The Extinguished Guest (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 2) (5 page)

"So, what's the significance?"

"No sign of intruders. Don't you see? It looks very likely that Mr. Prescott was killed
by someone staying in the inn. Otherwise, there'd most likely be footprints leading
out to the street."

"Oh."

"And also there are no signs of a forced entry. I remember checking all the doors
last night after the guests retired to their rooms and once again, just before I went
to my own room. That makes it even more probable that the killer is among our own
little covey of quail," Stone said. He watched me as his words soaked in and then
asked, "Got any thoughts or ideas?"

Did he mean other than the fact I'd be rearranging the furniture in my room tonight
so that it was all piled strategically in front of the door? I'd also most likely
be placing a fingernail file under my pillow because it's the closest thing I possessed
to a lethal weapon. Gee, and I had thought insomnia was a problem last night?

"Well, Stone, I know I didn't like Mr. Dack's attitude or his demeanor this morning
when he found out his business partner had been killed. He expressed feelings of sorrow
and grief, but he didn't show a lot of physical anguish at the news. And he didn't
appear to be overly stunned, either. He seemed a little too matter-of-fact about the
whole thing to me. And why did he oversleep? Could he have been up doing dastardly
deeds in the middle of the night?"

"It's possible, I guess. But how could a guy kill someone in cold blood and then slip
back into bed for a few extra zees?"

"I don't know, but I think we need to have a talk with him. Feel him out if we can."

"I agree, but we're not official investigators, Lexie. He's under no obligation to
tell us anything, you know. We'll have to approach this in a clever fashion."

"Oh, I think we can find clever ways to get the answers we're looking for."

"Hmm. Why does your tone of voice alarm me?" Stone asked.

"No guts, no glory."

"Glory's for young guys who are in better shape than I am," Stone said. He lifted
up the carafe to warm up my coffee, and as he poured it, he asked, "Say, did you know
Rosalinda Swift was once engaged to Horatio?"

"You've got to be kidding!"

"No, it's true. Or, at least it's true according to Robert Fischer, who's known Horatio
for years. He said the two were engaged for several months about fifteen years ago,
but Horatio broke it off when Rosalinda refused to sign a prenuptial agreement. Since
the engagement debacle, the two have pretty much just ignored each other—in public,
anyway. But Robert thinks there's a chance Rosalinda's carried a grudge against Horatio
all these years for degrading her by even asking her to sign the agreement, and then
embarrassing her even more by calling off the engagement. Perhaps she decided to exact
a little revenge—retribution for the public humiliation she suffered."

"He humiliated her and embarrassed her to the point that fifteen years later she put
a slug in his brain? No, I don't really think so, Stone. A crime of passion that takes
place fifteen years after the fact? I just don't buy it. No scorned woman would wait
that long to exact justice."

"Okay. I think it's a little far-fetched, too, but it wouldn't hurt to check into
Rosalinda if we get a chance. We don't want to make any assumptions that could prove
to be wrong."

"You're right. We probably should try to do an inquiry into what kind of relationship
each of the guests had with Mr. Prescott. We don't want to overlook some seemingly
insignificant detail that later turns out to be a key factor in his death."

* * *

I went to my room for my Minolta Maxxum camera. I wanted to get my own photos of the
footprints outside, just in case they became significant later on in the investigation.
Unfortunately, when I went outside to take the pictures, I discovered the sun had
melted most of the early morning snow. Only two footprints still remained, one from
a left shoe and one from a right. They were in the shade of a shrub on the north side
of the front porch, where the snow was only beginning to melt in the late morning's
warmth. A warm front was pushing through, I'd heard on the radio, and more seasonal
temperatures were forecast for the early-spring day. The front would be short-lived,
however, with another winter storm on the horizon.

I photographed the footprints from several angles, noticing the right print looked
misshapen, narrower than the left print just inches away. The right portion of the
footprint must have been melting faster, I concluded, perhaps from having less weight
applied to that side when the print was made. From the placement of the two footprints,
it appeared the individual making them had walked to the side of the inn's front porch
from the neighbor's yard or the carport, while staying on the red concrete landscaping
stones bordering several raised flower gardens, until just before reaching the porch.
The landscaping stones were almost dry and completely free of snow. Between the neighbor's
yard and the flowerbeds was the Alexandria Inn's carport, where two of the squad cars
had parked earlier. As the investigating team had surmised, it seemed probable the
prints belonged to a responding officer who had pulled up to the carport upon arrival.
If so, the officer had smaller than average feet, for the footprints were not made
by large feet. It shouldn't be difficult to determine if any of the responding officers
had small feet. The suburban town of Rockdale had only four or five police officers
on its payroll.

I jotted a quick note on a pad of paper I'd crammed in the pocket of my sweatshirt
jacket. I wanted to remember to ask Stone if, by chance, he'd noticed any tire marks
in the driveway or carport prior to the arrival of the officers. It didn't seem logical
to me that someone with the intention of breaking into the inn to kill a guest would
blatantly steer his car up the drive and park it in the carport while executing the
murder. It was more logical to park on the next block and sneak up to the house from
the alley behind the building. I decided to check the back of the house. Because most
of the backyard was still in the shadow of the house, the snow there had barely begun
to melt, and there were no signs of footprints leading to or from the alley or anywhere
near the back porch or sidewalk.

I snapped a couple of photos of the undisturbed layer of snow blanketing the backyard
before noticing Robert Fischer sitting in a padded, wrought-iron chair on the back
porch. He wiggled a couple of fingers at me, and I wiggled a few back. He was wearing
a bright orange jumpsuit like you'd expect to see on a member of a chain gang picking
up trash along a busy interstate. He'd worn a brown suit when I'd first seen him that
morning, but he had changed into something more comfortable. A well-worn pipe dangled
from his lips. Mr. Fischer looked very calm and collected, as if murder were an every
day event in his life.

Thinking this would be a perfect opportunity to pump him for information, I walked
over and sat in the other porch chair identical to his.

"How are you doing? I'm Lexie. You're Mr. Fischer, aren't you?"

"Yes. Robert Fischer. And I'm doing fine, young lady. How are you?"

"I'm okay. Are you staying outside to try to escape the hubbub inside?"

"Yes. I didn't figure I had much to tell the investigators that would be of any help.
I didn't see anything, didn't hear anything," he said. He laughed in a mocking manner,
and added, " 'Course I take my hearing aids out when I go to bed at night, and without
them I couldn't hear an elephant fart in a metal bucket."

I smiled and then noticed there was no smoke coming from Mr. Fischer's pipe as he
inhaled repeatedly on its stem.

"Your fire's gone out, Mr. Fischer," I said, pointing at the barrel of his pipe.

"Robert, please, or Bert if you'd like. What's your name again, little lady? My memory
is not as good as it used to be."

"Alexandria Starr, but please call me Lexie."

"Lexie, ahhh, I see. Hence, the 'Alexandria' Inn."

"Yes." I smiled at the congenial old man.

"Well, Lexie, I gave up smoking about a dozen years ago. Or, I should say, I gave
up tobacco, but not the pipe. Got tired of Ernestine yapping at me about the health
hazards of smoking, and I decided to avenge myself by outliving her and marrying some
fluffy, big-breasted twenty-year-old after the old nag's dead and gone."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that remark, so I didn't. Instead, I smiled inanely
and nodded my head. Eventually, sensing my discomfort, the octogenarian chuckled and
told me he'd only been joking with me. Suddenly an expression of chagrin flashed across
his face as he realized his inappropriate choice of words. He waved his hand back
and forth, as if trying to erase the callous remark about his wife, and said, "Please
forgive me for being so insensitive. I meant that as a joke. I wasn't thinking—"

"That's okay. But Ernestine's right you know," I interrupted, excusing his untimely
quip in an attempt to ease his embarrassment. "Smoking is a slow form of suicide,
and I'm glad you were able to quit. I kicked the nasty habit a few years ago myself.
I walked around with a lollipop in my mouth for weeks, until the inside of my cheek
was almost permanently puckered, so I imagine still having the pipe in your mouth,
even without actually smoking tobacco in it, makes it easier for you to—"

"Nah, not really," he cut in. "I just happen to think the pipe makes me look more
sophisticated."

I laughed, but Robert didn't, so I wasn't sure if he was joking again or not, but
I decided to get down to the business at hand.

"Stone said you told him that Mr. Prescott and Ms. Swift were engaged to marry years
ago. Is that true?"

"Uh-huh."

"Seems like such an unlikely match to me."

"Well, no, not really. Our Ms. Swift was a remarkably attractive woman in her prime,
and Horatio appreciated anyone in a skirt who had more curves than brains. Rosalinda
had her own reasons to find the partnership attractive, one being that she was heavily
mortgaged at the time. She'd borrowed a lot from the bank to make costly home renovations
and was actively looking for a solution to her money problems. And as a former banker,
I know that to be the truth. I handled both of their accounts the last year or two
before I retired. Somehow Horatio discovered she was a gold-digger, and he closed
the mine, so to speak."

"How did they meet? Do you know?" I asked.

"They were both divorced, and both owned homes in the historic Museum Hill District
of St. Joseph, houses dating back to the late eighteen hundreds. Rosalinda's home
is a Victorian like this one, designed by the locally famous European architect, E.J.
Eckel, and Horatio's was an Italianate mansion. Still a part of his vast holdings,
last I knew. I'm fairly certain the two met through the Historical Society. Like Horatio,
there are a number of people who live in St. Joseph but belong to the Rockdale Historical
Society, preferring the less formal, more intimate atmosphere of a smaller club."

"Is that how you originally met them, as well? Through the Historical Society?"

"Rosalinda, yes, but Horatio, no. I'd known him for years. Like I said, until I retired
in 1985, I was a loan officer at the Rockdale Bank and Trust, and Horatio's been doing
business with that bank forever, I think. Even before I took over his and Rosalinda's
accounts, Horatio was on the board of trustees at the bank."

"Were you friends?"

"Acquaintances," he said, in a manner indicating distaste. "But never friends."

"You didn't care for him?" I asked, maintaining a casual, conversational tone.

"No, not particularly. And I certainly didn't trust him or have a lick of respect
for him."

"Why's that?" I was careful to be interested, but not notably so. I knew I had a tendency
to nail people to the backs of their chairs with my single-minded intensity if I didn't
hold myself back.

"Long story, but about twenty years ago I was endeavoring to purchase a large parcel
of land in downtown St. Joseph. Perhaps you've noticed that vacant lot right on Main
Street? I thought it'd be a good investment for my retirement. I'd made an offer and
was waiting to see if the buyer was going to accept it or make a counter-offer. Horatio
just happened to come into the bank that day and asked me to go to lunch. We'd had
lunch together on several other occasions, so this was not an unusual invitation.
During the meal, I casually mentioned my intentions, as well as the amount I'd offered
the buyer, and the reasons I thought the property would greatly appreciate in value
in the following few years. It would cost me nearly every dime I could scrape together,
but I thought it would be worth the sacrifice later on.

"To my surprise, I received a call later that day. I was told the buyer had taken
the property off the market. Naturally, I was disappointed, but I accepted it as something
that just wasn't meant to happen. I didn't give it a lot of thought at the time. I
eventually invested the money in some stocks that performed well over the years and
netted me a tidy profit."

Robert grew silent, pausing to take a few smokeless puffs on his pipe.

"Go on," I urged when he didn't continue speaking.