Murder at the Dolphin Inn

by C. S. Challinor

  “Approximate time of death between midnight and three in the morning,” the detective relayed. “Around the same time as the Dyers’ deaths. Deep bruising around the neck consistent with the width of the scarf, plus petechial hemorrhaging in the conjunctiva. That’s—”

  “Red spots in the pink tissue around the eyeball caused by pressure erupting the tiny blood vessels,” Rex interpreted. He had heard such testimony in court many times before, usually in cases of domestic violence.

  “We’ll know more after the autopsy,” Captain Diaz said.

  “Drowning someone would have made more noise. I imagine the killer met or brought her here, strangled her with her scarf, and carried her to the pool. That would take a fairly strong man or two people.”

  “Yup. Connie was tall and curvy. And there are no scuff marks on her stilettos or scrapes on her heels, so she wasn’t dragged. We got a partial muddy print, hopefully the killer’s. It was left on a page of a magazine by the pool.”

  That would be the magazine Diane had been reading, Rex recalled. “What sort of print?” he asked.

  “Man’s boot, medium size. Don’t repeat any of this. It picked up dirt in the alley and must’ve stepped in water by the side of the pool—I’d guess from when the body splashed going in. Seems the boot’s owner walked on the open magazine as he was leaving—print faces that way—not noticing it was there in the dark. Lucky break for us.”

  The pool man was wearing flip-flops and, in any case, he didn’t look strong enough to carry a woman of Connie’s stature, Rex reasoned. And he had only ever seen Walt in loafers.

  “Michelle Cuzzens is set to inherit a million bucks. That’s a powerful motive for two kids starting out,” Diaz remarked, looking in their direction, specifically at Ryan’s feet. The student wore leather sandals. “And a sum worth protecting from someone who might know something about the Dyers’ murders.”

  Michelle and Ryan rested their heads in their arms on the table, tired or bored, and possibly hung over. They had all been in the dining room for hours while law enforcement busied themselves outside.

  “Would Connie Lamont agree to meet a dangerous stranger in a dark alley?” Rex queried.

  Diaz shrugged his shoulders, seemingly at a loss. “Those kids are at school in Florida. She lived in Fort Lauderdale. That’s Ryan Ford’s home town.”

  “And she came to Key West alone. Why?”

  “We scanned her prints into the NCIC database after she obligingly drank from a glass of water she was offered at the police station. No priors. Never been married, no kids, never—”

  “Never married,” Rex repeated thoughtfully. “Maybe she was looking for a partner. An attractive woman in her mid-thirties...”

  “Internet dating,” Helen suggested, joining their table and perching on a chair. “Looking for a tall, dark, handsome stranger?”

  “We’re still working our way through all the hotels, motels, apartment rentals, and B and B’s, but she could have been staying at a friend’s.” Diaz sighed in frustration.

  “Try the Banyan Inn on Frances Street,” Helen said all of a sudden. The two men turned on her. “Mike, he said his name was. Tall, broad shoulders, black beard, blue eyes. He’s the owner. He was among the crowd that first morning watching what was going on,” she explained.

  “Revisiting the scene,” Rex speculated. “I wonder. I thought at the time he seemed to know a lot aboot the Dyers, from what you told me. I never met him,” he informed Diaz.

  “I know Cap’n Mike,” Diaz said.

  “Not my type, though. Too dangerous by half, but a lot of women go for that sort.” Helen gave a small shrug. “Not sure what made me think of him just then. I suppose it was the tall, dark, handsome part.”

  “Perhaps that’s why Connie Lamont didn’t come forward,” Rex said, pursuing his own train of thought. “Perhaps she was protecting him.”

  “Mike Free fits our profile for the murders,” Diaz agreed. “He’s strong, and those knots in the double homicide would have been a cinch for a boat captain. And he’s dangerous, alright. I’ve had a few run-ins with him in my time.”

  Peggy Barber, who had been following the latter part of the conversation, remarked that Helen’s description of Mike Free matched her memory of the visitor to the guest house two years ago, the man she had seen again in the crowd outside Charlie’s Restaurant. “Oh, don’t you remember, Den? He would be perfect to play our hero.”

  Dennis professed not to recall such a character, insisting he hadn’t been present when the man in question came to the Dolphin Inn looking for Taffy Dyer. “Who would remember a minor incident from two years ago?” he asked helplessly.

  “I would,” Peggy responded. “He was quite striking.”

  “My parents told everybody who would listen that Mike Free was a drug smuggler,” Diane informed the room from where she stood at the window, observing the action on the street. “I never met him, but I’ll bet he’s Blackbeard.”

  “Blackbeard?” Captain Diaz asked, furrowing his smooth brow.

  “My mother’s ‘friend,’ ” Diane replied, wrapping quotation marks around the word with her fingers. “I thought she was making him up.”

  “Unfortunately, the smuggling was never proved,” Diaz said. “He was charged but never convicted. I remember he sold his boat and used the proceeds from that and possibly his ill-gotten gains to purchase the Banyan Inn. It had fallen into disrepair and he picked it up cheap.”

  “He stole a lot of business from my parents, or so they said. Taffy must’ve gotten under his skin big-time. She can’t have known what she was dealing with.”

  “A cool-under-fire character, if ever I met one,” Diaz recalled. “Guess you’d have to be, dodging hurricanes at sea, not to mention Columbian pirates and the U.S. Coast Guard. And then evading the IRS. But I never pegged him for a cold-blooded killer. Wish we coulda sent him down with the other smugglers, but he had a girlfriend swear blind he was holed up with her.”

  “He’s a lady’s man,” Helen said. “He was giving me the eye and asking how long I’d be in town. I told him I had disembarked in Key West for the day, off a cruise to Mexico. I’m sure he wouldn’t have been so chatty if he knew I’d be staying in town and my fiancé was a famous solver of murder crimes.”

  “Och, I’m not famous.”

  “Whoa, guys,” Diaz intervened. “It’s a long shot, but I’ll send one of my men over to the Banyan and check it out. Problem is, we don’t have probable cause to search his place. Just because Helen saw him in a crowd of onlookers Sunday morning...”

  “What if Taffy Dyer was blackmailing him?” Rex thought for a moment. “Merle might not have known about his wife’s arrangement with Free that was keeping her in drink she could not otherwise afford, but he probably knew about Captain Mike’s nefarious activities past and, possibly, present.”

  “That makes sense,” Diane said. “Why else would he give her booze? That’s just like Taffy—badmouthing everybody. He put the bag over her head to shut her up. And Merle too.”

  “And then he silenced Connie Lamont,” Rex added. “And dumped her in the pool to frame Walt Dyer, the obvious suspect in his parents’ murders.”

  “And a known weirdo.” Diane shrugged her skinny shoulders in the gray denim sundress. “Yeah, I know he’s my brother, but it’s the truth. What he went through as a kid wasn’t natural. Taffy totally screwed us up.”

  Helen put a comforting arm around Diane’s shoulders. Captain Diaz meanwhile was listening, watching, and obviously thinking. He finally spoke.

  “There might be something to the blackmailing theory.” He pulled his pad from his pocket and flipped back through the pages until he found what he was looking for. “This is a transcript from a note written on Taffy Dyer’s PC. It was deleted, but our computer expert was able to recover it from the hard drive. ‘Hi, there, Night Hawk,’ ” Diaz read. “ ‘Following up on my letter—do we have a deal? You have much to lose. Taffy.’ ” The detective looked up
for reactions from Diane and Rex.

  “Is Night Hawk the same person as Blackbeard?” Diane asked.

  Diaz lifted his shoulders, implying he had no idea. “The name or moniker doesn’t come up anywhere else on her computer. The note is dated a month ago. It doesn’t say much in and of itself, and our IT guy wasn’t able to retrieve the original letter referred to in the note. Could be a legitimate business transaction, but the tone is less than cordial.”

  “Night Hawk could be Blackbeard,” Diane persisted. “Is it enough to go after Mike Free?”

  Mouth askew in his clean-shaven face, Diaz seemed to weigh his options. “We have nothing to pin Connie’s murder on him. If I question him, he’ll lawyer up like he did before. He has a sleazy attorney out of Miami who specializes in drug-related arrests and got Free off the hook when we had more evidence than we have now. If I can prove some tangible connection with Connie Lamont, we might have something. But we don’t know if she stayed at the Banyan and, if she did, whether any evidence or witnesses can be found attesting to that fact. If he’s responsible for her death, he’ll probably deny knowing her. He might take off. A single man with a struggling B and B and a knowledge of boats and places to hide out is a big flight risk.”

  “If we go posing as prospective guests, we might find a link between him and Connie Lamont,” Rex said. “He introduced himself to Helen and told her about the Banyan Inn, so it would seem natural enough if we went over to enquire aboot alternative accommodation in light of this latest murder.”

  “Don’t know that I want to stay on here,” Diane exclaimed. “But I guess I’ll have to while Walt is tied up at the station. When are you gonna release him?”

  Peggy Barber chimed in with the comment that they too would check out if they weren’t already due to leave the next day. Would the cops provide security at the Dolphin Inn? she inquired. Michelle seconded the request from across the room.

  Diaz assured them he would see what he could do. “I may have a better idea than you posing as prospective guests at the Banyan Inn,” he told Rex and Helen. “If Mike Free has been hanging around here keeping his eyes and ears open, he may have heard that you’re investigating the murders.”

  “Then what do you have in mind?” Rex asked.

  “How about a little Fantasy Fest disguise?” Diaz grinned at him. “Perhaps spook him into some sort of admission that he knew Connie.”

  ~TWENTY-FOUR~

  “Helen, you look ravishing as a brunette,” Rex said.

  “Just support my arm, please, before I break my neck in these bloody stilettos.”

  She wore large Jackie O sunglasses, which didn’t look out of place in the Florida sunshine, though the red lipstick was a bit extreme for Helen, who typically favored a pale shade of pink. The long dark wig and red scarf completed the transformation.

  They had alighted from the pink flamingo taxicab at a corner of Frances, lavishly tipping the driver who swore he had seen his female fare before. “A dead ringer,” he had insisted, almost salivating. A most unsavory fellow, Rex thought, regretting his tip, but not wanting to wait around for change. Important business beckoned.

  A sudden steamy shower that morning had quickly burned off on the pavement, doing little to alleviate the cloying midday air.

  Helen sashayed precariously along the sidewalk, the long scarf, which shopping maven Rosa had supplied along with her other clothes, floating in the humid breeze. “It’s not a perfect disguise,” Helen allowed. “Connie was much taller, but hopefully it’ll give our suspect a jolt.”

  The idea of Rex wearing a wire had been entertained and dismissed, not least because the subtropical climate precluded easy concealment of such a device in one’s clothes. However, the cell phone that Captain Diaz had loaned him might conceivably record something if he got the opportunity.

  Diaz had reported to Rex that police inquiries made among Key West’s preeminent innkeepers or, at least, those most active in their professional association, had unearthed rumors about Mike Free’s drug-smuggling past, which the Dyers had done all they could to keep alive. “Cap’n Mike,” according to most, had abandoned his illegal activities and was an upstanding member of the community. Taffy, on the other hand, had entertained illusions of grandeur and grated on everyone’s nerves.

  The Dyers had complained about the state of the Banyan property. The other innkeepers claimed there was nothing that a lick of paint and a slap of wood treatment couldn’t put right. However, the Dyers, and Taffy especially, had suggested that Free’s place of business posed health and safety hazards, and spared no energy or restraint warning their guests who might be lured by his cheaper rates. This had been substantiated by Raphael Ramirez, who had approached other bed-and-breakfasts looking for a job after being fired from the Dolphin Inn. He had not resurfaced in spite of the police using their best efforts to locate him. One source had suggested he had drifted to Miami.

  In short, the innkeepers appeared to be on Free’s side, and Diaz feared word of his inquiries would get back to his suspect. Time was of the essence.

  Rex hoped the charade he and Helen planned did not turn into a farce. None of the innkeepers had been able or willing to identify Night Hawk. All Rex and the KWPD had against Mike Free was his dark beard, some nifty nautical knots, and possible blackmail.

  The couple paused outside the Banyan Inn named for the huge tree in the front yard. Buttressed by lesser trunks packed as tightly as organ pipes, the tree planed above the roof of the board-and-batten building. A rope hammock swung between a pair of sapodilla trees. Yellowed crotons and silver buttonwood crammed the shrubbery beds on either side of sun-bleached wooden steps leading to a porch fronting the guest house. Its shaded and secluded setting among the shimmering gumbo-limbo, key lime, and palmetto trees recently sprinkled by rain would obscure the street from the green-shuttered windows downstairs. Rex hoped for the element of surprise.

  “I’ll go in first, make sure he’s there.” He preceded Helen up the warped porch steps. They were in luck. A man with a trimmed black beard, mid to late forties, was in conversation with a youngish woman wearing a fruit-patterned apron. He turned to face Rex squarely as the door chime sounded.

  The foyer felt refreshingly cool after the full impact of the sun on the street. “Are you the proprietor?”

  “That’s me,” the man answered, a devil-may-care twinkle in his ocean blue eyes.

  Rex, holding the front door open, signaled to Helen, who stepped through the gap and met Mike Free’s amazed, slack-jawed stare.

  “Connie,” the woman in the apron began with hesitation in her voice. Pasty-faced beneath a cascade of coppery curls, she peered nearsightedly at the apparition in the scarlet scarf and stilettos. “Did you leave something in room?” she asked in an Eastern European accent. “I thought you checked out already.”

  “Shut up, Katya,” Free growled. “It’s not Connie.”

  “That’s right,” Rex told him. “Connie Lamont is dead.”

  Free did not flinch. He nonchalantly rolled back the sleeves on his blue linen shirt, exposing strong, darkly matted forearms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he drawled.

  “Apparently you knew Connie well enough to realize this is not the same woman, so that’s a start. You remember my fiancée Helen from outside the Dolphin Inn Sunday morning?”

  Helen removed her wig and sunglasses.

  “Hey, doll,” Free said with a provocative wink.

  Rex resisted the urge to deck him in his bearded jaw, but mostly because he did not fancy his chances, in spite of his superior height and bulk.

  “What’s with the disguise?”

  “What was your relationship with Connie Lamont?” Rex questioned.

  “What’s yours?”

  “I asked first.”

  “I didn’t have ‘a relationship.’ ”

  “Katya,” Rex said, with all the Scottish charm he could muster. “I’m sure you have a guest book. They seem to be a prerequisite in b
ed-and-breakfast establishments.”

  The young woman’s face—she could not have been more than thirty-five in Rex’s estimation—showed incomprehension. She glanced at Mike, who shrugged his broad shoulders, reverting his insistent blue gaze at Helen, who began to blush under the scrutiny. The phrase “salty dog” sprang to Rex’s mind. No wonder Peggy Barber had associated him with her pirate hero. He attributed his impression to the short beard threaded with silver, the careless sweep of dark hair across the tanned and furrowed brow, and the lean-packed body straining against the button-down shirt tucked in his jeans; but most of all it was the insolent blue, womanizing eyes. Rex guessed he might be staring at Helen to unnerve him, and he refused to take the bait. If it did come to a fight, he’d be the one to end up flat on his back on the polished wood floor, knocked out as cold as the antique scroll-work boot scraper by the front door. This drew Rex’s attention to what Free was wearing on his feet: a pair of trainers.

  Katya brought Rex the guest book, a ring-binder with a laminated cover depicting palm trees and striped umbrellas on a sugar sand beach. Rex examined the entries, working back to the previous week, where a line had been whited out, but not sufficiently to disguise a couple of letters which could have spelled Connie Lamont.

  “Were you waiting for it to dry before writing over it?” he asked Katya, who appeared to be reacting more strongly to Free’s attentions to Helen than Rex was.

  “Not me. Him,” she said sullenly, regarding the innkeeper with defiance.

  “So what if the lady was a guest here? What business is it of yours?”

  “Just a guest?”

  Free encircled the woman’s waist. “Ask Katya, my housekeeper and future wife.”

  Katya swung out of his grasp and slapped his face. “Get your filthy hands off me! I find your condom wrappers in her room!”

  Ah-ha, thought Rex triumphantly. Unfortunately, chlorinated water would have eliminated any of Free’s DNA on the pool victim.

  “And now you make bedroom eyes at this blonde!”