Murder at the Dolphin Inn

by C. S. Challinor

  “Well, I’m glad you found something suitably morbid to occupy your time,” Helen said as her cocktail was deposited before her and the empty cup swept away. “Since you don’t play golf, I can just tell everybody I’m a murder widow,” she joked, her cheeks dimpling impishly.

  “You don’t mind too much?” he pleaded as qualms of conscience resurfaced. After all, Helen had planned the cruise for him as a semi-surprise.

  “Not too much,” she said. “I’ll be perfectly happy to sunbathe by the pool and read while you’re investigating. Or find a beach on the island.”

  Key West disposed of a handful of small beaches where imported sand covered the sharp native coral. The one at Fort Zachary Taylor State Park was closest to where they were staying, and bikes could be rented from various locations, Walt had informed them. Helen did not feel as though she’d had a proper vacation until she experienced the sensation of sand sifting between her toes. Beach holidays, however, were not particularly Rex’s thing.

  He took her hand and kissed it. “I’m at your complete disposal for the next few hours,” he promised.

  And a fun few hours it proved to be as they enjoyed the rowdy ambiance of Sloppy Joe’s before strolling back to the Dolphin Inn along tranquil tree-shaded streets, admiring the Conch architecture characterized by colorful Bermuda shutters and wide wood porches. Larger dwellings, many of them ornate clapboard mansions built by nineteenth century sea captains, merchants and wreckers, several of which had been converted into guest houses, set adrift sweet botanical scents as they passed the front yards.

  The lilac façade of the Dolphin Inn looped in fluorescent yellow tape appeared as a mirage in the shimmering heat of midafternoon. A single news van remained parked on the street. An officer guarded the entranceway to the alley leading to the B & B’s kitchen. These signs, in stark contrast with the jovial atmosphere of Duval Street, reminded Rex that death tainted the walls of the guest house, and that some spur-of-the-moment folly had prompted him to tread where he had little business doing so. Still, he thought; too late to change course now. He would solve the case come hell or high water, or the specter of the aborted cruise would surely come back to haunt him.

  Helen might never forgive him.

  ~SEVEN~

  After sleeping off the restorative lunch at Sloppy Joe’s, Rex crept out of bed while Helen napped on, all thoughts of Mexico gone from her head, or so he hoped. She really was a good sport, and he resolved to take her on the honeymoon of her dreams to make up for the abandoned cruise.

  He decided to call his son right away and tell him about their change of plan, wondering as he descended the stairs what Campbell’s reaction would be to news of his father’s self-appointed involvement in the clown murders.

  “Mind if I call Jacksonville on your house phone?” he asked Walt at the foot of the stairs. “I didn’t bring my mobile—my cell phone—with me to the States, and my fiancée is taking a nap.”

  “Sure thing. Use this one.” The innkeeper produced an old black dial phone from behind the pulpit desk and placed it next to the guest book. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. The lab crew left print dust all over that part of the house,” he said with tears in his voice. “What a mess!”

  He wandered off before Rex could say something comforting. He dialed and reached his son on the second ring. Campbell sounded surprised to hear from his dad, no doubt assuming he was somewhere in the Gulf gazing upon expanses of azure water and real dolphins, unlike the glass ones in the transom.

  “We decided to stay in Key West for the rest of the week,” Rex explained.

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “We were seduced by its distinctive character and literary heritage, the whisper of the trade winds blowing through the palms, the—”

  “Stop! Seriously, Dad, what are you smoking?” During his long stay in the States, Campbell had picked up several American expressions and much of the inflection, but had for the most part retained his fluted Scottish accent, which made for a bizarre combination.

  “There was a small matter of a double murder...”

  “No way!” A breathless pause on the phone betrayed Campbell’s disbelief. “Da-a-d,” he warned. “Is Helen okay with this?”

  Rex reassured him on this score and asked if Campbell would like to fly down to Key West from Jacksonville next weekend—Dad’s treat.

  “Whoa... Thing is, Mel might be in town. Could she come?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “I have lab Friday morning. We could take off soon afterwards. Really, Dad? That would be so cool. By the way, what sort of murders, exactly?”

  “A pair of suffocated clowns.” That, at any rate, appeared to be the cause of death, and Rex was anxious to find out more.

  “Clowns? Like at a circus? You’re kidding!”

  “They were dressed up for Fantasy Fest.”

  “You went to Fantasy Fest?” Clearly, Campbell thought his father was losing his marbles. “I heard that’s, uh, pretty wild.” For you, being the implication.

  “It was over by the time we arrived,” Rex assured him. He didn’t want to go into further details about the murders as he was standing in a public foyer, with voices emanating from the guest lounge at the end of the hall. “Take this number down. We’re staying at the Dolphin Inn.” He gave his son the number and address. “If I’m not here, ask Walt to take a message, and I’ll call you back.”

  “This is such an antiquated arrangement,” Campbell said. “Why didn’t you bring your cell phone?”

  “I didn’t think I’d need it in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, and I couldn’t be bothered switching to an international plan for just one week.”

  “Whatever, Dad.” Campbell chuckled. “You are such a Luddite.”

  “A Luddite who’s going to be paying your airfares.”

  “Point taken. I’ll look up the flights. Talk to you soon,” Campbell said as though talking through a wide smile. “And thanks!”

  Thrilled that he might be seeing his son, Rex replaced the handset and tucked a ten-dollar bill under the guest book to cover the cost of the call. Then, curious to see what sort of comments previous guests had left regarding their sojourn at the Dolphin Inn, he pulled the tome toward him. Most of the entries were short and less than effusive, restricted to “we had a pleasant stay” and “good breakfasts,” and similar phrases.

  He had frequented enough such establishments to know that the guest book was the Bible of the B & B. Clearly, the Dolphin Inn had not made many converts. One entry clinically stated, “We were very grateful to Taffy for being able to accommodate our dietary requests.” Nothing about Merle. However, entries further back in time thanked Raphael for his “extra attentions” and “going the extra mile,” and praised his “spectacular margaritas by the pool.” One even referred to him as “a gem.” These dated from the summer when the elder Dyers must have been in Vermont.

  Taffy Dyer had, by Walt’s account, turned this ‘gem’ out onto the street. Rex repositioned the guest book. It was time to talk to people who might have overheard or seen something the previous night that could help lead to a discovery in the case of the murdered owners.

  In the guest lounge, he found two couples, one young and one middle-aged, ensconced in the purple furniture. It was happy hour. Walt had said on the tour of the B & B that alcoholic refreshment was provided for the guests, along with a cheese and fruit platter.

  Rex helped himself to a glass of California chardonnay standing in a bottle cooler on the counter. In response to the “How ya doin'?” from the man of his age, he introduced himself as Rex Graves, from Edinburgh.

  “Scotland, huh?” said the shiny-bald man whose benign expression and heavy jowls reminded Rex of a St. Bernard, and whose Guy Harvey T-shirt stretched over a large beer gut. He held a glass of wine in his hand, which came across as rather incongruous. “Played golf there once,” he said. “Where was it now?” He turned to the warmly smiling woman beside him. “St. Andr
ews,” he said before she could reply. “Where Prince William and Kate went to college. That was some royal wedding. My wife was glued to the TV. We're from Dayton, Ohio. Chuck Shumaker. And my better half, Alma.”

  Alma, wide hips stuffed into shorts, was blessed with a pretty face and a glossy chestnut mane worthy of a shampoo commercial. A well-thumbed paperback by Nora Roberts lay splayed on the sofa beside her. Books with multicolor spines left by previous guests lined the white wood shelves of a cabinet by the coffee machine, as did a selection of DVDs.

  “Welcome to the Bates Motel,” Mrs. Shumaker joked with a wry smile.

  The young couple laughed from across the coffee table, where they sat holding hands on a purple love seat. Rex glanced in their direction and smiled. They were about his son’s age and must be the students Walt had referred to earlier when he was listing the guests.

  “That Hitchcock movie used to be on the shelf with the others, but now it’s disappeared,” Alma Shumaker added with an air of mystery. “This is Ryan and his girlfriend, Michelle.”

  The girl, in a shimmering gold off-the shoulder top, tossed back her long-layered dark hair. Her aquiline nose stood prominent on a pale face that made her dark eyes, heavily rimmed with kohl and mascara, all the more arresting. She reminded him of a sleek animal, rather like one of the feline predators in the oil paintings hanging on the walls. The lad, open-faced and with curly blond hair like Campbell’s, grinned in welcome, showing even, ultra-white teeth amid the closely shaved blond bristle. Rex asked which college they attended.

  “University of Florida,” Ryan replied, followed by a “Go Gators” cheer from Chuck. “How did you know we were students?”

  “Walt gave me the lowdown on the guests.”

  “He’s creepy,” Michelle said.

  “So, what brought you to this house of horrors?” Alma Shumaker inquired. “You must’ve heard what happened.”

  “Aye. Most unfortunate, to say the least.”

  “And it’s not a great guest house either.”

  “Och, it’s no that bad,” Rex remonstrated in full-blown Scots. “It’s comfortable and clean, and the garden is lovely.”

  “The interior design is, like, hideous,” the girl commented, echoing Helen’s opinion.

  “Well, I cannot disagree with you there.”

  Michelle smirked, glad, it appeared, to have affirmation.

  “When did you get in, Rex?” Chuck asked.

  Rex rested his posterior on a plush purple armrest across from the two couples. “Just as the police got here.”

  “Did you try and get out of your reservation?” Alma Shumaker wanted to know.

  Rex decided not to divulge to the guests that the bizarre double murder was the reason for his stay. “Och, it makes for a more interesting holiday,” he fudged.

  “I'll say,” Chuck said with a guffaw, his brown eyes twinkling above a bulbous nose. “When you get back home, you can tell all your buddies about the cereal killer.” He laughed unabashedly at his own humor. “Get it? Bed-and-breakfast serial killer.”

  Alma, no doubt accustomed to hearing the same old jokes and stock-in-trade responses from her husband, smiled with forbearance. Since the subject was wide open for discussion, Rex plowed right in. “Any idea whodunit?” he asked conspiratorially.

  “Walt Dyer,” Alma Shumaker whispered loud enough for Rex to hear. “Or else his sister. They're both of them very strange. Not surprisingly, as the elder Dyers were pieces of work, especially Taffy.”

  Rex remembered that Peggy Barber, the novelist, had said the same thing.

  Leaning forward, Alma continued in a low voice. “Taffy...you know...” She tipped her hand toward her mouth to indicate somebody drinking. “She had this fake brightness about her. Never missed happy hour with the guests, but I think she started first thing in the morning with the mimosas.”

  Chuck nodded sagely. “My cousin’s girlfriend has the same problem. He finds empty vodka bottles all over the house. Says he has the problem under control, but if you ask me, it’s controlling him too. Alcoholism will do that.” He nodded at his own wisdom.

  “Yeah, the Dyers were, like, totally weird,” Michelle contributed. Her boyfriend, Rex noticed, stared into his wine glass. “Taffy told me she’d found dead cats on the doorstep,” she added.

  “Sounds like a warning.” Rex made himself more comfortable on the armrest and took a sip of the chardonnay. “Did she say how long it had been going on?”

  “Since the last week of September, so about a month. She said it started around her birthday.”

  “Nice present,” put in Ryan. “Not.”

  “Creepy,” said Michelle. “Like, who would do that?” She had a tendency to pound syllables for emphasis and used the word “like” a lot and unnecessarily, as did so many of her generation, to Rex’s chagrin.

  “What do you do, Rex?” Chuck asked in an affable manner, leaning back in the sofa and depositing his foot, shod in a white Croc, across a sunburned knee.

  “I’m a QC at the High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh. Queen's Counsel,” he explained when he met Ryan’s questioning expression. “A prosecutor. So, why is happy hour held in here and not on the back patio? It’s a nice, warm evening, after all.”

  “A bit humid,” Alma said. “It does a number on my hair. I think we may get rain, but it never lasts long.”

  “Beats snow,” Chuck Shumaker said.

  “Did it rain yesterday night for the parade?” Rex asked, pursuing his quest for background information on the murders.

  “No, we lucked out,” Chuck said. “Except I was way too hot in my pirate gear.”

  It came as no surprise to Rex that Chuck Shumaker’s lack of originality had prompted him to dress up as a pirate. Alma had been a pirate as well, it transpired, or, as she put it, a pirate’s companion in a barmaid’s costume.

  “Rex here could have worn a kilt!” Chuck said with a guffaw. “Do you have a kilt and one of those furry whaddya-callems?”

  “Sporrans. I do, for formal wear.”

  “That’s too funny,” Ryan said, grinning.

  “And what did you dress up as?” Rex asked the young couple.

  “Vampires.”

  Rex thought Michelle appropriately vampish in her looks, with her dark hair, pale skin, and scarlet lipstick matching the talons on her fingers. Ryan was harder to imagine as a blood-sucking villain.

  “Taffy offered us clown costumes,” his girlfriend informed Rex. “As if.”

  “When Taffy was showing Michelle a costume,” Alma said, “She turned to me and said, ‘I’d loan you one, but none will fit.’ ” A ruby stain spread across her cheeks.

  Chuck groaned. “Talk about tact.”

  Rex could tell the insult still stung Alma, who tried to disguise her fury with a brittle laugh.

  “Perhaps if we all drank our breakfast we could be as thin as her,” she remarked, reaching toward the platter of cheese and crackers, and then retracting her hand, as though not wishing to seem greedy and justify Mrs. Dyer’s cruel observation.

  “She collected clown stuff,” Michelle elaborated in a hushed tone. “Clothes, pictures, figurines, anything to do with clowns. You should see her den. She was, like, obsessed with them. Walt has a moth collection. How creepy is that?”

  Michelle seemed to find a lot that was creepy. And weird. Rex asked whether Taffy and Merle had lived at the B & B.

  “You can tell he’s a lawyer!” Chuck said, nudging his wife. “All these questions! They did, but Walt rooms somewhere else.” He lowered his voice. “Couldn’t stand his parents from what we could see. We’d hear Taffy berating him in the kitchen. Never called her Mom or anything like that. It was always Taffy and Merle. Nothing wrong with that, I guess, but you couldn’t exactly feel the love.”

  “That’s what she wanted everyone to call her,” Michelle interjected around a mouthful of cracker, brushing crumbs off her short shirt. “Even m—”

  Ryan cut her off with a warning look.<
br />
  “Two-faced is what she was,” Alma said, cautiously looking toward the door to make sure she was not overheard.

  “Merle never stood up for his son,” her husband remarked. “You got to feel sorry for the poor guy.”

  “Couldn’t stand up for himself,” Alma corrected in a low voice. “A man of his age in that situation... I mean, thirty-eight! An old thirty-eight.”

  Rex had assumed Walt to be older than that, judging by his looks and mannerisms. He wondered what his childhood had been like.

  “And I think he’s...” Another hand gesture from Alma, this one limp-wristed.

  Rex made further inquiries about Fantasy Fest. Chuck informed him that the highlights of the event were the Masquerade March on Friday and Captain Morgan’s float parade the next day. Basically, the October festival was one big street party, where pretty much anything went and the local cops turned a blind eye, unless matters turned violent.

  In the tourist brochures, Rex had seen pictures of frenzied crowds with painted bodies of all ages prancing down Simonton Street and the procession of elaborate floats dispensing beads on Duval.

  “We were out until maybe three in the morning. It was insane,” Ryan said with a reminiscing grin. “Next thing, the cops are hammering on our door waking us up.”

  “Got in around that time as well,” Alma said. “We ran into Michelle and Ryan on Duval around midnight or so, and hung out for a while.”

  “Hardly recognized them,” Ryan said. “Chuck here was Captain Morgan—fake black beard, big boots, coat, the works.”

  The two couples had the perfect alibi, Rex noted, sipping his wine. Tens of thousands of revelers attended the parade, many in fancy dress. People too numerous to interview, too inebriated to remember, and who had possibly left Key West by now.

  “Been staying here long?” he asked the guests.

  “Six days. Leaving tomorrow.” Chuck anchored himself more firmly into the squashy sofa as though reluctant to leave.

  “Us too. Heading back to Gainesville.” Ryan yawned. It had obviously been a long night and a tiring day for the young couple. “This is our fourth day.”