The Extinguished Guest (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 2) (21 page)

I was sipping on my surprisingly stout coffee when Mr. Randall returned to his tidy,
little office, wearing large, dark-rimmed glasses. I noticed with amusement he'd slipped
a fitted sweater over the "wife-beater" muscle shirt he'd been wearing earlier. His
toupee had been straightened, as well.

"Feel better?" I asked.

"Yes, much better, thanks."

"I've tried, but never could become accustomed to wearing contacts. I finally decided
it wasn't worth the hassle when I primarily only needed corrective lenses for driving,
to correct a slight nearsightedness," I said.

"Contacts can take some getting used to. I've been having a lot of trouble with them
lately because I think they're scratched and need to be replaced with new ones. I
guess I need to make an appointment with the ophthalmologist to have my vision re-checked,
or at least order new contacts. I'd like to try the kind you can leave in for days
at a time. I have to take my current pair out every night."

"Yes, you should have your eyes examined regularly," I agreed. "Your vision is nothing
to mess around with," I said. Good advice from a lady who has her eyes examined on
an every-other-decade basis, and a routine physical every five or six years, whether
she needed one or not. I'd always been much better at maintaining my vehicles than
I was at maintaining my body.

I changed the subject quickly, as I needed to be on my way home before Stone realized
I wasn't napping in his room at the inn. "You sure do look familiar to me, Mr. Randall.
Do you belong to the country club?"

"No."

"Do you golf at all?"

"Haven't picked up a club in years, Ms. Shryock."

"Were you at the horse races the other evening?"

"No."

"Hmm. Were you, by chance, at the theatre the other night when they showed the movie,
Oh, God!
at the dollar show?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I was!" Peter nearly shouted at me.

"That's it, then."

"Yes, I was there that night. You must have seen me there," he said. He was obviously
taken aback by my last question. He sat up straighter and looked at me with new interest.
I knew he was wondering if I was someone who could corroborate his alibi. "I was sitting
in the back row, on the far end. There was no one else in the row."

"Uh-huh, that's right. I remember now. You were sitting by yourself on the back row,
which is exactly where I saw you. I knew you looked familiar, but for a minute, I
just couldn't recall where it was I'd seen you before."

"Well, I'm sorry I don't recognize you, too, but I slept through the entire movie,
I think. The young usher boy had to wake me up to tell me to go home after the movie
had ended," Peter said.

"Oh, that's okay. I really couldn't expect you to remember seeing me in a dark theatre.
I just have this thing about faces. I wish I could remember people's names as well
as I do their faces. If you were so tired, why did you go to the movies in the first
place?"

"I've been under a lot of stress recently. There are many unexpected complications
in my life right now, and insomnia has been a severe problem the last few weeks,"
Peter said.

I nodded and said, "I have trouble with insomnia, too."

"I couldn't get to sleep on Sunday night," Peter continued. "I finally gave up and
walked over to the picture show directly across the street from here, you know. I'm
not a movie-person as a rule, but I thought it might take my mind off more pressing
matters and help me relax. I hadn't expected it to relax me to the point I'd fall
sound asleep in my seat. But I hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks, and that's
exactly what happened. I'm very glad you saw me there."

"You are? Why?" I didn't want to let on that I knew about Mr. Randall's recent arrest
for suspicion of murder. News of the arrest hadn't yet made the front page of the
Rockdale Gazette,
as far as I knew, and as Stacey Shryock, it'd be easy to assume I'd have no knowledge
of his connection to the recent local homicide victim.

"It may help me out with one of the little problems I've recently experienced. I know
this is a strange request to make, Ms. Shryock, but would you mind signing a statement
that you remember seeing me at the theatre Sunday night?" Peter asked anxiously.

"What?" I said, with the most perplexed expression I could muster. My limited acting
experience, small roles in school plays during high school, was coming in handy.

Mr. Randall's request was reasonable, but it was impossible for me to sign a statement
indicating I'd seen him at the local movie theatre Sunday night because there wasn't
a sliver of truth to it. And the Rockdale detectives would know it was untrue. They
knew I was lying in bed just nine feet below the victim, as he was being slain by
an unknown executioner.

"It's a long story, Ms. Shryock," Peter Randall said. "But the gist of it is, I need
someone to back up an affirmation I made stating I was at the theatre Sunday night
and not somewhere else. It's the truth, as you know. I would never ask anyone to lie
on my behalf. I just need someone like you to validate my statement for me."

"Couldn't the usher who woke you up at the end of the movie identify you and vouch
for you?"

"No, apparently the kid can't remember me at all. Probably been smoking pot or something."
Peter looked disgusted as he spoke.

"Hmm, I think I might be able to take care of the problem without even signing a statement."

"You can? How? I don't understand. Why would you do such a thing for me? How could
you help when you don't really know me or the circumstances?"

"Don't worry," I said. "You'll just have to place blind trust in me for now. I'll
try to get back in touch with you soon—about the investment portfolio as well as validating
your claim to have been in the theatre."

I wasn't patronizing Peter. I really did intend to think about investing in a money
market account. A few shares of Microsoft stock might be a wise investment, too. I
wished I'd bought some shares of it several years back when I'd first considered it.

I sat my empty coffee cup on his desk, grabbed my coat off the chair's back, and made
my way quickly to the front door with Peter Randall following closely on my heels.
I was his ticket to exoneration, and he was understandably reluctant to let me out
of his house and out of his sight. I was anxious to get over to the police station.
I had a good idea what needed to be done to clear Peter Randall of the murder of Horatio
Prescott III.

* * *

"Damn! Damn! Damn," I cursed, pounding my fists on the steering wheel. I'd been driving
up Main Street on my way to the police station when my right front tire had swerved
and slid off the pavement. The Jeep had come to a rest down in the ditch, axle-deep
in heavy, wet snow.

I shifted the transfer case into four-wheel drive low, but the vehicle still refused
to budge. I even tried wedging chunks of plywood under the tires and scattering cat
litter and salt crystals
all
around the tires of the Jeep. All winter long I'd carried these items behind the
rear seat for just this sort of emergency. I even had a bag of sand strategically
placed over each of the rear wheel wells for traction. I might as well have been hauling
around chocolate-covered raisins and old magazines. At least I'd have comfort food
to munch on and something to read while I waited for help. Next winter, I vowed, my
emergency survival kit would contain more logical and realistic items.

Finally, I accepted the fact I wasn't going to get the Jeep out of the ditch on my
own, and I turned on my cell phone to call Doug's Towing, the only wrecker company
in Rockdale. I was hoping to be pulled out of the ditch and on my way to the police
station before one of the local policemen came along and ticketed me for not having
chains on my tires.

The man answering the phone at Doug's Towing told me there were two jobs in line ahead
of me. Once he finished the job he was working on and towed another vehicle across
town, he'd come and pull me out of the ditch. He estimated his arrival time at an
hour to ninety minutes. I agreed to wait because I knew I had no other choice other
than to call Stone, and that would be my very last resort.

I clipped the phone back on my belt and looked in my rear-view mirror and was irked
to see the reflection of a police car pulling up on the pavement beside me. I groaned
and struck the steering wheel with the palm of my right hand again. "Damn! Damn! Damn!"

I groaned louder and added one more empathic "Damn!" when I saw Detective Wyatt Johnston
step out of the patrol car. I knew there were several other officers on the police
force in Rockdale. Couldn't it have been one of them instead of Johnston who just
happened to drive down the street and find me in this predicament? Wyatt's eyebrows
arched in surprise as he bent over and peered down into my window.

"Lexie? Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me. Hello there, Detective Johnston. I suppose you're going to ask me why
I don't have chains on my tires and issue me a ticket."

"No, we rarely ever actually give out citations for motorists failing to have chains
on their tires," he said with a laugh. "We only threaten to do it as a way of enticing
them to stay off the streets until the snow plows can get them cleared off. What I
really wanted to ask you is why you are out on the streets this morning to begin with.
I know all about what's been going on at the inn and am surprised you are even out
of bed. By the way, have you called anyone for assistance?"

"Doug's Towing. They said they'd be here in an hour or so."

"Okay, good. I just saw their tow truck pulling Howie Clamm out of the ditch in front
of his house. He's the paper delivery guy for the
Rockdale Gazette.
Will you be all right here until the wrecker arrives? Have you got enough fuel?"

"Yes, I'll be fine, and my gas tank is over three-quarters full. I just noticed the
Farm and Ranch Supply Store across the street. I need a couple of things they should
carry, so I'll waste some time over there while I wait for the wrecker to arrive.
But first, there's something important I need to tell you regarding the murder investigation.
I was just heading to the police station when my tire slid off the pavement."

After discussing the homicide case with the detective for a few minutes, I thanked
him for his help and climbed out of the Jeep. I hoped what I'd just related to him
would help clear Peter Randall as a suspect, or at least give his story some credibility,
by substantiating his claim he was at the movie theatre in the hours preceding Prescott's
murder.

"Call and ask the dispatcher for me if you need anything," Wyatt Johnston said, pulling
away from the curb. "I'll relay what you told me to Sergeant O'Brien. It makes perfect
sense to me, Lexie."

I thanked him for his time and waved as he drove off. Then I locked the doors of the
Jeep, although only someone with a tow truck could steal it, and made my way over
to the Farm and Ranch store. I counted three vehicles there, in a parking lot that
had seen only a rudimentary plowing. There were two SUVs and a large four-wheel drive
pickup.

It soon became clear all three vehicles belonged to the help. I was probably the first
customer to enter the store all morning. The older woman at the front desk greeted
me like a long-lost friend and informed me only a skeleton crew was on hand at the
store. She said most of the employees had been forced to stay home due to the blizzard
conditions, but the floor clerk, Daphne, would be able to help me if I had any questions
or problems.

"Speak of the devil," the lady said. "Here's comes Daphne now."

The young gal named Daphne was a Britney Spears look-alike. She smiled at me around
the cherry lollipop she was sucking on. It was sticking out the corner of her mouth.

"Can I help you?" she asked after removing the sucker from her cheek, careful not
to drop it. Daphne wore a pair of skintight blue jeans, riding so low on her hips
that picking the lollipop up off the floor would have proved challenging and potentially
revealing, if not physically impossible.

"I'm looking for tansy oil, Daphne. Do you carry it here?" I asked her.

"Is that the new skin-darkening cream? I've been wanting to try that, too," she said.
Daphne was a true blonde, I could tell. "I hate lying out in the sun because it makes
me all sweaty, and like, yucky."

"No, tansy oil has nothing to do with tanning."

"Oh? Then is it the stuff they put in chainsaws?"

"No, Daphne, they mix regular two-cycle motor oil in with the gasoline and put bar
chain lube on the chain," I said. I felt like I was explaining trigonometry to a kindergartner.
I was no chainsaw expert, but I felt like a member of Mensa talking to Daphne. "Actually,
tansy oil is considered an herb—"

"Don't know nothing about herbs," she said, as she turned away, shrugging her bony
shoulders.

"But, uh—"

"Sorry about that. I'll be back in the pet supplies department if you need me, Frieda."
Daphne popped the sucker back into her beet-red mouth and walked away, her hips swaying
back and forth.