Lexie Starr Cozy Mysteries Boxed Set

by Jeanne Glidewell

  As soon as the investigative team was finished, the coroner's office would take possession of the body, perform an autopsy on it, and then store it at the county morgue until further notice. Nate obviously wanted to make sure all I's were dotted and all T's were crossed before this occurred. Unfortunately, not much evidence could be found, which would make the difficult task of tracking down a suspect much harder. That's assuming a suspect existed and this really wasn't just some fluke thing like an aneurysm or a heart attack. Walter was young for a heart attack, but such things did happen on occasion.

  Maybe the smell of chloroform was just imagined by both Nate and Wendy, even though I never used bleach in the house. Laundry just wasn't my thing, and Stone didn't raise much of a fuss about wearing pink socks and t-shirts. I found myself praying poor young Walter had suffered a massive heart attack, even though that possibility was looking less and less probable.

  The local detectives asked Stone, Wendy, and me for the names of all the people we could remember who had passed through the haunted house that morning. It was just barely noon, and among us we came up with a mere handful of names, no more than six or seven. A lot of the people were strangers to us, since we'd only recently become acquainted with the area.

  And most of the guests at our haunted house had been small children. Teachers were bringing classes to the inn on field trips, so we often had a line of twenty or more kids at a time. None of them had appeared capable of cold-blooded murder. A few of them looked as though they could commit a number of unspeakable crimes, but certainly not murder. Is there such a thing as an illegal temper tantrum? Assault with a deadly mitten? I saw one boy poke another one in the eye with a green crayon, but that's the extent of any violence I'd witnessed all day.

  I noticed one of the detectives standing back in the corner of the room. He'd been involved in the previous case of Mr. Prescott's murder and had been a close friend of ours since. He was a tall, strapping, good-looking young man named Wyatt Johnston. Wyatt could ingest an entire Chinese buffet and not gain an ounce. I had tried to fill him up a couple of times and never could succeed at the challenge. He waved at me from across the room, and I made my way over to speak to him. He'd just ended a conversation with my daughter when I greeted him.

  "Any ideas what happened to young Walter?" I asked.

  "Not yet," he said.

  "Do you think there was foul play involved, Wyatt?"

  "The coroner is certain there was, so it looks likely. Wendy told me she suspected foul play from the very beginning. She said she could sense a crime had taken place in this room the moment she stepped in to it."

  Wendy would definitely tell Wyatt that kind of thing; it was the portion of her nature she'd inherited from her father coming out in her again. Like Chester, she could be extremely dramatic. She carried a lot of his traits and mannerisms, considering she was such a young child when he died.

  Reaching into a pocket inside his jacket, Wyatt extracted a small notebook. He pulled a pen out of his front shirt pocket, and asked me, "Did you see or hear anything unusual before discovering his body? Did you hear an argument taking place or a conversation of any type? Any sounds of a scuffle, perhaps?"

  Detective Johnston had asked me those exact same questions the winter before, without much success. He didn't look awfully optimistic this time around either. He merely nodded after I answered in the negative.

  "He's much too young for a heart attack, but you never know," he said. "Stranger things have happened. My nephew had heart surgery while still in the womb to avert a major heart problem after his birth. It was unbelievable."

  "Yes, it is incredible what they can do these days. Look at how much modern medicine has extended the average life span," I said, instantly feeling remorseful for talking about long life spans when Walter would never even reach the age to drink legally. Wyatt nodded at my remarks and continued to speak.

  "Personally, I couldn't make out a bleach scent near the coffin. Nate and Wendy could possibly be mistaken about the chloroform thing, even though they are trained to pick up scents like that."

  "I was just thinking along those same lines, Wyatt. Let's hope so, anyway. I'd hate to think another murder has occurred right here in the inn."

  "Yeah, me too, and it's certainly plausible he was born with some kind of heart condition. But it could be nearly anything, really. And since Nate thinks chloroform might have been present, there's sufficient reason to process this room as a crime scene and to require a full investigation into the circumstances surrounding Walter's death," Wyatt said. "We should be done here soon, and I'll make sure to let you know anything I find out. The first thing, of course, will be to notify the family. And it goes without saying, but please preserve the purity of the crime scene, at least until the detectives are through scrutinizing it. They may have to come back for further review."

  "Of course. I know the drill. Do you know any of Walter's family members?" I asked.

  "His mother, Melba Sneed, is an odd woman," Wyatt said. "We get domestic dispute calls to her house every month or so. She gets off her medicine and goes berserk. She has a tendency to get into fistfights with door-to-door salesmen for some reason. She nearly killed a girl scout selling cookies last year. She threatened to bash the poor little girl's head in with her cane. She's one pup short of a litter, but still, she'll surely be horrified when she learns of her son's death. I heard one of the detectives say Walter's father lives in Albuquerque. Mr. Sneed and Melba divorced several years ago, he said."

  "Melba sounds dangerous," I said.

  "She can be," he replied. "She is in and out of the mental ward at the hospital all the time. She's been mentally handicapped for years."

  "Did Walter have any siblings?"

  Wyatt rubbed his chiseled chin for a few moments, and replied, "I know he has a sister in town named Sheila Talley. Why do you ask?"

  "Just curious," I said.

  "Yeah, right." He chuckled. "I know how you are, Lexie. I promise to let you know anything interesting I discover about the case. And you promise me you'll stay out of trouble. I'm sure our team of detectives can figure out what happened to Walter and make any necessary arrests—yes, even without your assistance."

  "Yeah, whatever. Say, there are some homemade pastries in the kitchen. Would you like a couple before you leave?"

  "I thought you'd never ask."

  Chapter 3

  An hour later Stone, Detective Johnston, and I sat around the kitchen table sipping coffee and eating pastries. The team of detectives had finished up, and Wendy had left with Nate Smith to transport Walter's body to the county coroner's office, which was located right next to the county morgue. Naturally, we were discussing the possibilities and circumstances surrounding Walter's death. None of us could believe tragedy had once again struck at the Alexandria Inn. This death was even more tragic than the last one. A young man in his prime had been struck down. Walter should have had a long life ahead of him.

  "If it weren't for the Alexandria Inn, Rockdale would never need to borrow officers from St. Joseph's homicide division," Wyatt said. I chuckled, but Stone did not find any humor in the remark. Wyatt noticed Stone's silence and changed his tune. "Seriously, Stone, I really hate that this has happened here again. I couldn't believe it when I got the call from the dispatcher that a dead body had been found here at the inn. I was the first one to respond, not certain who'd been discovered dead on the premises. I shouldn't say this, but I was relieved to see Walter's body lying in the coffin. I didn't want to think something had happened to either of you, or to Wendy."

  "I hate it, too, that another death has occurred here. I also hate that we had to close down the haunted house a few days before Halloween. It was going so well," I lamented. "Oh, and I also hate that poor Walter is dead. He seemed like such a nice, quiet, and polite young man. And don't forget, accidental death has not been ruled out yet."

  Stone nodded in agreement, and Wyatt snatched another cream puff off the pastry tray.
Stone set his cup down on the table and said thoughtfully, "I wonder how this death's going to affect business here at the inn. Our reputation is already a bit shaky after Horatio Prescott was murdered during our grand opening. People are going to start worrying that this place really is a haunted house. We've put so much time and elbow grease into the inn. Not to mention money. A death in the first year of operation, much less the first day, is uncanny. But two deaths in the first year? That's just unbelievable. Customers are going to be afraid to stay here."

  "I hadn't thought of it that way," I said, although I had thought of almost nothing else since the death was discovered. "Hmm, I wonder—"

  "No, Lexie! I don't like the look in your eye or the sound of your voice. I know what you're thinking. I feared this was going to happen. You want to jump into this investigation feet first, don't you?" Stone asked. He had begun to pick his coffee cup up but set it back on the table forcefully. "Don't you, Lexie?"

  "No, not really. I just thought we might ask around a bit. Make sure nothing or no one is overlooked. We're intimately involved you know. Walter did die in your establishment. We have the reputation of the inn to protect."

  "I've got you to protect," Stone said. "You are my main concern, and my number one responsibility."

  "And I appreciate it. I really do. But we've gotten involved in the past and no harm was done."

  "No harm was done?" Stone looked at me incredulously. "You were nearly killed several times!"

  "Yes, but I wasn't."

  "Only by the grace of God you weren't. And speaking of God, that is why he created policemen like Wyatt. Let them do their jobs, Lexie. I appreciate your concern. Believe me, I do, but I'm more concerned about you than I am about any brick and mortar building. And I don't want to get involved. I have enough to do already, taking care of the inn. The authorities will have a cause of death determined shortly, and if there was foul play involved, a suspect will be apprehended and brought to justice. Case closed. What do you think, Wyatt?"

  "I think this cream puff is delicious," Wyatt said. When it came to eating Wyatt had a one-track mind. He picked up another cream puff. It disappeared in two bites. "Can you teach Veronica to make these things, and those cherry tarts you make too?"

  Veronica was the only daughter of the late Mr. Prescott and was currently dating Wyatt, with whom she'd reconnected during the ensuing investigation of Horatio Prescott's death nearly a year ago. They'd been classmates in high school, but never dated back then.

  After her father's death she'd moved to Rockdale from Salt Lake City, where she'd recently lost the graphic design job she'd held at a local advertising firm. The firm decided to downsize when business slowed down, and they laid off a number of employees. She had the least seniority and was the first to go. Wyatt rehashed the story now to remind Stone and me what had brought Veronica back to Rockdale.

  "That was a bad break for her, but it turned out to be fortunate for you, didn't it? You were meant for each other. I'm so glad things have worked out so well for the two of you. How is Veronica, by the way?" I asked.

  "She's doing fine. She just landed a new job at a casino in St. Joseph. It isn't really what she was hoping for, but it will do for now. She has her inheritance to live on for the time being, but she'd really like to find another job involving graphic design. After all, she went to the University of Kansas to earn a degree in that field. She submits an application whenever she hears about an opening in the graphic design field. She'd love to work for a large advertising firm."

  "I remember she inherited her father's old place and moved into it. Is she planning to sell it?" I asked.

  The magnificent house was an Italianate mansion in the historic region of Rockdale, not far from the Alexandria Inn. Her father, Horatio Prescott, was about to be inducted as the president of the local historical society when he was murdered in our nicest suite. It was a big deal here in Rockdale, a small town that took a lot of pride in its history and quaintness. It was Rockdale's uniqueness that brought a lot of visitors in to town to leave their money in restaurants, gift shops, gas stations, and so on. Antique stores littered Main Street, and these were also popular with tourists. One small company in town offered a tour of homes in the historic region, so passenger vans often stopped in front of the inn while a tour guide narrated, explaining the design and history of the Alexandria Inn.

  "I think she's planning to list the home with Sunflower Realty," Wyatt said. "It's too much for her to take care of, and she really has no interest in antiques or historic homes. She'd like something smaller, easier to maintain, like a condo or townhouse. Unfortunately, as you know, the housing market in Rockdale is not at its best right now. There are far more houses on the market than there are buyers wanting to buy them."

  "Not only that," Stone interjected. "Credit is easily accessible at banks across the country, so many people are building brand new homes, when they once would have bought an older home in an established neighborhood and fixed it up. Buyers are getting mortgages with little or no down payments. Contractors are building new spec homes, and buyers are getting into bidding wars over them. Subdivisions are popping up everywhere, except in smaller towns like ours. Walnut Ridge Estates is really the only new subdivision in Rockdale. But in places like Johnson County, every plot of vacant land is being sold for a mint and developed into a new subdivision. Eventually the housing bubble will probably burst and people will find themselves upside down in their new homes, owing more for them than they appraise for."

  "That's true," I said. "Eventually her historic home will sell, and maybe, in the meantime, Veronica could make a little extra money by taking in boarders, either short-term, or long-term. There's a shortage of rentals in this town, you know, and we do draw a lot of tourists. We haven't done too badly here at the inn so far."

  "Good idea, Lexie. I'll suggest it to her when I stop by her place tonight. Are you sure you wouldn't mind a little competition?" Wyatt asked, winking at me over the top of his pastry. He knew the inn was more of a labor of love for us than a quest for money.

  "Of course not. There's always room for one more, and her Italianate is ideal for a bed and breakfast," I said. "We'll help her in any way we can. As you know, we have a tendency to fill up in the summer months, and we'd be glad to send customers her way. We'd recommend her bed and breakfast as a substitute."

  "That would be so nice of you guys. She might just jump all over an idea like this. She could certainly use the extra money. A place like hers is expensive to maintain," Wyatt said.

  "You can say that again," Stone said.

  The subject of us doing a little investigating of our own had been dropped, but it wouldn't stay that way for long. Of that, I was certain.

  * * *

  The phone was ringing in the kitchen later that afternoon as I walked in to get a refill on my coffee. I could tell by the caller ID it was my daughter.

  "Hello, Wendy."

  "Hi, Mom. How are things going over there?" she asked. "Did the plastic hanging skeleton come to life, or a white-sheeted ghost make off with the silver since I left? The Alexandria Inn is a hotbed of crime, you know."

  "No, nothing new has happened here," I told her. She was getting way too much enjoyment out of this terrible situation. "But Wyatt called and said they'd had to take Walter's mother, Melba Sneed, to the hospital again because she became so distraught after hearing the news. Wyatt said she was nearly out of her mind and only half lucid when they first showed up on her doorstep, as if she already knew that something bad had happened. He thinks she might have forgotten to take her meds today, or possibly all week. She forgets to take them regularly, he said."

  "I've heard through the grapevine she's a bit off-kilter, even on the best of days," Wendy said.

  "Yes, but I still find it disturbing she'd had some kind of premonition about the devastating news she was about to hear before she was told about her son's death. Doesn't that seem a bit odd to you, Wendy? Maybe I'll go up and visit with her tom
orrow."

  "Oh, boy—"

  "I just—"

  "Mom—"

  "But I—"

  "Please tell me you aren't going to get involved in this investigation," Wendy pleaded. "Do you remember what happened, or almost happened, the last time you did that? Granted, everything worked out okay in the end, but the outcome could have been much different. You are lucky to be alive."

  "Oh, Wendy, I have no intention of getting involved to that extent," I said. "I only want to ask a few questions here and there. You know, just to protect the integrity of the inn. Even Stone said he was worried about how the news of Walter's death could affect the business. I feel it's the least I can do."

  "Oh, boy—" she said again. "A shiver just ran all the way up my spine. I almost hate to tell you what we found out in the autopsy."

  "Oh, tell me," I said, much like a cat in heat in my intensity. "Come on, Wendy, tell me. Please."

  "Well, it was chloroform, as we suspected, which was used, presumably to sedate Walter. We found it in the tox screen we ran. The unusual thing is that Walter had a blood sugar reading of nine, which is way, way below normal. The official cause of death was listed as hypoglycemic coma."

  "What's the normal range for blood sugar?"

  "Generally between eighty and one hundred and twenty, and Walter has no history of diabetes or hypoglycemia. There was a small red puncture mark, a sign of a recent injection, on his lower right anterior abdominal wall. I was the one who discovered it," Wendy stated proudly.

  "What does that mean, in layman's terms?" I asked. Wendy could be wordy when it came to descriptions of autopsies. I wanted her to cut to the chase.