~FIVE~
Rex rose from the table with his empty coffee cup and twitched aside the gauze drapes to take a look at developments outside the bay window. The crowd had expanded to include TV news vans with unfamiliar call letters, one in the process of uploading its live-cam apparatus toward the blurry blue sky. Reporters and cameramen stood about chatting, waiting for further action and comment from anyone willing to offer any. He spotted a patch of yellow approaching down the leafy street. Helen. As she drew nearer, he saw she was holding an assortment of carrier bags. He went out the front door to help her.
The cop at the white picket gate flexed his impressive muscles as Rex relieved her of her bags and guided her up the short flight of steps into the B & B, away from the media calling after her for information.
“Phew! Talk about running the gauntlet,” she said. “I insisted I didn’t know anything beyond what they already knew.”
She looked around the pale purple walls of the lobby. “Interesting choice of colour,” she remarked with a surprised grimace that said it all. “Thank you for the use of your credit card.” She pulled out a two-foot papier-mâché flamingo.
“What’s that for?”
“I don’t know. I just couldn’t resist. I can put it in my office.” She plunged into another bag and produced a straw hat with a blue bow matching her eyes.
“Well, that’s functional, at least.”
She put it on and posed.
“And verra fetching,” he complimented in broad Scots.
“I got one for you too.” She dug out a straw boater. “You always forget to put on sun cream. This will help.”
His delicate fair skin, the curse of a redhead, was prone to turning the shade of a boiled lobster after only one hour in the sun.
“I have a souvenir for you too,” he said. “It’s a pirate novel.”
Helen regarded the book with curiosity. “Just look at the rippling pecs on him,” she exclaimed, and laughed. “Where on earth did you find it?”
“From the husband-and-wife team of authors staying at the Dolphin Inn. See here,” he said opening it to the inside title page. “It has a special dedication.”
“ ‘To Helen, with all best wishes for a happy stay in Key West,’ ” she read. “What are D. and P. Barber like?”
“Dennis and Peggy. She’s nice, Dennis is a bit taciturn. They’re from the Midwest.”
“How exciting. I’ve never met a real novelist before.” She removed her straw hat. “Where’s the innkeeper?”
“He’s being questioned by the detective, but he said he contacted the cruise line and it was a straightforward enough procedure to get off the ship for good. I suggest we provisionally reserve our suite and then go and see about getting our luggage.”
“Have you seen our room?”
Rex admitted he had not, but that it was ready.
“As long as you’re sure,” Helen said redirecting her gaze at the lilac paint on the walls.
“Come and take a look at the Victorian fireplace.” Rex knew she would like the carved grapes and ribbons on the mantel. He led her into the dining room.
“Well, this is nice,” she approved, taking in the floral tablecloths and black-and-white prints on the walls depicting Key West before the advent of color photography.
While she was admiring the fireplace, he heard a distant door creak open and two male voices growing in volume. The first, pleasantly modulated, he recognized as belonging to Captain Diaz. The second was saying, “Walt Dyer is insisting he stayed home. Doesn’t like the noise and crowds at these events. But a guy in a neighboring apartment noticed Walt’s moped missing from its usual spot when he returned home at about one this morning. Diane Dyer says she was asleep upstairs with her kids.” The voices disappeared through the front door, which closed with a soft thud. Footsteps retreated down the brick path.
“It’s a pinkish shade I’ve heard referred to as ‘blush,’ ” Helen remarked looking over her shoulder at the marble mantel as she and Rex returned to the foyer. “And aren’t those owls a hoot?” she asked, referring to the andirons.
He laughed at her joke. Just then, Walt emerged through the baize door camouflaged in lilac that led to the kitchen annex. He appeared delighted to see them.
“Ah, there you are,” he said.
“How did it go?” Rex asked.
“Just a formality.” Walt fidgeted with a loose thread on his plaid shirt. “Captain Diaz wanted to know if my parents always participated in the parade, and what time they left. That sort of stuff.”
He held out a hairless, pudgy hand to Helen. Rex guessed it would feel clammy to the touch, and, sure enough, Helen surreptitiously wiped her palm against her dress as soon as Walt’s back was turned.
“Let me show you around,” he said, and suggested his guests leave the shopping bags behind the reception desk.
He led them down the hall past the padded door to the back of the establishment and presented the guest lounge. A sofa and matching armchairs in purple leather dominated a room decorated with wild animal paintings of zebras and lions on pale fuchsia walls. Rex winced. There was no accounting for taste, as his mother liked to say. Helen stared in barely disguised horror.
“You can make tea and coffee here whenever you like.” The innkeeper indicated an alcove fitted with a mini fridge, microwave, and counter top on which rested a coffee machine and a set of mugs studded with blue enamel dolphins. “You get to keep one of these mugs when you leave, as a memento of your stay at the Dolphin Inn.”
“How nice,” Helen said in what appeared to Rex to be genuine appreciation.
Walt explained that a friend of his hand-crafted them in his studio. He proceeded to open a sliding glass door. “Out here is our pool, hot tub, and tiki bar. The gate from the alley was bolted last night. The cops scoured this area and found nothing, so feel free to use it.”
The pool was private and sheltered from the breeze by a tall stockade fence, though a breeze would be welcome today, Rex thought. It felt uncomfortably warm and close. Walt untucked the front of his plaid shirt and flapped it to let in some air.
The fence, draped with pink bougainvillea and oleander, screened the B & B from the property behind, whose tin roof peeked out above red-canopied Royal Poinciana in late bloom. The trees must be under irrigation to be flowering so late, Rex reflected, and were not as showy as some he had seen in Florida. Still, they added a nice splash of color.
Walt stepped onto the patio deck surrounding the kidney-shaped pool, where two children squabbled over a raft. The boy, a stick insect of about eight years old, wore plastic green goggles that gave him the look of a demented frog. He tried frantically to dislodge a chubby girl in a red polka dot swimsuit from the raft. “Those are my sister’s kids,” Walt explained. “Justin and Kylie.”
“Mom!” the girl wailed at a scrawny blonde stretched out on a padded lounge chair smoking a cigarette. “Tell Justin to quit!”
“Justin, what did Nana say about trying to drown your sister?” The woman in dark sunglasses spoke without looking up from her magazine.
“Nana’s dead. I’m glad she’s dead. She was mean!”
“Shut your mouth,” the girl squealed, dunking his head under the water.
Rex watched to make sure he resurfaced, which he did a moment later, gasping and spluttering, wet hair flattened over his skull. To the right of the pool lay a below-ground hot tub covered with blue canvas. Between it and the building stood a frond-thatched tiki bar, lending a tropical aspect to the area of poured concrete. Pottery urns containing hibiscus and dwarf citrus trees lined the fence on that side, while the fence opposite blocked out the alley.
Walt padded back into the guest lounge, pausing to allow his guests to catch up. “Diane just got through a nasty divorce,” he confided.
Not to mention her parents' death, Rex thought, although Diane seemed no more upset than her brother.
“Terrible what you must be going through, losing your parents so suddenly
,” Helen commiserated.
Walt rubbed at a non-existent stain on the back of the plush purple sofa. The guest house was spic and span, almost antiseptically so. “Sudden, yes,” their host mused aloud. “I’ll have to make arrangements with Pritchard Funeral Home. Hmm.” He stood gazing at the ground, vague and confused. Rex had noticed that Walt rarely made eye contact.
Helen raised her eyebrow at Rex. He knew exactly what she was thinking: Why had they foregone cocktails on the Lido Deck to stay in a purple B & B that had housed two dead bodies and was plagued by two shrieking brats intent on drowning each other?
“My parents had so much to live for,” Walt warbled on, as if to himself. “They were getting ready to retire. They were really looking forward to it.”
“How sad. Were they in good health?” Helen asked.
“Perfect health for their age, except for the fact that Taffy’s liver wasn’t in the best shape.”
Rex found it curious that Walt should refer to his mother as Taffy. Or perhaps it was just a convenient form of address, since he and his parents had run the B & B together. Perhaps it sounded more professional and had become force of habit.
“Merle gave up his job as an accountant when they opened their first guest house in Vermont. It gave Taffy something to do, and he was able to keep more of an eye on her. She, um, liked to drink.” A mottled blush crept up his neck.
“What were your parents going to do about the guest house when they retired?” Rex asked.
“Sell it.”
“Will you keep the Dolphin Inn going now?” Helen inquired.
“Of course. Though I’ll need more help. We had a reliable person working here until Taffy fired him a week ago.”
“Why was he fired if he was reliable?” Rex asked. “Was it so your sister could replace him?”
“Oh, no. Diane is feeling very fragile since her divorce. She helps when she can, but the kids take up a lot of energy when they’re not at school. Taffy plain didn’t like Raphael. No reason given. No severance pay, nothing. She even refused to give him a reference.”
“That seems a bit harsh.” Rex was beginning to see why the Dyers had been so unpopular.
“And the guests liked Raf,” Walt said in a reminiscing tone. “I think that’s what got to her. He could mix drinks like nobody’s business and we’d set up music out by the tiki bar. She threatened to report him to Immigration Services if he made trouble.”
Rex wondered if the detective was aware of Raphael’s unjust termination. A disgruntled employee had a motive for murder. “Maybe now you can hire him back,” he suggested.
“Don’t know where he went. Raf’s from El Salvador. He was an undocumented worker we paid under the table.” Walt glanced anxiously at Rex then, as if regretting his loose tongue.
“Fear not,” Rex assured him. “I won’t report it. For one thing, it’s none of my business.” Murder might be, but not how people chose to run their bed-and-breakfasts, however illegal.
The innkeeper proffered a weak smile in gratitude and led them up the stairs, turning left off the landing into a short, carpeted corridor. A wooden plaque on the door designated it as the Tennessee Williams Suite in a black scroll font. “All our rooms are named for illustrious writers associated with Key West,” he explained, casting open the door. “There’s a decanter of sherry on the dresser and cookies every night when we turn down the beds.”
The decor inside the hardwood floor suite was white and shades of blue, Rex was relieved to see, and a marked improvement on their cabin. Dominating the room, a queen-size four poster bed displayed a patchwork quilt and a decorative, bead-trimmed mosquito net suspended from a hoop in the white-paneled ceiling. Beyond a set of billowy white drapes, a narrow balcony accommodated a pair of blue-cushioned wicker rocking chairs overlooking the pool and bougainvillea cascading over the fence on the far property line. A pair of Ringed Turtle-Doves disputed ownership of a Poinciana branch, creating quite a commotion. Rex, a keen bird-watcher, thought it would enjoyable to watch them from time to time from the balcony.
In the en-suite bathroom, framed samplers exhorted guests to unwind, drink in abundance, and generally forget their worldly cares. Orange hibiscus petals lay scattered in the tub—a nice touch, he further observed.
He hazarded a glance at Helen, who nodded with enthusiasm. “We'll take it,” he said, consulting her with another look to make sure. Walt was an oddball to be sure, but an oddball who couldn’t say boo to a goose, let alone two little old ladies. “As long as the cruise line doesn’t make difficulties,” he added. “This will do us fine.”
He congratulated himself that everything was going according to plan so far. Hopefully it would be goodbye “Fun Ship” and hello, Key West and the Dolphin Inn!
~SIX~
The procedure for permanent disembarkation took longer than expected, but the Carnival staff was courteous, as had been Rex’s experience for the short extent of the cruise. When he and Helen finally returned to the B & B in a cab with their luggage and had unpacked, they were in no mood for any strenuous sightseeing. And now there was no rush. They decided to walk to Sloppy Joe’s Bar and grab a late lunch.
A few gawkers remained outside the Dolphin Inn, Key West’s latest attraction. Tourists snapped pictures while locals passed by with quizzical expressions. There was nothing much left to see. The emergency vehicles had departed with the bodies and crews, and no one had been led away in handcuffs, as far as Rex knew. As he and Helen exited the B & B and walked down the path in their new straw hats, a heavyset man in a long-billed cap had the audacity to take their picture.
“Fame at last,” Helen said.
“I feel like a tourist in this hat.”
“You are a tourist,” she reminded him.
On Duval the sidewalks streamed with boisterous tourists. He and Helen headed north past the Eaton and Caroline Street intersections to Greene Street, where Sloppy Joe’s took up the entire corner. Helen, who liked to read up on her holiday destinations, explained that the name of the bar had been suggested by Ernest Hemingway to friend and owner Joe Russell, a charter boat captain, speakeasy operator, and rum-runner during Prohibition. Inside the rectangular building, the dim interior was filled with occupied wooden tables, bustle and noise.
Photographs, paintings, and news clippings commemorated the city’s most famous resident and his beloved sport-fishing boat, Pilar. The bar even sold T-shirts featuring the writer’s bearded face. From what Rex had seen of Key West, almost everywhere sold T-shirts, and most everything had received the distinction of “World Famous.” Key West was unashamedly touristy since the cigar and sponge industries had moved to Tampa before the Great Depression, causing the once prosperous city to go bankrupt, as Helen had informed him on their walk from the Dolphin Inn.
Rex could not think of a better place to relax than on this palm-festooned island, forming a pendant in a turquoise sea at the end of a string of keys. The main objective in Key West was to have a good time, aided by a drink or two. And when in Rome…
They selected the last vacant table at the far side of the reggae duo on stage. Paddle fans on a cavernous ceiling strung with international flags rotated warm beery air and the aroma of deep fry. A fake Blue Marlin hovered incongruously above a case exhibiting a pair of old-fashioned skis. Helen ordered a Papa Dobles daiquiri, a favorite drink of Hemingway’s from Cuba, she further informed Rex, who stuck with Guinness.
“Let the holiday truly begin!” she toasted, raising her plastic cup.
Rex sat forward on his stool, forearms on the table. “I’ll call Campbell and see if he can fly down here. He’s never been to Key West. If you recall, we stayed further up the Keys a few years ago, but never made it all the way down.”
“That’s when you solved the murder at his college, and the victim’s parents lent you their beach cottage in Islamorada.”
“And their boat. It was a memorable time. Campbell and I had a lot of catching up to do.” Rex polished off his stout and
let out a satisfied sigh. “I sometimes think it would be nice to retire to Florida.”
“Will you tell him about the murders?” Helen asked.
“I’ll have to. He’ll want to know why we’re not in Mexico. But he probably won’t be able to get down until the weekend.”
“You feel confident you’ll have solved the case by then?” Helen twiddled her straw in the ice-diluted concoction of rum and ruby red grapefruit and cherry juice left at the bottom of her glass. She fished out her wedge of lime and proceeded to nibble on it.
“That’s my goal.” Rex ordered fresh drinks and basket food. He adored American fries, and decided not to stint on calories while on vacation. It wouldn’t be nearly as much as they served on the cruise, he rationalized, where the temptation of food leaped out at you everywhere.
“Any ideas yet?” Helen asked, returning to the topic of the murders once the young server had left with their orders. “It could have been just about anyone on the island.”
“Anyone with a grudge.”
“Not a random act then?”
Rex shook his head. “No, it was too methodical by half. Premeditated, even.”
“Wouldn’t it have made more sense from the killer’s perspective to make it look like a bungled mugging?”
“Aye, it would.”
Rex gave this scenario due consideration. He tried to put himself in the mind of the killer. Was a bold statement being made? A murder in the victims’ home and place of work would create more buzz than a random attack in the street. He wondered whether Captain Diaz had drawn the same conclusions.
Ripples of applause for the live band punctuated the conversations and bursts of laughter resounding around the saloon. In eager anticipation, Rex watched his Guinness approach on a tray, condensation beading the cold glass. The muggy weather made him thirsty.
Murder at the Dolphin Inn Page 3
