Lexie Starr Cozy Mysteries Boxed Set

by Jeanne Glidewell

  "Horny Corny's a very fitting moniker, but he looks so, so... well, so harmless."

  "Oh, I'd imagine Cornelius is harmless enough. He's just desperate to draw attention to himself. A man like Mr. Walker tends to blend in with the wallpaper if he doesn't make a substantial effort to be noticed. I'd bet if some woman was to go along with one of his off-the-wall sexual comments and respond in a positive manner, he'd be the one on the verge of fainting," Stone said.

  "You might be right, but just in case you aren't, I don't think I'll test your theory. Is the guy really a doctor?"

  "No," Stone said, as he laughed louder this time. "He's a fertilizer salesman or something. That's why he's so full of it."

  Detective Johnston, who'd been silently drinking his coffee and listening to the exchange between Stone and me, started laughing, too. I'd almost forgotten the policeman was in the room. He leaned back in his chair and said, "Actually, he's a floor manager at the Farm and Ranch Supply store in downtown Rockdale, but he does sell fertilizer in his department. I had to pick him up once on some kind of charge for 'lewd and lascivious' behavior. We found out later that the woman he'd been groping was actually a man—a transvestite in drag. Talk about rubbing salt in a guy's wound. The charges eventually got dropped, but all of us guys down at the station got a good laugh out of it."

  "I'm sure you did," I said, somewhat annoyed at the detective's attitude. "Sorry, I never did answer your question, and by now I've forgotten what you were asking me about earlier."

  "I believe I was asking you about the exact time you heard the loud thud and if there was a reason why you were awake at the time. Most people are sound asleep at five in the morning." Detective Johnston was like a pit bull gnawing on a bone.

  "Didn't hear a thing, other than the victim hitting the floor, huh?"

  "That's right. That's all I heard. There's no particular reason I was awake, other than the mattress on my bed is harder than my last batch of cookies."

  Officer Johnston nodded as he fiddled with the squelch control on his police radio. Stone looked at me with an apologetic expression and said, "Sorry, Lexie. I've been meaning to buy some new mattress sets for all the beds, but I've had so many other irons in the fire, I just haven't gotten around to it. The one on my bed's pretty uncomfortable, too."

  "No sense buying entire mattress sets, Stone. All you really need are featherbed mattress pads to place on top of the existing mattresses. I noticed some nice ones on the Internet for about ninety bucks apiece. The mattresses are even baffled."

  "Baffled?" he asked, with a comical expression of confusion on his face.

  "Quilted in such a way to keep the feathers from bunching."

  "No kidding?" Stone considered the idea for a moment. "Can you order some for me if I give you my credit card number?"

  "Sure. I'd be more than happy to order some for you."

  "Thanks for the suggestion. It would save me a bundle. A king-sized mattress and box springs can run over five hundred, easily."

  "Easily," I said, in agreement, before turning back toward the other man in the room. Somehow we had gotten distracted from the pressing matter of Prescott's murder. "By the way, Detective Johnston, has Mr. Prescott's next of kin been notified?"

  "I'm not sure. I know he's not currently married, and his parents are both deceased, but he does have a daughter named Veronica, from his first marriage. Still lives out in Utah, last I heard. She was in my graduating class. She was drop-dead gorgeous, but she always acted like she thought she was better than the rest of us and never had much social interaction with anyone in the class. She always looked at me as if I was something her cat hacked up. I'd heard she married a guy from a Mormon family in Leavenworth, but I never met him."

  "And she moved to Utah with her husband?" I asked.

  "Yeah, just outside Salt Lake City," Wyatt said. "Hey, I noticed Rosalinda Swift's name on your guest list. I had to arrest her recently, too; it was on a DUI a couple of weeks ago. She was three sheets to the wind and just missed running over a small child on a bike. It was only about four in the afternoon when I pulled her over."

  "Rosalinda Swift? Are you sure it was the same Rosalinda Swift from the Historical Society?" I couldn't quite picture her behind the wheel of a car, three sheets to the wind, as the detective put it. "She was drinking and driving?"

  "Uh-huh. She was weaving all over the road, from one shoulder to the other."

  We chatted with the police officer about Rosalinda and Horatio's daughter Veronica and also the unfortunate and mysterious demise of her father for about ten more minutes before the officer had to leave to respond to a domestic abuse call. Before he left, he asked Stone if he'd inform all of the guests that it would be appreciated, but not necessary, if they could all stay at the inn for a few days while the investigating team took statements and collected evidence. He'd already taped off Mr. Prescott's room as a crime scene and had assigned a couple of detectives who were busily dusting for fingerprints and searching for clues and potential DNA evidence. One slim young recruit was fingerprinting everyone who was on the premises when the murder occurred. I noticed Rosalinda Swift was quite agitated by this indignity. She finally agreed to the "humiliating procedure," but not without significant complaining. Only Patty Poffenbarger appeared more offended than Rosalinda by the request.

  Stone was completely cooperative with the detective squad and readily agreed to speak with his guests about staying over a day or two—at no expense to them, of course. As Wyatt Johnston backed his squad car down the driveway, Stone answered his ringing phone. He listened to the caller for a moment and shook his head in bewilderment. After a few brief comments, he re-cradled the phone with more force than normal.

  "News travels fast in a burg like this, doesn't it?" Stone gave a sigh of disgust and ran his fingers through his silver hair. "Now I know what they mean by a small town's 'grapevine.' That was a reporter with the Rockdale Gazette, wanting details on the murder and my opinion concerning who might have committed it. Does he really think I would open myself up to slander and libel charges by naming names? I told him I couldn't make any comments at this point, but I can see it now on the front page of the paper tomorrow, the headline 'Local inn opens with a bang.' "

  I knew Stone was discouraged and dejected. It was a matter of personal pride to him to see the Alexandria Inn be successful. He'd paid a handsome price for the rundown old mansion and had pumped a lot of money into restoring it.

  I'd met Stone while I was on the east coast last fall, investigating the unsolved murder of my son-in-law's first wife, Eliza Pitt, a case in which my son-in-law, Clay, was a prime suspect. I'd had no investigative background or training, but I felt it was necessary to do whatever I could to protect my daughter, Wendy, from possibly suffering the same fate.

  Stone, an online jeweler whom I'd contacted to help me replace a charm bracelet and charms that Wendy had recently lost, offered to assist me in my investigation. The two of us had formed an instant bond and found we had much in common.

  We'd both been widowed for years—he's fifty-five, and I'll turn forty-nine soon—and we'd met at a time when we were both finally ready to consider having another "significant other" in our lives.

  We decided to pursue the relationship, and after his father, suffering with Alzheimer's, died in December, Stone sold his jewelry business to an employee and moved to the Midwest to be near me. Before heading west, he'd also resigned his volunteer position as a reserve police officer for the Myrtle Beach Police Department, a service he'd chosen to help fill his idle time.

  Lacking serious hobbies, Stone wasn't the kind of man who could sit around and do nothing. He became interested in operating a bed and breakfast after staying at the Camelot B&B in Schenectady and helping the owner, Harriet Sparks, make some repairs around the place. In Missouri, he discovered the old deteriorating mansion in nearby Rockdale by accident, while scanning the classifieds in the K. C. Star newspaper. He quickly made the decision to purchase it and
restore it to its original, elegant condition. The project was a massive undertaking, but Stone appeared to enjoy the challenge immensely.

  Once the job was completed, he succeeded in having the mansion listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Then he hired a young woman named Crystal to serve as combination cook and housekeeper and opened it as a fully functional and operating inn. He christened it after my given name, Alexandria Marie, which pleased me immensely. The Alexandria Inn, located in the small town of Rockdale in northwestern Missouri, was about an hour's drive from my home in Shawnee, Kansas. It was ideally situated in the heart of the heavily populated historic district, with homes built during the late 1800s, but the inn was only a half dozen blocks from the business district.

  Stone enlisted my help in decorating and furnishing the inn while he supervised the crews doing most of the actual restoration. Between us, we managed to give the home its original dignity, charm, and beauty. Stone stayed busy at the inn during the week, but we spent the majority of the weekends with one another. So far the arrangement had worked out perfectly.

  Stone was not a classically handsome man. He was of average height and carried a few extra pounds on his waist, but it was his personality more than his looks I found so attractive. He was attentive, witty, and considerate. His smile lit up his face, despite the small gap between his two front teeth. His silver hair and almost translucent blue eyes added an air of refinement. He was a "glass half full" type of guy, and his optimism was contagious. Being with him tended to give me a more tolerant attitude, too. And tolerance wasn't a trait I came by naturally.

  Wendy, my twenty-seven year-old daughter, had moved back home with me following the annulment of her marriage to Clay Pitt. Living with me was a temporary arrangement, she said, while she saved money on a down payment for a place of her own. She worked with the local coroner, primarily assisting with autopsies. To me, the job seemed a bit gruesome and depressing, but she appeared to enjoy it. She'd managed to put a few extra pounds on her too-thin body and was looking more relaxed and contented than she had in many months.

  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.