Crystal's ever-present tray of goodies.

At least Patty's husband, Otto Poffenbarger, didn't appear to have an inflated opinion
of himself. He was, in fact, almost abnormally self-deprecating, similar to a child
who is told daily how stupid or worthless he is. He stuck to his wife Patty like a
postage stamp, as if he were afraid if he lost sight of her he'd immediately dissolve
into nothingness. He followed her around like a shadow, so closely I feared if Patty
ever made a sudden, unexpected stop, Otto would become a human wedgie. I thought if
I looked up the word "hen-pecked" in the dictionary, there might be a picture of this
poor, pitiful man.

Boris was on the other end of the spectrum. He was the most irritating, overbearing
individual I'd ever had the displeasure to meet. Stone discovered from Boris Dack,
that Boris was Horatio Prescott's business partner, the "D" in " D and P Enterprises,"
a business involving investments, both foreign and domestic.

Boris's body reminded me of a bowling pin; bottom heavy with sloping shoulders and
wide hips. He had thick, bushy white hair on the sides of his head, but only about
seven strands of hair on top. The hairs on top were several inches long and had a
tendency to stand straight up like a flag mast. His large, bulbous nose reminded me
of Jimmy Durante's, and his eyes were a piercing charcoal color.

Boris also had an ego the size of Mount Rushmore, and if you didn't agree with something
he said, he would repeat it over and over, and louder and louder, until you finally
gave up and agreed with him. He spoke with great authority about anything and everything,
occasionally using words that even Noah Webster wouldn't recognize. I'm certain Boris
thought they made him sound more intelligent, more respectable. I thought they made
him seem childish—like a young girl trying on her mother's makeup and clothes.

Boris was the only guest who found it necessary to leave the inn, but just for a few
hours, he promised. He had several business-related obligations to take care of early
Tuesday morning, he'd told Stone, but he would return later in the day. With the death
of his business partner, there'd understandably be many details he'd need to handle
in the near future. Stone assured Boris he'd be allowed to come and go as needed.

"Pardon my soliloquy, but I am appalled by the iniquitous deportment evinced by a
member of the Society. It's execrable!" Boris said.

Later I asked Stone to decipher the statement. He thought a moment and said, "Boris
was thinking murdering Prescott was a shitty thing for someone to do."

"Now that's putting it in layman's terms," I said.

"The question is, why did Boris indicate it was one of the guests who killed Horatio?
Does he know something, or is he just making natural assumptions?"

"I wondered about his implication, too. And his attitude seems odd to me."

Boris Dack's behavior seemed too unfeeling for a man professing to be devastated by
the loss of his friend and associate. I placed him high on my list of suspects and
was eager to delve deeper into his business "relationship" with Mr. Prescott.

* * *

"Lexie, can you come into the kitchen for a minute?" Stone asked. "I've got something
I want to discuss with you for a few minutes. Crystal can take care of the guests
while you take a much-deserved break. You'll wear yourself ragged, if you aren't careful."

I was pouring Earl Grey into a dainty little teacup, like a well-trained servant,
and as I turned toward Stone's voice, I was haughtily dismissed by a wave of Rosalinda's
blue-veined hand. She and Mrs. Poffenbarger were enjoying brunch in the parlor, away
from the distasteful discussions about the dreadful murder that had occurred right
under their upturned noses that morning. Ms. Swift was sipping her fourth cup of the
fragrant tea. I noticed she'd added something to it from a small, sterling silver
flask she'd extracted from her sequined purse. Patty Poffenbarger, dressed in something
resembling a purple, polka-dotted pup tent, was preoccupied with stuffing the last
of a half-dozen poppy-seed muffins in her mouth.

"What's up?" I asked Stone when I entered the kitchen.

He handed me a cup of espresso, which he knew I preferred over tea or weak coffee.
"Have a seat," he said. "You're still serving 'your highnesses,' I see."

"Yes," I said. "And what a couple of snooty old windbags they are. If I hear about
that damned encore at Rosalinda's last recital one more time, I'm going to—"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, honey. I really didn't intend for you to have to serve
and wait on these people. Crystal's doing her best—"

"—I know. Crystal's terrific, but she can't be in six places at the same time. And
I don't mind, Stone. Really I don't. I find their high-faluting behavior kind of amusing,
in a way. And besides, I owe you a favor for all you've done for me."

"Lexie, you don't owe me anything. I can hire another—"

"No, that's not necessary, and I didn't mean it quite the way it sounded, Stone. But
let's just say I'm enjoying myself and I want to help and leave it at that. Now what
did you want to discuss with me?"

"Well, okay, if you're sure. It was never my intention to have you serving as Crystal's
assistant. Anyway, I spoke with the investigating team upstairs and found out a few
interesting details that I thought you'd want to hear."

"Like what?"

"First of all, the only fingerprints they could find in the room besides the victim's
were the expected ones—yours, mine and Crystal's. So that's of no help. But they did
make an observation that might prove useful."

"What was that?"

"As you may have noticed, we got about two inches of snow last night. The snow fell
between midnight and three
A.M."
There was a certain quality of smugness in Stone's voice I'd never heard before. I
knew he was enjoying the resurgence of our sleuthing partnership. He enjoyed a challenge
as much as I did.

"And?" I prompted.

"There were no footprints in the snow between the house and the street. Just a few
incidental prints between here and the house next door, leading up to the front porch
from the side yard rather than the sidewalk. The investigators took a few photos of
the prints, but don't feel too strongly they have anything to do with the murder.
They think the footprints may have been from the shoes of an officer who reported
to the scene when I called nine-one-one for assistance."