Murder at the Dolphin Inn

by C. S. Challinor

  “We have no witnesses so far, in spite of a door-to-door and an appeal to the public.”

  “The button has blue thread attached.” Rex shook the packet in enticement. “I forgot all aboot it until earlier this evening.”

  The detective nodded and smiled, reaching for the packet. “Thanks, I’ll check it out.”

  “You came on a cruise?” Rosa asked Helen.

  “We were supposed to go to Mexico,” Helen said with a mock-reproachful stare at Rex.

  “Where in Mexico?”

  “Calicá.”

  “That’s a nice port, but there’s so much more to see in Key West.”

  Rex winked in gratitude at Rosa. The women then took off on the topic of vacations, interrupted only when the server arrived to take the food orders. Rex turned his attention back to Diaz. Although the detective had not appeared impressed by his discovery, he had been gracious about it. “Cause of death been established yet?” the Scotsman asked.

  “We have the prelim results. No surprises. The Dyers succumbed to asphyxiation.”

  Rex felt sure that if something unusual had come up in the autopsy, the detective would not have told him, but he was grateful to have asphyxiation confirmed. “Chances are,” he ventured, “the killer or killers forced the Dyers from the dark alley into the kitchen and suffocated them there. It would have been relatively quiet as long as they were threatened to cooperate.”

  “I agree. Less conspicuous hustling two live people into a building than transporting dead bodies to it, especially as the alley is not wide enough to accommodate a vehicle. The interior door leading to the main part of the bed-and-breakfast was locked, according to Walt Dyer, who arrived through the front door. His parents locked up every night before going to bed. They lived downstairs in a suite off the hall.”

  Rex remembered seeing a second door to the left on his way to the guest lounge. “Anything of interest in the suite?” he asked.

  “Not as far as clues. A lot of clown paraphernalia. The walls of the bedroom and den are sherbet yellow. It’s so glaring you have to wear sunglasses. And we found a cache of empty gin and vodka bottles in some pretty ingenious hiding places. Mostly cheap stuff, but a few of the square blue bottles too.”

  “Taffy Dyer must have been hiding the extent of her drinking from Merle if she went to such trouble,” Rex remarked. “Her addiction is common knowledge among the guests. Hard to sustain a drinking habit on Bombay Sapphire unless you’re well off.”

  “The Dyers were mortgaged up the wazoo.”

  Rex’s and Helen’s shared appetizer of conch fritters arrived, and Rosa tapped her husband’s arm. The Diaz couple rose to leave.

  “We’ll have to do this again,” the detective said, giving Rex a friendly slap on the shoulder. He kissed Helen on the cheek, and the women hugged.

  Rex knew he would run into Diaz again at the bed-and-breakfast. As they departed, Helen remarked on what a nice couple they were, and how she looked forward to seeing Rosa again. The detective’s wife had suggested they go shopping together, so she could show Helen the best stores.

  After dinner, they strolled to Mallory Square to watch the street performers. Fire-eaters, acrobats, jugglers, and a slow-motion mime artist covered from head to foot in silver paint entertained the tourists beneath the array of stars. The multi-tiered Fantasia, which had dwarfed the dock, had long since set sail for Mexico, leaving a great empty space of dark water in its wake. On the horizon, a lit-up cruise liner pursued a southwesterly course to destinations unknown.

  “Ships in the night. Romantic, isn’t it?” Helen said with a sigh, hugging his arm.

  “As long as I don’t have to be on one,” Rex replied.

  He worried about getting seasick, though this was probably unlikely on such a large vessel. Still, he preferred terra firma. Expanses of deep sea made him nervous.

  He secretly wished the Fantasia Godspeed and good riddance, and set his own course back to the Dolphin Inn where he felt sure a bigger adventure awaited.

  ~TEN~

  They returned to the Dolphin Inn in good spirits, Helen by now happily resigned to their extended stay in Key West, or so Rex hoped. He used the main door key Walt had given them for access after eleven at night and entered the dimly lit foyer. As they went up the carpeted stairs, he heard voices coming from the hall to the guest lounge, and paused while Helen continued on up to their room.

  “And the first thing I’ll do is paint in here,” Diane was exclaiming. “In fact, we need to change the color scheme of the whole place. What were they thinking!”

  “It’s my suite now,” Walt answered peevishly. “I’ve been helping run the Dolphin since they opened it. You have no right to show up out of the blue and try and take over.”

  “Oh, listen to you! You never would have dared raise your voice if she was still alive. And I need to be in here with the kids. They can’t keep sleeping on cots. I can put bunk beds in this den.”

  “The suite’s mine. And we can’t afford to repaint right now. Anyhow, what are you gonna do to contribute? Your visit was supposed to be temporary, until you got back on your feet. It’s been six weeks.”

  “You’ll need help with them gone. We’ll run the place together. We can do a better job of it. Merle was such a miser. Nasty cheap soap and recycled tea bags. No wonder repeat business was so bad.”

  Rex, who had paused on the steps to listen, continued up to his room, making a mental note to use the supply of tea bags he had brought with him for his trip. So, the younger Dyers would replace the elder Dyers, he ruminated, and the Dolphin Inn would live to see another day, perhaps in a different shade or hue.

  “Rex, what were you doing?” asked Helen, who stood at the dressing table removing her earrings before the beveled mirror framed with carved walnut.

  “Eavesdropping,” he said.

  “Shame on you.”

  “I know, but ever so interesting.” He helped himself to a glass of sweet sherry from the decanter and went on the balcony overlooking the pool, illuminated a soft inviting blue. Gardenia, jasmine and white frangipani sweetly scented the air. Rocking back and forth in the wicker chair, he wondered which of the Dyers would prevail and move into the downstairs suite. He found himself rooting for Walt. He could not help but feel sorry for the prematurely middle-aged man. Diane, on the other hand, was as prickly as barbed wire. He made a mental note to handle with care.

  “I’m finished in the bathroom,” Helen called through the French doors ten minutes later.

  Rex went to brush his teeth. It had been a long day since they docked early that morning. He left Helen to read her novel with the lamp on at her side of the bed and promptly fell asleep on the plush mattress, slipping at some point into a grotesquely vivid dream.

  Cats the size of tigers chased a woman in red stilettos across the deck of a cruise ship rolling across a turbulent sea. Taxis whooshed down a water slide into a swimming pool, while a band of clowns alternately played clarinets and stuffed key lime pie into each other’s faces. Suddenly, he awoke to a loud clang and sat bolt upright in bed. The sound had come from the alley. Helen stirred briefly, only to drift back off with a murmur of protest. She customarily took a pill when she traveled, unable to sleep well outside her own bed without one. Checking the clock, he saw it was past one in the morning.

  He slipped into his sandals and, wrapping a dressing gown over his pajama bottoms, exited the French doors to the balcony. It must have showered at some point in the night. The fronds of the coconut palms at the corner of the guest house dripped glistening drops, while crickets chirped a monotonous chorus in air still moist with the woodsy aroma of rain. Wind chimes tinkled faintly in the breeze. He peered over the balcony rail to where the fenced-off alley divided the Dolphin Inn from the adjacent property’s back yard. Too dark to see anything. He looked below to where the inset lights of the kidney-shaped pool gave the water an ethereal blue glow.

  Now that he was up, he decided to go and investigate. He lef
t the suite and tackled the stairs, encountering no one. He opened the baize door off the hall leading into the dark passage to the kitchen, surprised to find both doors unlocked, and made his way across the linoleum by means of a night light over the countertop. The exterior door to the alley was locked and dead-bolted. He opened it and stepped outside. All was quiet.

  A naked 40-watt bulb on the wall toward the back of the alley cast an orb of light where winged insects danced a crazy jig, leaving the surroundings in shadow. Across the passage loomed a garage wall of windowless brick. The warm air compressed within the boxed space held a putrid scent. A row of trash cans took shape as his eyes adjusted to the dark.

  Among the covered PVC bins on wheels stood an old-fashioned refuse can, malodorous and missing its round lid. From its depths, a sudden raucous howl rang out, followed by a scraping of metal. Rex’s heart jolted, his throat squeezed shut. In a state of paralysis, he waited for he knew not what.

  A flash of white leaped out, claws extended over the rim. Fixing Rex with one green eye, the animal bolted in the direction of the street, black hindquarters blotted out in the night, white hind paws in retreat. Silence relapsed around him.

  Luminous pale eggshells, discarded coffee filters, and fruit peelings littered the worn gray asphalt by the upturned lid. The ring of metal on concrete must have been what had woken him, though it was doubtful the cat could have dislodged such a heavy object.

  Drooping yellow tape barred the alley entrance—hardly a deterrent to access. A car pounding a Hip-Hop beat passed in the street, gradually receding into the distance. Voices called out far away, a dog’s bark echoed forlornly. Two jaundiced pools of lamplight spaced far apart spilled onto the sidewalk opposite the alley. A glance down the tree-lined street and again toward the back of the B & B, where Rex found the tall pool gate locked, satisfied him there was no one about. At least, not anymore.

  ~ELEVEN~

  Rex was up again six hours later, surprised to see, when he returned to the alley from the street that the contents from the metal trash can had already been swept up, and the surrounding area disinfected with bleach, the distinctive acrid tang pervading the soft morning air.

  He re-entered the yard by the white picket gate and, wandering back up the brick path toward the front door, paused beside a wooden bench to admire a bed of slender-stemmed bamboo orchids neatly tied to metal stakes. The yard contained a riot of flowers and bushes, and someone evidently spent a great deal of time tending the shrub borders stocked with pink begonia and saffron-flowered oleander. He leaned forward to inhale the heady fragrance.

  “You take an interest in gardening, Mr. Graves?” asked a reedy voice behind him.

  Startled, Rex turned to find the innkeeper staring at him through his thick lenses. “I'm trying to cultivate a garden at my retreat in the Highlands. The soil is poor, but azaleas and rhododendrons thrive there. Are those terrestrial orchids hard to grow?” He pointed toward the yellow-lipped, pale mauve blooms.

  “They are quite delicate,” Walt informed him, fussily shooing a bee off one of the erect stalks tied with yellow string. “They require a diet of well-rotted compost.”

  “What about pests?” Rex inquired.

  “Pests? You mean aphids and spider mites?”

  Walt's mind was on the orchids, whereas Rex wanted to know about the trash can. He maneuvered the conversation in that direction. “Any pests. Which reminds me: I heard a noise last night in the alley and found a cat pilfering in the rubbish.”

  “Cats used to be a problem in Key West before the authorities culled the population. Now it’s roosters, which are protected.” As if on cue, one crowed in the vicinity. “They’re everywhere.” Walt’s gaze drifted to the street as a news van pulled up to the curb. He consulted his watch. “Early bird gets the worm,” he said in the van’s direction. “Are you ready for breakfast, Mr. Graves?”

  Either he didn't know about the dead cats on the doorstep, which was highly unlikely, or else was choosing not to mention them. Not surprisingly, Rex concluded; they were not a subject guaranteed to welcome new guests.

  He accompanied the innkeeper up the stone steps and into the foyer. Sunlight through the transom window illuminated the semi-circle of leaping dolphins, projecting a kaleidoscope of yellow, blue and green onto the smooth lilac wall. Crossing the threshold to the dining room, he saw he was the first guest to arrive for breakfast. Walt inquired whether he preferred cooked or continental.

  “Cooked, please.” Rex picked up copies of The Citizen and Key West, a weekly, from among the selection of crisply folded newspapers on the rack.

  “Tea, coffee?”

  “Tea, I think.” He had forgotten to bring some of his own stock downstairs with him. He longed for a cup of robust black tea.

  “Orange Pekoe or Earl Grey?”

  “Darjeeling or English Breakfast?”

  “No, sorry. The only other one I have is chamomile. I’ll get you some English Breakfast from the store.”

  “Don’t worry. Orange Pekoe will be fine. I just need a pot of water. Boiled, not micro-waved.”

  “Shaken, not stirred?”

  Rex laughed at Walt’s reference to James Bond. “I can always taste the difference. I’ll brew the tea myself.”

  “Will your fiancée be joining you?”

  “Later. She’ll be having coffee and continental.”

  Rex requested whole wheat toast, his sole concession to a healthy diet while on vacation. In any case, he anticipated a lot of walking to mitigate any excesses. He and Helen planned to do a spot of sightseeing starting this morning.

  The breakfast menu established, he headed toward a table by the bay window and selected a chair facing the door, giving him a cat-bird view of anyone who entered or exited the main entrance.

  Unfolding the newspaper, he proceeded to read an account of the murders under the heading, “Suspicious Deaths of Local Innkeepers.” A photo showed the Dyers at some function or other, Taffy an older version of her hard-faced daughter, with short, what could have been blond or gray, hair; Merle overall gray, desiccated, and rail-thin, unlike his son. He stood slightly back from his wife, with a deferential and mildly anxious look about him. Rex suspected he might have been the peace-keeper in the marriage. They presented an average and innocuous-seeming couple, with every expectation of many years still ahead of them. Too many years, in someone’s cruel estimation.

  Minutes later, Rex heard the thumping of cases on the stairs, and the Shumakers appeared in the doorway after leaving their luggage by the front desk. Chuck greeted him brightly.

  “All packed and ready to go?” Rex asked.

  “Back to Dayton,” Alma replied with a rueful grimace. “After breakfast.”

  “Care to join me? My fiancée won't be down until eight.”

  The Shumakers readily accepted and parked themselves on chairs either side of him. Walt sidled over to their table with a tea pot containing steaming water for Rex. He took the Shumakers' order and promptly returned with a large urn and poured coffee into their mugs. He solicitously inquired whether they had taken their blue dolphin mug souvenirs, and appeared gratified to hear that they had.

  “Anything in the paper?” Chuck asked Rex once Walt had left the room, eying The Citizen refolded on the table.

  “Only what we already knew, except for mention of an article of clothing found close by the Dolphin Inn.” Rex wondered if the reporter was referring to the brass button he had picked up across the street. Had Captain Diaz, thinking it of insignificant value in the case, thrown it out like a bone, to give the papers something to gnaw on while he pursued the investigation in another direction?

  “What sort of clothing?” Mr. Shumaker inquired.

  “Perhaps an item of fancy dress,” Rex suggested, watching for a reaction.

  Pirates wore bright buttons. What color had Chuck’s pirate coat been? Blue to match the thread on the button, or black? Did Captain Morgan wear a black coat? Not that it mattered since, even if
the button had fallen off Chuck’s costume, he was staying at the Dolphin Inn and, therefore, any such evidence could not connect him conclusively to the murders.

  Alma leaned back in her chair so she could see into the foyer, and whispered, “Wish we could stay longer and find out whodunit. But Chuck has to be back at work tomorrow for a walk-through.”

  “We have a home building business,” her husband explained. “D’you think you could give us a call when you find out anything?”

  Rex said he would be glad to.

  “Peggy Barber said she Googled you and discovered you’re a private detective.” Alma’s widely spaced eyes gleamed with excitement.

  “Wait a minute! Who’s doing the investigating here?” Rex joked, amused that Peggy had run a search on him. But then, being a writer, research would be second nature, he reasoned.

  “Now we know why you were asking so many questions!” From his wallet, Chuck extracted a business card which read, “Shumaker Homes” in large letters, and handed it to him. “Call the cell number.”

  “Are you here to solve the case?” Alma asked, pouring cream into her coffee.

  “Believe it or not, I just happened to be passing.”

  “But now that you’re here...”

  “Exactly.” Rex and Alma exchanged knowing smiles.

  “Anything suspicious so far?” she asked.

  “Only a noise in the alley last night. Did you hear it?”

  The Shumakers looked nonplussed. “What sort of noise?” Chuck asked.

  “The clanging of a dustbin lid.”

  “You mean a trash can?” Alma shook her head. “Our room is on this side. We’re in the Audubon Suite.” She pointed to the ceiling directly above the dining room. “Did you go out and investigate?”

  “Naturally, but I only saw a scrawny cat. I don’t think it could have dislodged the heavy metal lid.”

  “It wasn’t dead, was it?”

  “No, it ran away.”