Lexie Starr Cozy Mysteries Boxed Set

by Jeanne Glidewell

  German background or not, I couldn't imagine either one of them being interested in the book each had chosen, but I was continually amazed at the eccentricities of these Historical Society people.

  "So, are you two doing okay? Considering what happened this morning and all? I know it had to be quite a shock to you. It certainly was to me."

  "We're doing all right. But it was quite an unexpected turn of events, wasn't it?" Harry asked.

  "Yes," I agreed. "Very much so."

  "The investigators asked us to be ready to give a statement this afternoon, but neither of us heard or saw anything to report to them."

  "Then that's what you should say in your statement."

  "Have they come to any conclusions about who the perpetrator might be?" Harry spoke louder as his voice was nearly drowned out by a sound outside the library. We all looked up in time to catch a glimpse of Crystal through the glass doors. She was pushing a self-propelled vacuum sweeper down the hallway. She carried a feather duster in the other hand. I called out to her, and she looked startled. She must have been deep in thought. She waved off my offer to help her make up the guests' rooms for the very first time in her newly acquired position at the inn.

  "It won't take me long," she said. "And I'll enjoy seeing how the suites are decorated, if the rest of the inn is any indication of the effort you and Stone put into finding and selecting furniture from the Victorian era."

  "We scoured every antique store in the Midwest, or at least it feels as if we did. We were fortunate to find most of the paintings at the antique mall on Sycamore Street, right here in Rockdale. All but a few came from the same estate, the old Warrington home on Garnett Drive."

  "Are the paintings in the parlor from the Warrington home? They're exquisite."

  "Yes, and they should be exquisite," I said. "The paintings and artwork in the inn cost more than the furniture."

  "I thought I recognized a few of them," Harry said, interrupting as he turned to his wife. "See? I was right. Remember when we dined at the Warringtons', years ago?"

  Alma nodded and went back to reading. Crystal excused herself to continue down the hallway. I turned back to Harry as he repeated the question he'd asked earlier about whether or not a perpetrator had been identified.

  "The investigation has barely begun, of course, and no suspects have been named yet. Do you or Alma have any thoughts about it at all? Do you know any reason why anyone might have wanted to see Mr. Prescott dead?"

  "Could be just about anybody, I'd say."

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "Don't know a single soul who had any use for the man. Excuse my language, but he was a jackass, through and through. If I'd have thought I could get away with it, I might've considered knocking off Prescott myself."

  "Good heavens, Harry! Mind what you say!" Alma finally spoke aloud, swatting her husband on the forearm with her book, which bore the likeness of Winston Churchill on its cover.

  "Well, my dear, it happens to be true. And you know yourself, it's the God-awful truth."

  "Well, maybe so, but we must not speak ill of the dead. You know better," Alma admonished her spouse with a look of indignation in her eyes. Then she lowered her voice to almost a whisper, and hissed, "And we needn't air our dirty laundry in public, either. Some things are just not meant to be shared."

  Alma's last remarks were spoken as a definite warning. I caught it, and I'm sure Harry Turner did, too. I had a feeling he'd been about to tell me more about their previous dealings with the late Mr. Prescott, but now he'd been effectively squelched by his spouse. Harry looked at Alma in alarm, as if realizing what he'd almost disclosed, and then turned to me with an apprehensive expression on his lean, weathered face.

  "I'm sorry, Lexie," he said. "Alma's right. I should be more respectful at a time like this. Not even a loathsome man like Horatio Prescott deserved a fate like the one he suffered. Alma and I both are very distressed by his untimely death."

  Harry fell silent, and it was obvious I wouldn't be able to unearth any more information about the Turner's dirty laundry at this time, so I changed the subject. "Were either of you aware that Horatio was writing a book about restoring historic homes?"

  "Oh, sure," Harry said. He seemed relieved to talk about something else. "We both were. It was common knowledge. I'd heard that just last week he'd received a call from his agent, who informed him he'd been offered a contract from a large publishing house. Otto Poffenbarger, who's penning a book about the same thing, was mad enough to spit. In fact, I think he did."

  Harry chuckled at the recollection before he went on to say, "Otto's book would probably sell better as a cure for insomnia than anything else. I doubt his manuscript is chock full of scintillating facts and insights. Just more of the scientific drivel he spouts all the time."

  "You don't like Mr. Poffenbarger?"

  "Oh, Otto's a nice enough fellow, I suppose. He's just such a dry, boring person to converse with. I've had more interesting conversations with Tinkerbelle, my Persian cat, than I've had with Otto. I can almost understand why Patty rarely gives the man permission to speak. Or, Fatty Patty, I should say, as Horatio was known to call her."

  "To her face?" I asked, in disbelief.

  "Of course," he said. "He'd say it to intentionally provoke her."

  "But why?"

  "Who knows?" Harry shrugged. "Why did he do a lot of the things he did? Like I said, he was a jackass, through and through."

  Alma swatted Harry with her book again, harder this time. I was beginning to think the guests with no motive to kill Mr. Prescott were few and far between. I had a lot to mull over and record in my notebook when I could find the time. The thought reminded me it was almost time to start preparing lunch.

  I excused myself to assist Crystal in the kitchen. We'd be preparing spinach crepes, cream of asparagus soup, and chicken-salad finger sandwiches to serve to the guests for their mid-day meal. I could get some of the dishes prepared in advance while Crystal tackled the housekeeping chores. I figured it might take her a while because it was her first time to make up the rooms.

  "I'd better get back to work. Don't you two get so involved in your reading you forget to come to the dining room for lunch in about half an hour," I said.

  I knew I'd have to catch Harry alone in the next day or two and try to worm out the details of his animosity towards our "extinguished" guest, Horatio Prescott III. I was hearing a lot about laundry this morning, both clean and dirty, and I wanted to find out more about it!

  * * *

  "Mom?" I heard Wendy's anxious voice as Crystal gave the phone to me. She was calling from the County Coroner's office in St. Joseph, where she worked.

  "Yeah, this is me."

  "Are you and Stone okay?"

  "Yes, honey, we're fine."

  "They just hauled a body bag in here and told us the man had been killed at the Alexandria Inn. I couldn't believe it. What happened over there? Who killed him? Do you know? When did the murder occur? Did anyone witness it?" she asked. There was anxiety and concern in her voice as she rattled off questions.

  "No, we don't know much yet. The victim's name is Horatio Prescott III, and he was to be inducted as the new president of the Rockdale Historical Society later on today. Stone and I found him dead in his room this morning. As I'm sure you know, he'd been shot in the back of the head. The Rockdale detectives are investigating the murder, but they don't know who killed him or why yet. Stone and I have decided to do a little investigating ourselves."

  "Why does that not surprise me?" Wendy asked, dryly. "It was your idea, I suppose."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Figured so," Wendy said, with a hint of amusement in her tone. I could hear a buzzing sound in the background as Wendy spoke and wondered if Mr. Prescott's corpse was being sawed in half at that very moment. I felt a chill run up my spine and felt strangely relieved with Wendy's next statement. "By the way, Mom, later on today Nate is letting me perform the autopsy on this Prescott guy by
myself since it is such a cut-and-dried case. He'll just be observing me as I work. It'll be my first time to fly solo, so to speak. I can hardly wait."

  Nate Smith was the County Coroner, and he'd been training Wendy as his assistant for the last few months. He planned to retire in a few years and buy a waterfront condo in south Texas to live out his golden years. His wife had already retired from teaching at the secondary-education level.

  Stone had encouraged Wendy to apply for the apprentice position with Nate when he'd heard through the local grapevine about the County Coroner's impending retirement. It'd be a longer drive for her than Kansas City, Kansas, but it'd be worth the inconvenience to have the chance to step into the coroner's position in two years. She'd have spent many years waiting for such an opportunity in Wyandotte County, Kansas, where she'd first gone to work, assisting a County Coroner who wasn't much older than she was.

  On nights when she worked late or had to report to the coroner's lab early the following day, she could skip the long drive and stay overnight at the Alexandria Inn. She'd stayed at the inn often during the weeks Stone and I had worked day and night getting it ready for its grand opening. She'd helped out by spending her evenings with a sander or a paintbrush in her hand; working steadily while she rattled on about the cadaver she'd watched Nate Smith dissect that day. I had tried to concentrate on other, more pleasant things while nodding sporadically at Wendy's ramblings.

  Eventually Wendy planned to buy a place of her own in St. Joseph or nearby Rockdale. She seemed confident I would end up selling my home in Shawnee and moving in with Stone at the Alexandria Inn. I had to admit I was already spending more time there with Stone than I was spending at my own home. Still, I hesitated to give up my independence entirely, despite the subtle hints by Stone and the gentle prodding by Wendy. But I set those thoughts aside to listen to Wendy chatter excitedly about her first "flying-solo" autopsy.

  "Autopsy? I'm no expert, but I'd guess the bullet through his brain might have had something to do with the cause of his death," I said dryly.

  "Duh," Wendy said with a laugh. "Good deduction, Mom. However, you know it's customary to perform an autopsy in all homicide cases or whenever foul play is suspected. I could even be called on at a later date to testify in court, you know. I'm a bit nervous, but only because this is my very first time to handle the entire autopsy on my own. Oh, I hear Nate calling my name. I've got to get busy, Mom. Wish me luck."

  "You've got it, honey. Call me at the inn this evening to let me know how the autopsy went, okay? There's some leftover lasagna in the fridge you can heat up for supper. I won't be home tonight. We've all been instructed to stay at the inn for the next couple of days—if possible, of course. With every guestroom filled, Stone needs me to help Crystal anyway. She's a pro, but even so, it's too much for one person to handle. Sometimes it's almost too much for the two of us to handle. These Historical Society people can be very demanding."

  "Okay, I'll give you a call from home then. It'll be eight or nine, I'd imagine. Don't work too hard, Mom."

  * * *

  Crystal and I served pork roast with potatoes, carrots, and fried okra for supper, and now the guests were gathering in the parlor with their ever-present cups of coffee. The caffeine consumption was hitting a dangerous level, I feared. I was accustomed to drinking coffee from morning till night, but I wasn't sure about the guests.

  While exiting the parlor with an empty carafe, I was fascinated by Cornelius Walker and Ernestine Fischer, who were dancing in the corner of the room. They were doing something resembling the fox trot, dancing in time to the music drifting out from the antique Atwater Kent radio on the fireplace mantel. For such an ordinary-looking man, Cornelius was an incredibly accomplished dancer, and Ernestine was doing all she could to keep up with him. I was compelled to stop and watch them from the doorway. Robert Fischer and Rosalinda Swift were clapping along with the music, in appreciation of the show the dancers were putting on, and I joined in, applauding the pair enthusiastically at the conclusion of the song. I noticed, however, the lively beat of the music and the motion of the dancers had caused me to feel a little dizzy all of a sudden.

  Back in the kitchen a few minutes later, I poured another pitcher of water into the coffeemaker and began working on the daunting pile of dirty dishes on the counter. I struggled with the task of washing them, feeling lethargic and slightly sick to my stomach. As I dried the last plate and was putting it back into the cabinet, the phone rang, and Crystal answered it after the first ring.

  "It's for you," she said. "Your daughter."

  "Thanks." I shut the cabinet door and hung the dishtowel up to dry.

  "Are you all right?" Crystal asked as I stumbled, reaching for the phone. I nodded and gratefully sat down on the stool she slid across the floor toward me.

  I greeted Wendy, who was calling from the coroner's lab again. She was excited about executing the autopsy on Horatio Prescott III without a single hitch. "As suspected, he was killed by a single gunshot wound to the head," she said. "I extracted a thirty-two-caliber slug from his skull, just behind the right eye socket."

  Wendy said this in the same manner anyone else's daughter might when bragging about being named Employee of the Month. I found it a little distasteful.

  "Surprise, surprise," I said. "Are you certain it wasn't something he ate? You know those chicken bones can be hazardous."

  "What was unexpected though," Wendy continued, ignoring my sarcasm entirely, "was the damage we found to Mr. Prescott's organs. Prior to being shot, he'd ingested some form of toxin."

  "Ahh, so it was something he ate," I said, even as I realized I was being too glib. A man had been murdered, and I was making light of it. The giddiness was partially due to the almost intoxicated sensation I was suddenly experiencing.

  "He hadn't ingested enough to kill him, but it's safe to say he wasn't feeling too whoopee this morning at the time he was murdered. There was also quite a bit of scotch in his system, so we think the poison might have been slipped into a drink and probably ingested just before midnight. I determined he died somewhere between four and six A.M., and Nate concurred with my conclusion."

  "How could you determine the time of his death?"

  "By the temperature of his liver. The liver also showed signs of degeneration from the presence of the poisonous substance."

  "That would agree with the time I heard him hit the floor in the room above me, which was 5:08. What exactly is the poisonous substance found in his system?"

  "Don't know yet," Wendy said, "but we should have the toxicology report back soon."

  I tried to answer but began to cough as a result of a dry, burning throat that had been bothering me off and on all evening. I hacked again, and Wendy asked, "You okay, Mom? You haven't started smoking again, have you? You're coughing, and you just don't sound like yourself."

  "No, honey, I haven't started smoking again, and I don't plan to. It's just a sore throat causing me to cough. It's nothing to worry about. I'm probably just catching a cold. Or it could just be the dry winter air in this place."

  "Have you taken any Alka-Seltzer yet?" Wendy's answer to everything from a splinter to congestive heart failure was Alka-Seltzer. She swore Alka-Seltzer, if taken early enough, could ward off anything, whether it is a cold, the flu, or the black plague.

  "No, not yet, but I'll check to see if Stone has any in his medicine cabinet. So, anyway, is it safe to assume Mr. Prescott was shot because the poison failed to do the trick?" I asked.

  "That'd be my guess. No need to kill a guy twice."

  * * *

  After the Historical Society guests retired to their rooms for the evening, I joined Stone in the parlor to discuss the day's events. I had poured myself another cup of espresso and carried it in the room with me.

  Stone gave me a long, tender kiss before he noticed the cup in my hand. "Good Lord, Lexie, are you still drinking coffee? Haven't you had more than enough of the stuff today already? You'll never get any s
leep tonight."

  "I gave up the prayer of sleeping a long time ago. But, actually, I'm feeling a bit nauseated at the moment, so I don't think I'd better drink anymore of this, anyway. I was just going to go check your medicine cabinet for Alka-Seltzer."

  "I'll go buy a box of it for you if there isn't any in the cabinet. And maybe I'll pick up some Nyquil to help you sleep—so you won't be up all night."

  "By the sounds of the floorboards creaking and groaning upstairs, I don't think I'll be the only person up all night. We went through a full three-pound can of coffee today, along with what was left from the other can we started with this morning."

  "Got enough left for tomorrow?"

  "No, but Crystal is going to pick some up on her way to work in the morning, along with a few other items we are running short on. We've got enough for several pots, which will get us started, at least."

  "Good. Crystal's been a real asset to us, hasn't she? Can you make sure she's reimbursed for whatever she has to purchase? I'll make sure she gets a bonus when this is all over with, too."

  I assured him I'd take care of reimbursing Crystal, and then told him everything I'd learned throughout the day, none of which I'd found time to jot down in my notebook. He listened intently, as he always did. He then placed his index finger under my chin and lifted my face to study it with scrutiny. "You look flushed, sweetheart. I don't want you working as long or hard tomorrow, you hear? These people are not invalids; they can fend for themselves tomorrow if Crystal is not available to wait on them. Crystal doesn't have to be at their beck and call either, for that matter."

  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.