The Extinguished Guest (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 2) (20 page)

Rosalinda finally took a break from her recital. With a deep breath, she studied my
face in an attempt to judge my reaction to her story. I believed her. I couldn't imagine
anyone would make up a story like that. But I wasn't sure what she thought I could
do to help her brother. I expressed my desire to see her brother cleared of the murder.
What he'd done was morally, if not legally, wrong, but it wasn't murder. He shouldn't
be held responsible for murder in the first degree if he was only guilty of a lesser
crime. And shouldn't some of the responsibility of this lesser crime ultimately land
in Rosalinda's lap?

I instinctively knew from the beginning Peter Randall wasn't the killer. I knew for
a fact he didn't poison me, and Peter didn't push me down the stairs, and I would
bet whoever had done those things had also shot Horatio. I couldn't live with myself
if I just sat back and let an innocent man be held responsible for a murder he didn't
commit while the actual killer walked around as a free man. I had to at least attempt
to do something to clear Peter Randall's name so the authorities would get back to
the matter of finding and bringing the real killer to justice.

"How can I help him? What can I do?" I asked Rosalinda.

"I don't know, Ms. Starr. I was hoping you'd have an idea."

I was afraid of that. "Where is Peter now?" I asked.

"I imagine he's at home, due to the winter storm. Of course, he works out of his home
the majority of the time, anyway. He has an office there and another one in a business
building downtown. I can call and find out if he's at home."

"So he's not in jail awaiting arraignment?"

"No, I guess there wasn't strong enough evidence to hold him without bond. He'll plead
not guilty, naturally, but I worry his alibi is so weak they'll manage to hang him
with the murder, anyway. If Peter said he was at the movies, then I know that's where
he was, regardless of whether or not he recognized all the actors or was recognized
himself by the theatre's employees. Is there some way you can prove he was at the
theatre that night? Is there anything at all you can do that might help?"

She was beginning to sound desperate, but I didn't want to promise anything I had
no prayer of delivering. Still, I felt a sense of responsibility to try to help. I
needed to do something, even if, in the end, it proved to be a lesson in futility.

"Is your brother married?"

"He's a widower. His wife June died of lymphoma many years ago, and he's been alone
ever since."

"Okay. Tell me Peter's address, and I'll go talk to him. Don't call him. I don't want
him to know I'm coming or that I've spoken with you. For now, I think it's best to
keep your name out of it. Agreed?"

"Yes, I'd feel better if he didn't know I asked you to help him."

"I don't expect to be gone any longer than an hour, and my Jeep will get through this
snow just fine. I promised to loan the Jeep to Boris Dack this evening, but I'll be
back in plenty of time for that. It's sure handy owning a four-wheel drive vehicle.
In fact, I could probably deliver you to your home, which would give me an excuse
to be out and about in this storm. You said you had some pressing reason to leave
this morning, didn't you?"

"Well—I—uh—no, not really. Actually, I'd prefer to stay so I can take my car home
with me when I leave," Rosalinda said. "Tomorrow will be soon enough to go home."

What happened to being disappointed at having her plans thwarted? I wondered.

"Oh, all right. But Stone is not going to be happy with me if he notices I'm gone.
I practically promised him I'd stay in bed and rest all day. So I'll need you to help
cover for me, okay?"

"Okay. What do you have in mind? I'll help any way I can."

"Give me about ten minutes to get ready," I said. "Then find Stone and tell him you
and I just had a nice chat. Tell him you left when you saw I was having trouble staying
awake. He'll assume I'm sleeping and not want to bother me. Try to keep him away from
the front windows and distracted long enough for me to back my Jeep down the driveway
and up the street."

"All right."

"If Stone seems concerned, try to get Crystal to confirm that you and I were having
a pleasant conversation when she popped in with the coffee."

I had the feeling there'd be hell to pay later, but I sometimes think it's easier
to ask for forgiveness than for permission.

"Would it be all right with you if I enlisted Cornelius's help in detaining Stone?
He'd be able to distract him easier than I because he's such a—"

"Pervert?" I asked.

"—beguiling character."

Did I hear right? Did she say "beguiling character?" Did people actually use the word
"beguiling" anymore? She was half-right, I concluded. Cornelius was, without doubt,
a character. Rosalinda had not heard my own one-word, less-complimentary depiction
of Cornelius, as she continued on with her own flattering description of the man.
I was starting to feel nauseated, as if breakfast hadn't settled quite right.

"And he's such a brilliant conversationalist, don't you think? The handsome devil
is so charming and witty, and just brimming with all that natural charisma—"

The over-imbibing was clearly rendering Rosalinda Swift clueless. It was almost enough
to make me want to rush home and throw out whatever remained in my bottle of Kahlua
and the three remaining Key Lime wine coolers in my fridge. It occurred to me that
Rosalinda was not concerned about leaving her car at the inn, but rather about leaving
the "handsome devil" behind.

"Having Cornelius help would be fine, Rosalinda. But we must not let it go any further
than the three of us," I said.

"All right, Lexie. I give you my word. Thank you for helping me and my brother, Peter.
After Cornelius and I detain Stone long enough for you to slip out, I think I'll go
to the parlor and look for something to drink, uh, er, I mean to eat for lunch."

Chapter 16

The snow was deeper and tougher to navigate than I'd anticipated. The state plows
were concentrating on clearing the snow off the major thoroughfares and leaving the
residential streets until last. It took three attempts to drive my Jeep through the
drift at the end of the driveway. I began to doubt my wisdom in even attempting to
drive across town. I felt warm and flushed; a hot flash no doubt.

Nearly a half hour passed before I reached Peter Randall's house, an all-brick ranch
in a middle-class neighborhood. His corner house was directly across from the commercial
district. I could see a strip shopping mall, an all-night diner, and a movie theatre.
I was forced to park in the middle of the street due to the depth of snow along the
curb.

I'd seen almost no traffic the entire way over, and I doubted I'd be blocking anyone's
path in the next ten or fifteen minutes. That was the maximum time I intended to stay,
anyway. I left the Jeep running so it'd be warm inside when I got back and made my
way down an unshoveled sidewalk to the icy steps leading up to Peter's front door.
The intensity of the snow had increased. I could barely see three feet before me as
I held tightly to the railing and climbed the steps of his tiny front porch.

The weary-looking gentleman who answered the door didn't look like a killer. He looked
like a defeated, remorseful man facing a firing squad. He had a badly fitted hairpiece
lying askew on top of his head. He wore expensive but old-fashioned slacks and a sleeveless
white t-shirt, the type my father had always jokingly referred to as a "wife-beater,"
for some reason that's still unclear to me. Nevertheless, it was obvious Peter Randall
hadn't expected company in the midst of the worst blizzard of the season.

"Yes?" he asked, as he opened the door.

"Mr. Randall?"

"Yes, I'm Peter Randall. Can I help you? Is your vehicle stuck?" he asked. He sounded
convinced no one would be calling at his house except to borrow his phone to make
an emergency phone call.

"Hi, I'm Stacey Shryock, and no, I'm not stuck. I came to see you, hoping to hire
you as my financial advisor."

"Today? In this storm?" It was evident in his voice he thought my request was absurd.

"Well, yes," I said. I hadn't given the bizarreness factor of my ruse much thought.
It was time to punt, as I frequently found myself in need of doing. "Because of the
weather, I had the day off work, and figured it'd be a good day to see you without
a prior appointment. My Jeep was designed for extreme weather like this, and I thought
I'd take advantage of the fact."

"I see." The look on his face made it clear that what he saw was a deranged ninny.

"I see," he said again. He looked up at my Jeep, still idling in the middle of the
street. "Guess you better come on in, Ms. Shryock, and get in out of the cold."

I followed Mr. Randall to a small room in the rear of the home. Mr. Randall was an
immaculate housekeeper, I noticed. I doubted there was a single dust mote in the entire
house. By the smell of Lysol in the air, I'd caught him in the act of disinfecting
something. Was a house this clean a sign of a meticulous mind—a beneficial trait for
a financial advisor—or a sign of an obsessive/compulsive disorder? I had to admit
I'd feel a little more at ease if I spotted a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling,
or a smudgy fingerprint on the plate-glass window. At least I'd feel more at home,
anyway.

Once we'd settled into a couple of chairs in his home office, I began lying through
my teeth. I explained to him I was expecting a substantial windfall soon, an inheritance
from a great aunt, on her deathbed, of course. I was very saddened by Auntie Lou's
imminent passing but wanted to be prepared to handle the large sum of money she'd
allocated for me in her will. The least I could do was to invest my inheritance wisely
so I'd have a nest egg to fall back on in difficult times.

I needed someone like Mr. Randall who could map out a wise investment course for me.
As he responded to my plea, I could tell Mr. Randall was pleased at the opportunity
to impress me with his financial expertise.

"Are you looking for a long-term investment, such as an individual retirement account?"
he asked. "Do you prefer safe, lower-yielding investments, like certificates of deposit
or municipal bonds? Or are you, perhaps, looking for a higher rate of return on your
money? Something a little riskier, but with greater earnings potential, in which case,
we'd want to consider a mutual fund or stock in some blue chip companies." I noticed
while he spoke he was repeatedly rubbing his eyes, which were red and puffy. "There
are a number of stocks that fall into this category. I could highly recommend a few
of them for you."

"Uh, I'll need to consider all the options. Maybe I should think about investing a
portion into each of the different options."

"That's actually what I was about to suggest, Ms. Shryock. It's never wise to put
all your eggs in one basket, as I'm sure you've heard before. The smartest choice
would be to diversify your portfolio." His eyes were beginning to water and tears
were spilling over and running down the sides of his cheeks. He patted them with a
handkerchief he'd pulled out of his top drawer.

"Are you all right, Mr. Randall?" I asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Have I come at a bad time?"

"No, my eyes are just bothering me today. Could you please excuse me for a few minutes,
Ms. Shryock? My contacts must be dirty or scratched or something. They're really aggravating
my eyes, even more than usual. I'm beginning to think I may have developed an allergy
of some kind. I hope you won't mind if I go and remove them?"

"Of course not. I'm in no particular hurry." I wanted to sustain the impression I
thought this the perfect day to be out and about, running errands and hiring new financial
advisors.

"There's a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen if you'd like to help yourself," Mr.
Randall said, standing up to leave the room. "The kitchen is right down the hall,
and there are clean cups in the cabinet right above the coffee maker. I'll just be
a minute or two."

Coffee sounded good, as was normally the case with me, even when it was weak as I
expected that Mr. Randall's would be. I was eager to see if his kitchen was a spotless
as his office and living room. I wasn't surprised to find that it was. It looked as
if it had never been cooked or eaten in. It had a rather depressing look to it.