Murder at the Dolphin Inn

by C. S. Challinor

  Rex had never seen Walt so at ease. He evidently took pride in his collection and in his knowledge of these insects. Under the brighter lighting, Rex was able to make out tapestry patterns and tiger stripe highlights in gold and amber on the insects’ wings. A more ornate showcase displayed a swallow tail specimen with delicate forewings and hind wings of transparent lime green.

  “A luna moth from Florida,” Walt informed him, standing by his side.

  “It’s exquisite.” And dead, thought Rex, regarding its impaled body. The live moth in the jar could be heard making desperate attempts to escape, wings futilely tapping the concave glass.

  Walt had placed the killing jar on the computer desk beside a pair of entomological forceps and a setting board, sharp pins at the ready. Rex wondered if an embalming process took place first.

  “Is this all your stuff?” He looked about the small den where a couple of half unpacked storage boxes stood on the floor. The bedroom was separated by a pair of white wood louver doors folded back on themselves. A second door at the far end of the den opened onto a tiny bathroom. Rex glimpsed an outmoded pedestal sink in avocado and a translucent green shower curtain screening the tub.

  Walt lifted his arms and let them drop back by his sides. “Yup, this is it. I haven’t accumulated much over the years, just a television and DVD player, and some books. And my moth collection. I cleared out the clown gewgaws to make a bit of space. Between you and me, they totally freaked me out.”

  Couldn’t be more sinister than the rows of winged bugs, Rex bet; but to each his own. Poor Walt didn’t have much to show for a man approaching forty. No photos of children, and none of his parents, either. Rex cast another glance over the small suite crammed with the most basic of furnishings. No sports trophies, no souvenirs from distant travels, no framed diplomas on the walls. Just the moth exhibit. The energy of the moth suffocating in the jar waned, its activities curtailed to mournful swoops in the confined space. The air in the room felt stifling, and Rex realized there were no visible windows. As if reading his mind, Walt reached for the pull on a ceiling fan, and a reviving breeze began to swirl.

  “The cops took Taffy’s computer away to search it for clues,” the innkeeper said pointing to the desk taken over by the moth-collecting paraphernalia. “She ran her mouth on her Dolphin Doings blog, and they think she might have made enemies.”

  Rex did not personally subscribe to blogging and Tweeting, imagining streams of word particles polluting the information superhighway like so many fast food wrappers chucked out of car windows. He didn’t know where people found the time. Of course, Campbell would deride his opinion as being “way” behind the times...

  “Did Diane move out all right?” he asked as Walt set about aligning his framed moths with geometric precision.

  “Oh, yes. She and the kids will be fine in my old place. It’s not luxurious, exactly, but it’s convenient, and it will do until we can find her something better. This way, we free up the Hemingway Suite next door to you. It’s one of our best. Taffy never liked sacrificing it to Diane, but even she couldn’t put her own daughter and two grandkids up in the attic. Not that there’s anything wrong with the Writer’s Garret or the Poet’s Attic. Michelle and Ryan have the Garret. But those rooms are more cramped than our suites.”

  “Where was the Canadian businessman, Bill Reid, staying?” Rex asked. The newspapers said he was still wanted for questioning in connection with the murders. By the same token, it could be another red herring supplied by Detective Diaz, like the item of clothing. One couldn’t let people think the police were making no headway in a murder case, Rex reflected, especially in a tourist town like Key West.

  “He was in the McCullers’, opposite you, the one facing the street. It’s a lovely suite done out in soft green fabric and mahogany wood.”

  “Any word from him yet?”

  “Not a peep. I charged him for his entire stay, since he gave no notice of his intention to leave. Very suspicious his taking off like that without a word to anyone.”

  “What did he look like?” Rex asked. “In case I run into him in town.”

  “Regular sort of guy. Perhaps slightly below average height, thinish. About forty-five, maybe older? Graying hair—no facial hair that I recall. Always saw him in a suit.”

  Very helpful, thought Rex. Apart from the suit. He hadn’t seen many of those in Key West. Walt, who had finished adjusting his picture frames to his satisfaction, asked if he would care for some herbal tea. Rex declined with thanks.

  “Helen will be wondering where I got to. Oh, incidentally, which room are the Barbers in? Number four, or in the Poet’s Attic?” Rex had never seen them leave or enter a room, and he wanted to be able to visualize where everyone was located.

  “Number four, two along from you, overlooking the pool. We just renamed that suite The Jimmy Buffet, since he’s writing novels now. We need to redecorate it in a more laid-back Florida style. It’s where the Barbers stayed before, and they specifically requested that suite.”

  “They were here on a previous occasion?”

  “Two years ago. I gave them a returning guest discount, like the chain hotels do with their rewards gimmicks. Taffy and Merle were against it, but it makes sense to me to get repeat business. Advertising is so expensive.”

  Rex wondered why the Barbers had failed to mention they had stayed at the Dolphin Inn before, when they told him about the “writer’s discount.” This contradicted what Walt had just said about giving them a reduced rate as returning guests. But perhaps it wasn’t important, and the Barbers had simply wanted to give themselves airs as minor celebrities.

  “Well, it’s been nice chatting to you, Walt. Night, now.”

  Walt saw him out of his parents’ old suite, and Rex headed upstairs, deep in thought. He could not see into the hearts and minds of the people he spoke to in his search for the truth. He had to trust to his judgment and instincts, sift through the lies and dissembling, see past resentments and prejudices, and all the delusions and pretense each person indulged in to one extent or the other. A rare being it was who was prepared to lay bare their soul.

  “What kept you?” Helen asked from the four poster bed, where she sat propped up against a stack of pillows, a paperback open in her lap.

  “Walt was showing me his moth collection.” Rex closed the door behind him and bolted it. “A pretty morbid hobby he’s got going there, if you ask me.”

  “You mean, like solving murders?” Helen gave a soft chuckle.

  “My victims are already dead. Walt traps the unsuspecting wee beggars in his catching net and crucifies them, and then puts them on display.” Like the clowns.

  “There’s some rather gruesome stuff in this book as well.” She held up her copy of The British Brigand. “Not to mention a lot of salty language. But it’s quite entertaining, and it contains lots of interesting pirate factoids, such as what they did about personal hygiene.”

  “I didn’t know they had any,” Rex remarked on his way to the bathroom to prepare for bed. He waved his toothbrush through the door. “I bet they didn’t use these. That’s why they had so many gold teeth!”

  “I’d rather have you than a pirate any day,” Helen responded from the four-poster.

  “You can have me in aboot five minutes, me darlin’,” Rex announced in deplorable imitation of a ribald pirate.

  After all, he couldn’t be thinking about murder all the time.

  ~FIFTEEN~

  Entering the dining room the following morning, Rex was surprised to see the two students seated at breakfast toward the back of the room. Heads bent over the table in animated conversation, they broke apart when they spotted him, and fell silent as he took his usual place by the bay window.

  “You’re up bright and early,” he remarked with good cheer.

  They smiled back politely. Rex got the distinct impression he had interrupted something important. He decided to let them be, knowing from experience that young people were often n
ot at their best in the morning. He wished he could speak to Michelle alone. However, that might prove difficult. She and Ryan were like conjoined twins; wherever one went, there went the other.

  Walt bustled in soon after Rex was seated. “We have grits on the menu this morning,” he informed his guest with some measure of pride.

  Rex had partaken of grits on a previous trip to the States and had not been unduly impressed. Perhaps he had needed to season it liberally with something, but had not been sure what, and had experimented with various condiments to no avail. In this instance, he declined and settled contentedly for Walt’s inimitable scrambled eggs, sausage patties, and fried toast. Just as well Helen wasn’t around to see him consume it. She was going to take it easy after their sightseeing stint the day before, sleeping in this morning and then relaxing by the pool.

  As he shook out his copy of The Citizen, he saw on the front bottom half of the page that a man was being held for questioning in the Dolphin Inn murders. His heart quickened. Was this the elusive Bill Reid, or somebody else? It appeared Captain Diaz and his team were making greater inroads into the case than he was, not surprisingly, given their resources. All he had was one set of eyes and ears—and the advantage of being in situ. This morning he resolved to use his feet and get a bit of legwork in before lunch. He peeked through the gauze drapes.

  “Fewer people nosing about outside today,” Ryan remarked from across the room, finally opening up the conversation.

  “All to the good,” Rex replied. “I suppose interest is already dying down.”

  “That’s because they were a couple of old people. If it had been a beautiful young female that was murdered, the coverage would never stop.”

  “You may have a point,” Rex conceded. “All the same, the Dyers weren’t that old.” Though it probably seemed so to a twenty-something. “Someone mentioned you were Taffy’s great-niece, Michelle,” he said, with Walt out of the room. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he decided.

  A telling pause ensued. Rex waited.

  “Yeah, but it’s not like we were close,” Michelle finally replied, emphasizing the word “close” and squirming in her chair. “I mean, I knew her when I was a kid, but then she and Merle moved here to open up this place, and I never saw them again—until now.”

  “Yet they remembered you in their will, so to speak.”

  “News travels fast,” Ryan said.

  Rex could detect across the intervening distance an expression of irritation. He might as well have told Rex to mind his own business.

  Rex winked at him. “B and B stands for Busy Body, didn’t you know?” Ryan relented and rewarded him with a lucent grin. “People are invariably curious regarding their fellow travellers,” the Scotsman went on. “The cosy nature of bed-and-breakfasts promotes neighbourly interest, even gossip. It goes with the territory. Hotels tend to be more impersonal.”

  “We usually stay in hostels. But seeing as how Chelle’s relatives ran a bed-and-breakfast and she was in Florida, she felt she should see them...” Ryan tailed off in evident discomfort.

  “Taffy and Merle must have been delighted to renew your acquaintance, Michelle.” Rex feigned interest in his newspaper, turning a page to a story concerning the biggest marlin ever caught in the Keys, and described by the writer as “epic.” He decided to save it for Campbell, an avid fisherman.

  “It was Ryan’s idea,” Michelle responded. “I guess Taffy felt guilty not raising me when I was orphaned, but she already had two kids of her own, and I don’t think she would have been considered a fit guardian anyway.”

  Walt waddled in at that moment with a pot of water for Rex’s tea. “Sorry it took so long. A watched saucepan never boils, or whatever. But I know you don’t like it done in the microwave. Breakfast is coming up.”

  Rex poured the hot water into a mug and dangled his English Breakfast tea bag in it, looking forward to the reviving and refreshing brew.

  “Anything else for you guys?” Walt asked the young couple.

  “Thanks, but there’s someplace we gotta be,” Ryan said.

  Rex noted then that the student was wearing a pressed shirt and Michelle a pink blouse.

  “And I need to buy a black dress,” she said. “Should we send a wreath to the funeral home? Not sure how all that stuff works. I’ve only ever been to memorial services, apart from my parents’ funeral, and I don’t remember much about that.”

  “Michelle, I’m so sorry. How dreadful for you.” Walt genuinely seemed more concerned about her loss than his own. Rex felt there might be hope for some bonding among the Dyer family, after all. “Don’t worry about flowers or anything,” he assured her. “We’re getting them from the front yard.”

  The young couple got up to leave, and Rex bid them good day. Michelle was a tall girl, the same height as Ryan in low heels. He heard the chime of the front door and watched them hurry down the path. Where were they were off to so early? Rather early for dress shopping, he mused. Walt left the room and promptly returned with his plate of food.

  As Rex ate and perused the other news of the day, he told himself he shouldn’t let the fact that Ryan reminded him of his son cloud his judgment in any way. After all, the students had a lot to gain from the elder Dyers’ deaths. Taffy had made no secret about leaving money to her great-niece, and had even boasted about it. For all he knew, Ryan could be a callow young fortune hunter preying upon Michelle’s vulnerability. Losing both her parents in a car accident when she was a young and, by all accounts, only child, could not have been easy.

  Rex felt a wave of sadness and regret. A drunk driver had taken his father when he was a small boy, and his son’s mother had succumbed to breast cancer when Campbell was fifteen, so Rex knew something about the loss of a parent—or so he had thought until he met Walt and Diane Dyer.

  Dabbing at his mouth with the floral cotton napkin provided, he rose in turn and from the buffet table set a mug of coffee, a bowl of cubed watermelon, and a mango muffin on a tray for Helen, which he proceeded to take upstairs.

  Depositing it on the bed beside her, he gave her sleepy face a kiss. “Wakey, wakey,” he said.

  “Mmm, breakfast in bed. How wonderful.” She sat up and stretched.

  Rex went to pull back the drapes and let in the morning air through the balcony doors. A large yellow butterfly fluttered outside and alighted on the glass pane. He shooed it away to discourage it from entering the room and becoming trapped like the doomed moth in Walt’s jar.

  “Where are you going?” Helen asked as he patted down the pockets of his lightweight pants, checking he had his wallet, room key, and sunglasses.

  “The police station.”

  “A break in the case?”

  “Not sure, but I may have an excuse to see Captain Diaz, and perhaps I can learn of any progress at his end.”

  “The murders don’t seem real, somehow,” Helen said drowsily, stirring her coffee. “Perhaps because I didn’t see the bodies and they were dressed as clowns, which, forgive me for saying, sort of gives it a more cheerful aspect.”

  You didn’t see the clowns, was what went through his head in response.

  “Of course, I know that’s nonsense. I mean, murder is murder.” She nibbled on her mango muffin, moist crumbs tumbling onto the tray.

  “Sorry to be running out on you. Will you be okay?”

  “Don’t worry about me. If I finish the pirate book, I’ll start the Carl Hiaasen novel you’ll never have time to read.”

  “Right-oh.” And make sure you bolt the door if you take a shower, he almost added, thinking of Walt and his creepy moths. However, he didn’t want to scare her. He blew her a kiss on his way out of the room, locking it after him, even though their host had a key.

  Once on the street, he turned left, map in hand, making for the Key West Police Station, having first referred to the business card that Captain Diaz had given him. He decided to walk the moderate distance unless he became too hot or footsore on the way. A Conch Tour Train
clanged its bell in a nearby street, the words of the animated driver-guide reduced to a burble. From the opposite direction an electric golf cart zipped by, driven by a youth barely old enough to have a permit, egged on by three drunken and equally youthful companions. It swerved close to the curb by his feet, eliciting a chorus of whoops and cheers before continuing its meandering course toward Duval Street.

  He continued to follow the sidewalk eastward and turned onto Frances, a peaceful residential street festooned with palms and flowering trees. Strolling along, he gazed into mature gardens chock-full of colorful native plants and exotics. A ways down, he noticed a vine-ridden guest house boasting, in the lushly overgrown yard, a spreading banyan tree, which gave its name to the establishment on a carved piece of driftwood nailed to the trunk. The Banyan Inn was more to Rex’s taste than his cutesy B & B, in spite of the telltale signs of neglect.

  Temporarily distracted by the scenery, his thoughts reverted to Michelle Cuzzens’ possible involvement in the case, she being the main beneficiary in her great-aunt’s murder—times two, since Merle Dyer had died with her. Why had she arrived incognito, booking in under her boyfriend’s name when they were not married? Rex had seen in the register that Ryan’s last name was Ford, and Diane had confirmed as much.

  Rex didn’t see Michelle acting alone. Quite possibly she and Ryan were in it together. For one thing, the red lacquered extensions on her nails had been perfectly intact when he first met her, the day after the float parade. He could not see her tying up the practiced knots around the victims’ wrists and throats, even if she had had time to get her nails repaired. Ryan hailed from Ft. Lauderdale and had probably spent time on the water. Interestingly, the students had not given their college address in Gainesville.