I was sipping on my surprisingly stout coffee when Mr. Randall returned to his tidy, little office, wearing large, dark-rimmed glasses. I noticed with amusement he'd slipped a fitted sweater over the "wife-beater" muscle shirt he'd been wearing earlier. His toupee had been straightened, as well.
"Feel better?" I asked.
"Yes, much better, thanks."
"I've tried, but never could become accustomed to wearing contacts. I finally decided it wasn't worth the hassle when I primarily only needed corrective lenses for driving, to correct a slight nearsightedness," I said.
"Contacts can take some getting used to. I've been having a lot of trouble with them lately because I think they're scratched and need to be replaced with new ones. I guess I need to make an appointment with the ophthalmologist to have my vision re-checked, or at least order new contacts. I'd like to try the kind you can leave in for days at a time. I have to take my current pair out every night."
"Yes, you should have your eyes examined regularly," I agreed. "Your vision is nothing to mess around with," I said. Good advice from a lady who has her eyes examined on an every-other-decade basis, and a routine physical every five or six years, whether she needed one or not. I'd always been much better at maintaining my vehicles than I was at maintaining my body.
I changed the subject quickly, as I needed to be on my way home before Stone realized I wasn't napping in his room at the inn. "You sure do look familiar to me, Mr. Randall. Do you belong to the country club?"
"No."
"Do you golf at all?"
"Haven't picked up a club in years, Ms. Shryock."
"Were you at the horse races the other evening?"
"No."
"Hmm. Were you, by chance, at the theatre the other night when they showed the movie, Oh, God! at the dollar show?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I was!" Peter nearly shouted at me.
"That's it, then."
"Yes, I was there that night. You must have seen me there," he said. He was obviously taken aback by my last question. He sat up straighter and looked at me with new interest. I knew he was wondering if I was someone who could corroborate his alibi. "I was sitting in the back row, on the far end. There was no one else in the row."
"Uh-huh, that's right. I remember now. You were sitting by yourself on the back row, which is exactly where I saw you. I knew you looked familiar, but for a minute, I just couldn't recall where it was I'd seen you before."
"Well, I'm sorry I don't recognize you, too, but I slept through the entire movie, I think. The young usher boy had to wake me up to tell me to go home after the movie had ended," Peter said.
"Oh, that's okay. I really couldn't expect you to remember seeing me in a dark theatre. I just have this thing about faces. I wish I could remember people's names as well as I do their faces. If you were so tired, why did you go to the movies in the first place?"
"I've been under a lot of stress recently. There are many unexpected complications in my life right now, and insomnia has been a severe problem the last few weeks," Peter said.
I nodded and said, "I have trouble with insomnia, too."
"I couldn't get to sleep on Sunday night," Peter continued. "I finally gave up and walked over to the picture show directly across the street from here, you know. I'm not a movie-person as a rule, but I thought it might take my mind off more pressing matters and help me relax. I hadn't expected it to relax me to the point I'd fall sound asleep in my seat. But I hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks, and that's exactly what happened. I'm very glad you saw me there."
"You are? Why?" I didn't want to let on that I knew about Mr. Randall's recent arrest for suspicion of murder. News of the arrest hadn't yet made the front page of the Rockdale Gazette, as far as I knew, and as Stacey Shryock, it'd be easy to assume I'd have no knowledge of his connection to the recent local homicide victim.
"It may help me out with one of the little problems I've recently experienced. I know this is a strange request to make, Ms. Shryock, but would you mind signing a statement that you remember seeing me at the theatre Sunday night?" Peter asked anxiously.
"What?" I said, with the most perplexed expression I could muster. My limited acting experience, small roles in school plays during high school, was coming in handy.
Mr. Randall's request was reasonable, but it was impossible for me to sign a statement indicating I'd seen him at the local movie theatre Sunday night because there wasn't a sliver of truth to it. And the Rockdale detectives would know it was untrue. They knew I was lying in bed just nine feet below the victim, as he was being slain by an unknown executioner.
"It's a long story, Ms. Shryock," Peter Randall said. "But the gist of it is, I need someone to back up an affirmation I made stating I was at the theatre Sunday night and not somewhere else. It's the truth, as you know. I would never ask anyone to lie on my behalf. I just need someone like you to validate my statement for me."
"Couldn't the usher who woke you up at the end of the movie identify you and vouch for you?"
"No, apparently the kid can't remember me at all. Probably been smoking pot or something." Peter looked disgusted as he spoke.
"Hmm, I think I might be able to take care of the problem without even signing a statement."
"You can? How? I don't understand. Why would you do such a thing for me? How could you help when you don't really know me or the circumstances?"
"Don't worry," I said. "You'll just have to place blind trust in me for now. I'll try to get back in touch with you soon—about the investment portfolio as well as validating your claim to have been in the theatre."
I wasn't patronizing Peter. I really did intend to think about investing in a money market account. A few shares of Microsoft stock might be a wise investment, too. I wished I'd bought some shares of it several years back when I'd first considered it.
I sat my empty coffee cup on his desk, grabbed my coat off the chair's back, and made my way quickly to the front door with Peter Randall following closely on my heels. I was his ticket to exoneration, and he was understandably reluctant to let me out of his house and out of his sight. I was anxious to get over to the police station. I had a good idea what needed to be done to clear Peter Randall of the murder of Horatio Prescott III.
* * *
"Damn! Damn! Damn," I cursed, pounding my fists on the steering wheel. I'd been driving up Main Street on my way to the police station when my right front tire had swerved and slid off the pavement. The Jeep had come to a rest down in the ditch, axle-deep in heavy, wet snow.
I shifted the transfer case into four-wheel drive low, but the vehicle still refused to budge. I even tried wedging chunks of plywood under the tires and scattering cat litter and salt crystals all around the tires of the Jeep. All winter long I'd carried these items behind the rear seat for just this sort of emergency. I even had a bag of sand strategically placed over each of the rear wheel wells for traction. I might as well have been hauling around chocolate-covered raisins and old magazines. At least I'd have comfort food to munch on and something to read while I waited for help. Next winter, I vowed, my emergency survival kit would contain more logical and realistic items.
Finally, I accepted the fact I wasn't going to get the Jeep out of the ditch on my own, and I turned on my cell phone to call Doug's Towing, the only wrecker company in Rockdale. I was hoping to be pulled out of the ditch and on my way to the police station before one of the local policemen came along and ticketed me for not having chains on my tires.
The man answering the phone at Doug's Towing told me there were two jobs in line ahead of me. Once he finished the job he was working on and towed another vehicle across town, he'd come and pull me out of the ditch. He estimated his arrival time at an hour to ninety minutes. I agreed to wait because I knew I had no other choice other than to call Stone, and that would be my very last resort.
I clipped the phone back on my belt and looked in my rear-view mirror and was irked to see the reflection of a police c
ar pulling up on the pavement beside me. I groaned and struck the steering wheel with the palm of my right hand again. "Damn! Damn! Damn!"
I groaned louder and added one more empathic "Damn!" when I saw Detective Wyatt Johnston step out of the patrol car. I knew there were several other officers on the police force in Rockdale. Couldn't it have been one of them instead of Johnston who just happened to drive down the street and find me in this predicament? Wyatt's eyebrows arched in surprise as he bent over and peered down into my window.
"Lexie? Is that you?"
"Yes, it's me. Hello there, Detective Johnston. I suppose you're going to ask me why I don't have chains on my tires and issue me a ticket."
"No, we rarely ever actually give out citations for motorists failing to have chains on their tires," he said with a laugh. "We only threaten to do it as a way of enticing them to stay off the streets until the snow plows can get them cleared off. What I really wanted to ask you is why you are out on the streets this morning to begin with. I know all about what's been going on at the inn and am surprised you are even out of bed. By the way, have you called anyone for assistance?"
"Doug's Towing. They said they'd be here in an hour or so."
"Okay, good. I just saw their tow truck pulling Howie Clamm out of the ditch in front of his house. He's the paper delivery guy for the Rockdale Gazette. Will you be all right here until the wrecker arrives? Have you got enough fuel?"
"Yes, I'll be fine, and my gas tank is over three-quarters full. I just noticed the Farm and Ranch Supply Store across the street. I need a couple of things they should carry, so I'll waste some time over there while I wait for the wrecker to arrive. But first, there's something important I need to tell you regarding the murder investigation. I was just heading to the police station when my tire slid off the pavement."
After discussing the homicide case with the detective for a few minutes, I thanked him for his help and climbed out of the Jeep. I hoped what I'd just related to him would help clear Peter Randall as a suspect, or at least give his story some credibility, by substantiating his claim he was at the movie theatre in the hours preceding Prescott's murder.
"Call and ask the dispatcher for me if you need anything," Wyatt Johnston said, pulling away from the curb. "I'll relay what you told me to Sergeant O'Brien. It makes perfect sense to me, Lexie."
I thanked him for his time and waved as he drove off. Then I locked the doors of the Jeep, although only someone with a tow truck could steal it, and made my way over to the Farm and Ranch store. I counted three vehicles there, in a parking lot that had seen only a rudimentary plowing. There were two SUVs and a large four-wheel drive pickup.
It soon became clear all three vehicles belonged to the help. I was probably the first customer to enter the store all morning. The older woman at the front desk greeted me like a long-lost friend and informed me only a skeleton crew was on hand at the store. She said most of the employees had been forced to stay home due to the blizzard conditions, but the floor clerk, Daphne, would be able to help me if I had any questions or problems.
"Speak of the devil," the lady said. "Here's comes Daphne now."
The young gal named Daphne was a Britney Spears look-alike. She smiled at me around the cherry lollipop she was sucking on. It was sticking out the corner of her mouth.
"Can I help you?" she asked after removing the sucker from her cheek, careful not to drop it. Daphne wore a pair of skintight blue jeans, riding so low on her hips that picking the lollipop up off the floor would have proved challenging and potentially revealing, if not physically impossible.
"I'm looking for tansy oil, Daphne. Do you carry it here?" I asked her.
"Is that the new skin-darkening cream? I've been wanting to try that, too," she said. Daphne was a true blonde, I could tell. "I hate lying out in the sun because it makes me all sweaty, and like, yucky."
"No, tansy oil has nothing to do with tanning."
"Oh? Then is it the stuff they put in chainsaws?"
"No, Daphne, they mix regular two-cycle motor oil in with the gasoline and put bar chain lube on the chain," I said. I felt like I was explaining trigonometry to a kindergartner. I was no chainsaw expert, but I felt like a member of Mensa talking to Daphne. "Actually, tansy oil is considered an herb—"
"Don't know nothing about herbs," she said, as she turned away, shrugging her bony shoulders.
"But, uh—"
"Sorry about that. I'll be back in the pet supplies department if you need me, Frieda." Daphne popped the sucker back into her beet-red mouth and walked away, her hips swaying back and forth.
The older woman had the decency to look embarrassed. "Youth," she said, a single word expressing a thorough explanation of the scene we'd just witnessed. "I'm sorry all of our department managers are off today. I'm Frieda Nihart, by the way. Feel free to look around in the herb department for the tansy oil while I search through our inventory list. I wish Mr. Walker were here today. I know he'd be able to help you. He seems to know a little about everything."
"Cornelius?" I asked.
"Yes, Cornelius Walker," Frieda said. "You must know him. Isn't he just the best thing to come along since Botox? All the customers flock to him for help and assistance. And all of the older single ladies just flock to him for the sake of being near him and to have a chance at maybe reeling him in. He'd be quite a catch, you know."
"So I've heard," I said, dryly. I studied Frieda's forehead for a second. If she was getting Botox treatments, it was a horrible waste of money on her part. She had furrows across her forehead you could plant potatoes in.
"Thank you, Frieda," I said, before heading back to the herb department. Was there something about Cornelius I'd overlooked? I wondered. Had my first impression of him clouded my ability to see him in a more realistic and favorable, light? I'd have to try to set my former opinions aside and re-evaluate him.
The store was eerily quiet. My footsteps seemed to echo as I walked down the aisle. I could even hear Daphne talking to a fish in an aquarium back in the pet department. "We'll find you a new home soon, my pretty little neon tetra," I heard her say. I couldn't hear if the neon tetra responded.
Looking around the herb department, I found nothing resembling tansy oil. I found about every other herb there was, and everything even remotely related to herbs and herb gardening, but no tansy oil. Frieda joined me in a few minutes to tell me tansy oil was not listed in their inventory either, so she doubted the Farm and Ranch store had ever carried it. It would be a highly unlikely product for the store to carry, she told me.
I thanked her again, purchased a replacement tub of salt crystals and an ice scraper, and left the store. It was time to bite the bullet and call Stone. I had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but I really had no other option. Too much time had passed. He'd soon discover I wasn't in his room at the inn, if he didn't know already, and he'd be worried and upset. I wouldn't have been surprised to find Detective Johnston had already phoned Stone from his squad car.
Stone answered his cell phone on the first ring. "Lexie? Where are you? Are you all right?" There was anxiety in his voice, and I felt instantly contrite. I didn't deserve a man as understanding and thoughtful as Stone Van Patten.
"Yes, I'm okay. I apologize for sneaking out. There was something I really had to do, and I knew you'd balk at the idea of my leaving the inn," I said. I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket. I was perturbed to find myself sniveling into the phone, but I was consumed with a sense of guilt at having deceived Stone. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I really didn't mean to worry you."
"It's okay, honey. I'm sure I would have balked because I can't help but worry about you, but the main thing is that you're all right. When Crystal came and told me Rosalinda was up in the room with you, I rushed right up there and was terrified to find you missing. Rosalinda claimed to have no idea where you'd gone, but she was well on her way to getting inebriated, and I don't trust her anyway. I called your cell phone and got your voice mail. I lef
t a message but you never returned my call."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot to turn it on until I had to call for a wrecker," I said.
"A wrecker? Oh, no! What happened? Have you been in an accident?"
"No, no. It's nothing like that. The Jeep is just stuck in a ditch. Doug's Towing will soon be here to pull me out, and then I'll head straight to the Alexandria Inn. I'll tell you all about everything then. Okay?"
* * *
Stone was understandably annoyed with me when I returned early in the afternoon, but his sense of relief overwhelmed his anger. Still, I knew his patience had to be wearing pretty thin with my recent impulsive antics. He listened patiently as I reiterated my conversations with Rosalinda and then her half-brother Peter Randall. I told him Detective Johnston had stopped and visited with me when he spotted my Jeep in the ditch, and then I told him about my visit to the Farm and Ranch Supply store. As always, Stone listened intently as I spoke, and when I finished, he told me I had a message to call Wendy at her home. Harry Turner had told him he wanted to talk to me, too, when I had some free time.
We were sitting at the counter in the kitchen, drinking coffee and scanning through the Rockdale Gazette, which Stone had just retrieved from the front yard. It was several hours late in being delivered, which didn't come as any surprise to me. I knew the carrier, Howie Clamm, had been towed out of a ditch earlier, too.
Stone read the front-page article aloud. It concerned the investigation into Prescott's murder and the arrest of Peter Randall as the prime suspect, so it was conceivable Stacey Shryock could have read about Peter's arrest, after all. As Stone held the paper up to read the front page, I noticed a small headline on the back of the paper. It read Indian Rights Committee Snuffs Development Plan.
A few minutes later, I would read the entire article and realize the property in question was the land selected as the site of the new shopping center downtown. It was the property Horatio had bought out from under Robert Fischer and was in preparation of selling to a developer for six and a half million dollars. Only now, during the surveying stage, in the middle of the acreage, an ancient Indian burial plot had been discovered and the project had been stalled. It contained the remains of six long-dead Native Americans from the Pottawatomie tribe. For now, at least, no development would be allowed to take place on what was considered sacred land. It now appeared that Robert Fischer was fortunate he hadn't invested in this particular property, which was suddenly worth less than half what Horatio had paid for it years ago.
Lexie Starr Cozy Mysteries Boxed Set Page 31
