Chapter 17
I finished reading the newspaper and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I'd missed lunch at the inn, and my stomach was growling. I made a sandwich for Stone, too, because he'd eaten early and was hungry again. I liked the fact that, like me, Stone carried around a few extra pounds. It made him cuddlier and made me feel less chubby. It also lent him a reliable air, which I found reassuring.
Crystal was scouring counters in the kitchen and offered to make the sandwiches for us, but I declined her offer with a wave of my hand. She was cleaning up after the lunch she'd just served to our Historical Society guests. She had enough on her plate without waiting on us hand and foot. In one fluid motion, Crystal tossed the soiled washrag in the sink and opened the dishwasher, which was full of still steaming clean dishes. She was placing a stack of plates in the cabinet before I could even open my mouth to speak.
"It'll only take me a minute, sweetie," I said. "But thanks for the offer anyway. After you finish unloading the dishwasher, why don't you take a much-deserved coffee break yourself?"
"I might," she said. "I've already had too much coffee today, but I could use a glass of iced tea."
"Take a break now if you'd like, Crystal," Stone said. "The dishes can wait."
The kitchen phone rang as he spoke, and he crossed the room to answer it. I could tell it was Detective Johnston on the other end. When Stone hung up, he turned to me with a grin and a thumbs-up gesture.
"Detective Johnston asked me to tell you that you were correct," Stone said. "After he spoke to Sergeant O'Brien about your idea, the sergeant sent him over to Peter Randall's house to take a Polaroid photo of Peter with his glasses on and without the hairpiece. Randall had forgotten he hadn't worn the toupee or his contacts to the theatre. Wyatt took the new photo over to the usher's house and the young kid recognized Peter immediately as the man he woke in the theatre Sunday night. The kid said Mr. Randall fell asleep during the previews of coming attractions, before the featured movie even began. He admitted he hadn't recognized the man in the first photo he'd been shown because it was a photo taken of Mr. Randall at work, wearing his toupee, contacts, and a formal suit. It looked like a totally different person."
"I had a gut feeling that's what had happened," I said.
"Your intuition paid off. The lady who sold the movie ticket to Mr. Randall also recognized him in the new photo and stated she saw him leave the theatre after the show and walk across the street to his house. She could see him open his front door from her ticket booth. She said all his lights went out shortly afterwards, as if he'd gone straight to bed. The house remained dark until she left the theatre at quitting time."
"So his story's been validated?"
"Yes. The charges against him have been dropped, and because Peter Randall was the only suspect they'd come up with, the Rockdale Police Department has decided to turn the case over to the county homicide division. The county has a larger staff and more experience dealing with this kind of thing."
"What a relief!" I said. "On both counts, I might add."
"Horatio's daughter Veronica must have thought so, too. Wyatt said she decided not to retain her own P.I. once she heard the county homicide division was taking over the case. Veronica felt they were better equipped to handle the investigation, I'm sure."
"It stands to reason they would be," I agreed. "Rockdale's not a very big town and doesn't have a very extensive police force. I don't think it'd be wise to have the entire force tied up with one homicide case anyway, even as rare as homicide is for this town. Rockdale's not exactly a hotbed of crime, but things are always going on that need the attention of police officers."
"You're probably right," Stone said. "And also, Wyatt told me Veronica had recently divorced her Mormon husband, which caused quite a stir. Apparently her husband was abusive. Broke her jaw the last time he pounded on her. Veronica's in town for her father's funeral, and Wyatt is going to escort her to the services. He's picking her up at the airport this afternoon. He's kind of excited and surprised she'd lower herself to accept his help. He told me he had a crush on her when he was younger, but she'd had no interest in him whatsoever. I told him to remember people can change over the years, for better or worse."
I nodded. "That'd be nice if they hit it off. Wyatt is an attractive man, and he seems like the type who'd be happier with a wife and family. He definitely needs a wife who likes to cook. Speaking of family, Rosalinda will be happy to hear the news about her brother. I think I'll go tell her right now," I said.
"You'll probably find Rosalinda's a bit tipsy." Stone chuckled and gave me a wink. "She's been in the parlor with Cornelius for a couple of hours. The two of them seem to be getting pretty tight—in more ways than one."
"She's with the handsome devil himself?"
"Huh?"
I left him with a puzzled look on his face and went to tell Rosalinda the good news about Peter. After speaking with Rosalinda, I'd search for Harry Turner.
* * *
As I suspected, Rosalinda was ecstatic the police had dropped charges on Peter, or at least she was ecstatic once she remembered who Peter was and why he'd been arrested in the first place. I found her giggling like a schoolgirl in response to something Cornelius had just said as they frolicked playfully on the loveseat near the fireplace. "Wank woo, Wexie," Rosalinda said, after I explained the good news.
"Have you seen Harry Turner recently?" I asked Cornelius. I could see that conversing with Rosalinda was just a waste of my time.
"No, sorry," he said. "He's may be reading in the library with Alma or in his room packing his suitcase. We're all planning to leave after lunch tomorrow. We decided to give the streets a chance to dry off before we headed out. They could still be a bit slick in the morning."
It seemed as if none of the Historical Society guests were in a hurry to leave the Alexandria Inn. They apparently were becoming quite accustomed to being waited on and now didn't want to return to their mundane everyday lives, lives that required them to be more self-reliant. I'd heard both Ernestine Fischer and Harry Turner tell Crystal to call them if she ever needed a job because they would be delighted to have her work for them as a housekeeper in their private homes. She had smiled sweetly and promised she'd keep their offers in mind.
At least there was a light at the end of our long, dark tunnel, I thought, as I went in search of Harry Turner in the library. We could surely tolerate these folks for one more day. Couldn't we?
* * *
Alma was in the library by herself, with a book titled Death March on the desk in front of her. The book was opened to a page with a drawing depicting one of the gas chambers employed by Adolf Hitler. I would have thought she could find something a little less depressing than gas chambers to read about, even though she didn't actually seem to be reading the book, but rather using it to hide behind.
"How was lunch, Alma?"
"It was fine, thank you," she said. I nodded, even though I knew she hadn't eaten anything. Crystal had told me neither Boris Dack nor the Turners had shown up for lunch. "It was just fine," Alma said again from behind the book.
She was oddly distracted, as if her mind were miles away from the book she had propped up in front of her. I doubt she'd have even noticed if the book were upside down. Alma appeared ill at ease and wouldn't look me in the eye. She was fidgeting in her chair, and her skin looked flushed and clammy. Something had definitely happened to upset her. Her eyes were darting all over the place, never resting more than a second or two on any object.
"Are you all right, Mrs. Turner?"
"Yes, of course. I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"
"You just seem a little agitated today, a bit nervous and edgy."
"Well, I may be a bit edgy. Who wouldn't be, under the circumstances? The murder, and all that's happened since, has been a little unnerving for all of us," Alma said. "You surely are a bit edgy yourself with what you've been through."
"You're right. We're all a bit on edge,
myself included. I need to get home to my little place in Shawnee for a break from all the excitement. Are you looking forward to going home tomorrow? I hear everyone is planning to leave the inn after lunch," I said.
"Oh, really? I hadn't heard that. But yes, I suppose I'm looking forward to going home tomorrow, even though some things will never be the same again. Once I'm home, that is. Staying here the last few days has been a very distressing experience for me. Uh, well, you know, because of the appalling murder of Mr. Prescott, naturally."
"Yes, of course. Something like a murder does tend to put a damper on things, doesn't it?"
Alma had not seemed to be terribly distressed by the "appalling murder" of Horatio Prescott, but she did seemed suddenly distressed about something. I wondered what she meant by her remark "things will never be the same" once she'd returned home. I wanted to ask her to explain her comment but knew it'd be a waste of time. She'd never air her dirty laundry—she'd made that clear before—so I changed the subject.
"Can I get you anything from the kitchen? I'm going there after I take care of a few other matters."
"A cup of hot tea does sound good. Jasmine to calm my nerves, I think, and a couple of those wonderful oatmeal cookies that Crystal was baking earlier would be much appreciated. When you have the time, of course. For some reason, lunch didn't appease my appetite." I wanted to ask if failing to show up to eat any of it had anything to do with her hunger not being appeased.
"No problem, Mrs. Turner. Stay here so I don't have to track you down, and I'll be back in a few minutes." I wanted to keep her waiting in the library while I tracked down her husband for a one-on-one discussion. I hoped he was still in his room packing his suitcase. I hurried out of the library.
As I left, Alma Turner was staring out the window, over the top of the opened book about the Nazi dictator. I wondered what had happened to make her so distraught.
* * *
Harry was in his room, but he wasn't packing his suitcase as Cornelius had suggested. He was pacing anxiously, as keyed-up as his wife had been. I could hear his footfalls from outside his room. I tapped on his door, and he opened it quickly as if he'd been waiting impatiently for someone to knock.
"Oh, good. I was hoping it was you, Lexie," he said, reaching for my elbow, pulling me in his room. "You aren't going to believe what happened this morning, just before lunch." Harry said, in an excited tone. I would have been concerned if not for the grin stretching across his face.
"I just spoke to Alma in the library, Harry. She seemed quite anxious, as if something was really worrying her. Is everything all right?"
"For me, yes, but not for her. Alma has every reason to be anxious and worried," he said. There was a glint in his eye that almost frightened me. He pulled the chair away from the small desk in his room and motioned for me to sit down. "Have a seat and let me tell you what happened when I attempted to follow your advice and speak to Boris Dack about the photo in Horatio's safe."
"The photo—"
"The one of me in Alma's negligee, of course." Harry's face flushed a light shade of pink as he made the clarification. I hadn't actually forgotten which photo was involved. That was a tough image to get out of one's mind.
"Oh, so you spoke to Boris about the photo today?" I asked.
"No, but I don't think the photo is going to be an issue any longer. I'd bet my bottom dollar the blackmailing is a thing of the past at this point."
"Oh, really? What happened? Tell me all about it." I was almost as excited as Harry now—and more than a little relieved that my advice hadn't backfired in his face.
"Well, I wanted to talk to him at the first opportunity but didn't want to do so in Alma's presence. This morning, right after breakfast, Alma told me she had the beginning of a headache forming behind her forehead. I suggested she take one of her headache pills and go back to bed for a while. She vetoed my idea, saying she'd only be awakened by someone knocking on the door, which could cause her headache to worsen. I knew Boris was up in his room, and I wanted to seize the opportunity to speak to him about the photo, so I promised Alma she wouldn't be bothered. I told her to hang the 'Do Not Disturb' placard from the doorknob and I'd make sure everyone knew she was resting, nursing one of her headaches, and didn't want to be disturbed."
"But, she's in the library now, and never mentioned a head—"
"She never had a headache, my dear," Harry cut in.
"But you said—"
"Alma lied to me about having a headache, I'm certain, just to make sure I didn't come up here looking for her."
"But why?"
"After Alma came upstairs, presumably to our room to rest, I went to Boris's door with the intention of discussing the photograph with him. I heard laughter in his room, so I put my ear up against the door. It was barely discernible, but it was unmistakably Alma's laugh. Lord knows, I'd recognize that hideous sound anywhere."
"Alma was in Boris's room?" I couldn't hide my amazement, or my confusion.
"Yes, I was shocked, too," Harry said. "And she was in a very compromising position when I slipped a credit card into the lock on his door and freed it open. When I burst into the room, they both were butt naked, cavorting in the middle of his bed, and the look on their faces was absolutely priceless."
"Oh my God! I can't imagine—"
"And guess what? I will have a photo of those expressions, to keep as a souvenir of this week here at the Alexandria Inn, just as soon as I take this disposable camera to be developed," Harry said, as he picked up a yellow, red, and black cardboard camera off his dresser. He held it up as it were a golden Oscar he'd just been awarded at the Academy Awards show.
"You didn't!" I was laughing out loud.
"I most certainly did. One good blackmail-quality photo deserves another, don't you think? I have a close friend who owns a one-hour photo lab who'll be happy to print this for me this afternoon, despite the content of the photo. I just got off the phone with him."
"How did you happen to have the camera with you?"
"Alma had it in her overnight bag. She'd brought it with her to snap photos at the inauguration ceremony, which was naturally canceled when Prescott was killed. I'd placed it in the pocket of my cardigan earlier with the intention of taking pictures of the large snowdrift beside the carport. I never did go out and take those pictures, but the camera was still in my pocket. When I heard Alma laughing inside Boris's room, I instinctively took the camera out and warmed up the flash. I snapped a photo the second I opened the door and saw them exposed on the bed."
I could scarcely contain my amusement at the thought of Harry snapping a photo of the pair on Boris's bed or my revulsion at the image that slowly formed in my mind, like a Polaroid snapshot gradually coming into focus.
"What happened next?" I asked Harry.
"Alma shrieked, grabbed her clothes, and ran across the hall to lock herself in our room while she dressed. Boris grabbed the bedspread to wrap around his flaccid naked body. Egad, talk about hideous!"
"I can well imagine." I tried not to even think about it or picture the image on that photograph.
"He seemed afraid; as if he feared I'd pull out a gun and shoot him. Maybe Boris thought I was the person who killed his partner. I don't really know what went through his mind. He was uttering something like, 'It's not what you think.' Of course, I knew it was exactly what I thought, but I didn't really care."
"What'd you say to him?"
"I merely asked him if he'd like to make an even exchange. My photo of him with my wife for Horatio's photo of me in her clothes. He obviously knew all about the photo and the monthly payments I'd been making to keep the photo out of sight because he readily agreed to the deal. He promised to extract the photo from the company safe this evening. He said he had an important meeting at six tonight—"
"Uh-huh," I said with a knowing nod.
"—but he'd stop by his office to get the photo on the way to the meeting. He'd gladly trade photos with me tomorrow morning, before
breakfast. Which reminds me, Lexie. Can I borrow your Jeep for about an hour? My Mercedes may not do well in this snow, and I'd like to take this camera over to my friend's place today. Jack lives in an apartment above his photo shop, and since there's only one photo on the roll, it shouldn't take too long."
"Why does the film even need to be developed?" I asked.
"It doesn't. I could just give the whole camera to Boris in exchange for the photo of me in the negligee, but I'd kind of like to have the negative to put in my lock box. Just in case I ever need it, if you know what I mean. I'll also have Jack print me an extra copy of the photo, just in case Boris thinks to demand the negative, too. At least I'll have it for back-up if Boris decides to also keep a copy of the photo of me, and wants to use it against me some day."
"Yes, I completely understand your need to take precautions. I wouldn't trust Boris Dack any further than Robert Fischer can throw a water buffalo. Can you leave right away? I've already promised to loan my Jeep to Boris this evening, to get to the meeting he mentioned to you, and he said he'd like to leave here by five."
Harry checked his watch, nodded, and said, "Sure. It's about two now, so I'd have it back by three, or three-thirty at the latest. I promise to be back no later than four, even if it means picking up the copies of the photo in the morning."
"Okay, I'll get the keys for you. I'm delighted it worked out so well, Harry, but sorry about the circumstances regarding Alma's affair with Mr. Dack." It had not escaped me that Harry hadn't showed much remorse about the fact his wife had been cheating on him, committing adultery with the contemptible Boris Dack, of all people. If anything, he seemed delighted, acting as if things couldn't have turned out any better for him.
Lexie Starr Cozy Mysteries Boxed Set Page 32
