The Extinguished Guest (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 2) (9 page)

I nodded, too tired to argue. I was feeling nauseated again, more and more like I
might upchuck what little pork roast and potatoes I'd managed to eat earlier. I tried
to direct my attention away from the queasiness in my stomach to Stone as he spoke
about his day.

He told me he'd been tied up with the investigators much of the day, and other than
Robert Fischer, he'd only had time to chat with Cornelius Walker. And even then it
was just for a few minutes before supper he'd been able to talk to him.

Stone discovered that, several decades ago, Cornelius had been engaged to Horatio's
first wife, Ethel. According to Cornelius, lies and deception utilized by Mr. Prescott
had allowed Ethel to be stolen from him. According to Cornelius, Prescott had convinced
Ethel her fiancé was of questionable character, and marriage to him was sure to cause
her great heartache. Ethel had dumped Cornelius and soon found herself engaged to
Horatio. Cornelius had never married, or even become engaged again in the wake of
his sorrow at losing the "love of his life." He was further devastated when Ethel
died mysteriously in a boating accident on the day before she would have celebrated
her and Horatio's tenth anniversary.

Horatio, however, was apparently less distraught following Ethel's untimely death.
He remarried within three months of the tragedy, to a woman who was fifteen years
his junior. Several years later, his second wife also died prematurely, in a horrific
house fire, which was eventually determined to have been set by an unknown arsonist.

"How awful," I said. "Mr. Prescott sure had to endure a lot of tragedies, didn't he?"

"I don't know about Mr. Prescott, but those close to him sure did."

I caught Stone's meaning but wondered why he thought Horatio Prescott might have been
responsible for the deaths of his two former wives. I was going to ask him about this
when I suddenly felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my abdomen, just seconds before a veil
of darkness settled over me and I crumpled into an undignified heap on the kitchen
floor.

Chapter 6

The next thing I remember was opening my eyes and being startled by two other pairs
of eyes, worried and inquisitive, staring down at me. I glanced around quickly and
discovered I was lying on a hospital bed. There was a sedative-type medication and
a bag of saline solution dripping into my arm via an IV tube, an oxygen monitor clipped
to my index finger, and a heart monitor beeping to the side of my bed.

"Mom?" I heard Wendy ask in a concerned voice. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes," I tried to answer, but my throat was raw and swollen.

"Don't try to talk, honey." Stone's voice was soothing. He had an apologetic tone
to his voice as he said, "They've just had to pump your stomach."

"What happened?" I asked. My words were raspy. I sounded like an old metal gate rubbing
against a wooden fence post.

"They discovered traces of tansy oil in your system, Mom," Wendy said. "It's the same
toxic poison we found in Prescott, according to the results of the toxicology report."

"Tansy oil?" I'd never heard of it.

"Uh-huh. According to Nate, tansy is a poisonous herb once considered a 'cure-all.'
Less than a tablespoon of the oil derived from it can be deadly. In other words, Mom,
someone tried to kill you. And it looks like it was the same person who killed Horatio
Prescott."

"Fortunately," Stone said, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe his own words,
"the massive amount of coffee you drank today probably saved your life. It diluted
the tansy oil enough to prevent it from being a lethal dose."

I nodded. My throat was too sore to speak more than a few words at a time. Stone spooned
a few ice chips into my mouth, giving me immediate relief.

Wendy lifted my hand up to inspect the IV infusion site. "Good, no signs of bruising,"
she said. She turned toward Stone as she spoke again. "Why would anyone want to kill
both Mr. Prescott and Mom? It's not as if they have anything in common. Do you think
the person has a vendetta against the Alexandria Inn for some reason? Could any other
guests be in danger?"

Stone considered my daughter's questions for a moment before shaking his head. He
brushed loose tendrils of hair away from his forehead. "It's possible, I guess," he
said, "but I don't think it's very likely, Wendy. I expect it's more probable the
killer is concerned that your mother may stumble on to the truth of who's responsible
for the murder. She's been questioning all the Historical Society guests, and it appears
as if it is one of them, not an outsider, who's responsible for the murder. That's
why I don't want her questioning any of them anymore. I don't want her to even be
present at the inn until the perpetrator is in police custody. The success of the
inn is nowhere near worth her getting injured or killed over."

Wendy nodded in complete agreement with Stone. I felt slightly betrayed. The ice chips
had soothed and moistened my throat so I could now speak clearly. I'm sure I sounded
more annoyed than I meant to, considering both of them had my best interests at heart.
"I refuse to back down, Stone. I'll be more cautious, but I won't let the killer intimidate
me."

Stone knew me well enough by now to know I meant exactly what I said. Being poisoned
by the perpetrator only increased my resolve to help see him ferreted out and arrested.
Stone sighed and dropped his head into his hands. I listened to the near-hysterical
ranting of my daughter, while sucking on a throat lozenge Stone had given me.

When Wendy finally settled down and came to the same resigned realization as Stone,
I cleared my throat and said, "I recall having set my cup down on the sofa table while
I gathered up the ashtrays to empty and rinse out. Boris is the only guest who smokes,
but he seems intent on distributing his ashes evenly among all the ashtrays in the
various rooms. With the guests milling around in the parlor, any one of them could
have slipped a dose of tansy oil in my coffee undetected."

I paused a moment to reflect. "Weren't there ashes in the ashtray in Horatio's room
this morning?" I asked. "I remember thinking the ashtray needed to be cleaned. That
seems odd because I don't think Horatio was a smoker."

"I don't remember even looking at the ashtray, but it wouldn't have been my primary
concern at the time. Nor do I remember if Horatio smoked," Stone said. "But I don't
really recall ever seeing him with a cigarette or cigar, or even a pipe."

I couldn't remember seeing him with a cigarette or cigar either, and I tended to notice
that kind of thing even more since I quit smoking. I always had to remind myself to
keep my mouth shut because there was nothing more annoying than an ex-smoker expounding
on the stupidity of smoking.

I wondered who, beside Boris, could have deposited ashes in Horatio's ashtray. I was
trying to think back to earlier in the evening and visualize exactly what had happened
and in exactly what sequence. I was having trouble thinking through the fog filtering
into my mind. The medication dripping into my IV tube was beginning to take effect.

"I also remember the coffee took on a bitter taste after I retrieved the cup from
the sofa table," I said, after a lengthy interval.

"And you continued to drink it?" Wendy asked incredulously.

"Yes, I did—out of habit, I suppose. I was distracted by other things at the time
and attributed the unusual taste to the fact I'd been drinking so much of the stuff
all day long. Strong coffee can be a mite bitter all on its own, you know."

Wendy and Stone were both looking at me as if I were one goose short of a gaggle,
so I decided to lie back down to rest for a moment. In my current condition, it took
too much effort to try to convince them I was not losing my mind. I closed my heavy
eyelids and swallowed the melted ice accumulating in the back of my throat. Stone
squeezed behind the hospital bed and began to knead the taut muscles in my neck and
shoulders.

"Who could feel threatened enough by my simple questioning to attempt to kill me?"
I asked. Neither Stone nor Wendy replied, so I wasn't sure I'd even asked the question
out loud. I was feeling more and more relaxed from the medicine and from the hypnotizing
feel of Stone's hand rubbing the tension out of my upper body.

Could it be a guest I hadn't found the time to question yet? I wondered. Maybe someone
who didn't want to be questioned by a nosy, interfering servant? It was my last conscious
thought before I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter 7

I was released from the hospital at about noon on Tuesday. I left with a long list
of instructions that included returning to the ER if any of my symptoms worsened or
if any new ones developed.

As the male nurse wheeled me to the front vestibule, Stone walked along beside the
wheelchair carrying my coat and fanny pack. He'd arrived at the hospital just as I
was signing the release form.

"Anything new?" I asked.

"A few things," he said. "I'll bring you up to date on the way back to the inn."

I knew Stone didn't want to say anything in the presence of the nurse, so I changed
the subject to something more mundane. The weather was always a good subject when
one wanted to make idle chatter. "Snow's all gone, I see. I hope yesterday's snowfall
was winter's last gasp and spring is just around the corner. Maybe this was the last
major winter storm we'll have this season."

"Could be, but I doubt it. More snow is predicted for tonight. Quite a lot of it,
they're now predicting. The forecast gets more intimidating every time the weatherman
revises it."

After assisting me as I climbed into the passenger seat of a silver Chevy Cavalier,
Stone took his place behind the steering wheel and prepared to drive the car out of
the parking lot.

"I borrowed Tony's car," he said, as he turned toward me to help me fasten my seat
belt. "My car is at the dealership getting an oil change and a tune-up, and your Jeep's
gas gauge was on empty. I will fill it up for you this afternoon."

"Thanks! Who's Tony?"

"Oh, you know. The Italian-looking guy on the remodeling crew with the ponytail and
earring. He's the one who promised to take me crappie fishing at Perry Lake this spring."

"Oh, sure. He's the painter. I'd forgotten his name was Tony. I think he looks Italian
because he
is
Italian. His last name is Morelli, if I remember right. He told me his grandparents
still live in Sicily. Anyway, it was nice of him to loan you his car and thoughtful
of you to ask him if you could borrow it."

"I wanted to make sure you'd be comfortable."

"I'm quite comfortable, thanks. I'll be completely recuperated shortly. I feel almost
like my old self today."

"Good. But you need to rest and take it easy for a while anyway. You scared at least
ten years off my life when you passed out in the kitchen last night."

"I'm sorry—"

"It's not your fault, honey. And I'm glad you got a good night's sleep. It's more
than I can say for any of the rest of us."

"Why? Did something else happen?" I asked as he braked the car to a stop at a red
light.

"No, thank God. Prescott's murder and the attempt on your life were enough as it was.
I just think our guests were afraid to go to sleep last night, lest the same thing
happen to them that felled Mr. Prescott. There were people scurrying about all night
long, from one room to the next. I had no less than a dozen reports of suspicious
sounds and intruder sightings. The guests were all carrying weapons of varying degrees
of effectiveness, from Rosalinda's pepper spray to Cornelius's golf club. And Robert
Fischer whacked Patty Poffenbarger on the head with his pipe when she surprised him
as she was sneaking out of the kitchen with a snack. She has an under-active thyroid,
you know."